TITLE: Sword of Damocles

AUTHOR: Satchie

E-MAIL ADDRESS: satchie51@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: MT/Angst

RATING: PG-13 (for language)

SUMMARY: A series of seemingly innocuous symptoms cause Mulder to face 
an uncertain future.

SPOILERS: Fleeting references to episodes prior to Requiem.  I'm still 
in serious denial.

FEEDBACK: Be kind.  Rewind.  I mean, yes.

ARCHIVE: Ephemeral and Gossamer.

THANKS TO: Jenna for graciously beta reading my humble first effort 
and providing invaluable suggestions and sage advise. Also, thanks to 
the awesome community of Mulder's Refuge who encouraged me to give 
this a try.

DISCLAIMER:  Alas, the characters you recognize belong to Chris 
Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and Fox. I'm only borrowing them for 
my own devious purposes.

*     *     *     *     *

SWORD OF DAMOCLES


"Mulder, you're crazy!"

The object of the pronouncement remained unfazed. "But Scully, you
have to consider the historical perspective of this phenomenon."

Bracing for the impending narrative, the petite agent leaned back
in her chair as Mulder exuberantly presented his argument.

"The Civil War was one of the darkest chapters in American
history.  Since the conflict began upon the firing on Fort Sumter,
the Confederates dominated the battlefield.  The North suffered a
series of humiliating defeats despite its numerous advantages.
But during the first three days in July of 1863, the course of the
war changed dramatically at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.  This battle
would become known as the greatest ever fought in the western
hemisphere.  General Robert E. Lee's formidable Army of Northern
Virginia faced the Army of the Potomac under the command of
General Gordon Meade, who assumed his new post a mere three days
before the epic confrontation.

In comparison of what was to come, the first day of fighting
resulted in a handful of skirmishes with no clear victor.
However, the Union cause was almost lost the next day when a
strategic location was left unprotected at Little Round Top.
Under the leadership of Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, the
20th Maine rushed into position, determined to carry out their
orders and defend the hill at all costs.  After sustaining several
Confederate attacks, the small force was nearly surrounded,
outnumbered and out of ammunition.  In a startling maneuver,
Chamberlain ordered a daring bayonet charge, thus not only saving
his regiment, but possibly the Union itself.  On the third day,
federal troops were stationed along Cemetery Ridge and Little
Round Top.  Having failed to penetrate his adversary's lines from
either side, Lee launched a head-on assault.  General Pickett led
the doomed Confederate soldiers across a mile of open valley
directly into the path of Union artillery, exposing them to
unspeakable carnage.  By the end of the day, the sea of red blood
that flowed onto the field made the distinction between Blue and
Grey insignificant.  Casualties were extremely heavy.  Of the
150,000 men that fought at Gettysburg, 51,000 were killed,
wounded or captured.  It was Lee's last advance into Union
territory, and within two years, he would surrender to Grant
at Appomattox Court House."

Impatiently folding her arms across her chest, Scully challenged,
"I sincerely hope this fascinating history review is leading
somewhere."

Mulder retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose
a couple of times. "Paranormal activity on this hallowed ground
intensifies on the anniversary of the battle.  Witnesses have
reported sightings of ghostly apparitions, the smell of gunpowder,
concussive forces consistent with shell explosions and blood
seeping from the earth.  That's why we're flying to Pennsylvania
this weekend."

Utterly exasperated, she began pacing. "What is it with ghosts and
anniversaries?  Is every spirit issued a handbook of policies and
procedures of the afterlife upon escaping its mortal coil?  Is
there a specific commandment that states, 'Thou shalt haunt the
scene of thy death on the anniversary of the tragic event?'  I
don't remember learning that in Catechism class.  And what, pray
tell, do ghosts do the rest of the year?  Sit around campfires and
tell human stories?"

Propping his elbow on the cluttered desk, Mulder leaned forward
and tried to surreptitiously massage the right side of his face.

Scully's features softened. "What's the matter?  Is your tooth
still bothering you?"

He briefly thought about denying it, but knew she could be
relentless once she detected something amiss.

"Well...uh...my jaw is sore from the root canal."

"You'll require another one soon if you don't stop grinding your
teeth.  Have you asked your dentist about getting a night guard?"

"Of course not, it was a freak accident.  I've never fractured a
tooth during my sleep before in my life!"

Scrutinizing him closely, she noted, "You're congested.  Maybe you
have a sinus infection.  Sometimes it's difficult to differentiate
between sinus pain and a toothache."  Before he had an opportunity
to object, she was already shifting into her infamous doctor mode.
"You're running a fever.  That's odd.  Even if you have sinusitis,
the antibiotics your dentist gave you after your root canal should
be sufficient..."  Scully's voice trailed off as the pieces of the
puzzle fell into place. "Of course, that premise assumes you took
your medication as instructed.  Mulder?"

He sheepishly grinned, wondering how he was going to weasel his
way out of his predicament when Scully launched into her tirade.

"Aren't you the same person who was in so much agony you
threatened to down half a bottle of Jack Daniels and pull your own
tooth with a pair of pliers before I could make an appointment for
you?" she fumed. "And didn't you promise eternal good behavior in
exchange for pain relief, starting by taking your antibiotics as
prescribed?"

"But I started feeling better," he whined.

Picking up the phone, Scully began dialing.

"What are you doing?" Mulder asked suspiciously.

"I'm calling a friend of mine.  Hopefully she can work you into
her schedule today. "

"That's not necessary," he protested.

She simply arched an eyebrow in reply.

Under other circumstances, Mulder thought tenacity was an
admirable character attribute.  However, he did not find it an
endearing quality in his partner right now.  And Scully wondered
why he hid insignificant physical complaints from her!  She
overreacted to every little sniffle and limp.  Because of her
medical cautiousness and ability to browbeat him into submission,
he had been treated in more emergency rooms than he could count,
even if he took off his socks.  But in the final analysis, he had
to admit he was far more terrified of a pissed-off Scully that any
genetic mutant or alien conspiracy.

The solution to his situation was amazingly simple.  If he downed
a few Tylenol capsules and took the amoxicillin for a day or two,
the bothersome symptoms would abate.  Unfortunately, Dr. Scully
had rushed to the rescue.  He glanced at her as she excitedly
chatted with her friend like a long lost sorority sister.  Hoping
she was too engrossed in her conversation to observe his
whereabouts, Mulder decided to make a timely escape.  He quietly
pushed his chair away from his desk, but when he stood up, the
room began to spin wildly out of control.  Unable to retain his
equilibrium, he frantically grabbed the surface of his desk.

Dropping the phone in haste, Scully raced to Mulder's side. "What
happened?  Are you okay?"  She tenderly placed her hand on his
back to steady him.

"Uh, yeah.  I guess I got up too fast."  Trying to think of a
plausible excuse, he added, "I suppose that's what I get for
skipping a few meals now and then."  Not wanting to take the
chance he'd fall flat on his face or any other area of his
anatomy, Mulder nonchalantly moved a stack of paper and sat on his
desk. "I'll make the travel arrangements for Pennsylvania and pick
you up at your apartment Saturday morning about seven," he
announced with as much dignity as he could muster under the
circumstances.

She vigorously shook her head. "First you're seeing a doctor.  You
may not be in any condition to travel."  In a cheery voice
completely inappropriate to the occasion, Scully exclaimed, "Oh!
Molly blocked off the entire morning to catch up on her delinquent
hospital charts, so she can see you as soon as we get there."

"We?"

"You don't think you're driving after that little incident, do
you?  Besides, you may 'accidentally' omit relevant information."

Mulder feigned mock indignation. "Don't you trust me?"

"Not for a moment, " she declared. "Come on, get those long legs
moving."

On their way to the elevator, Mulder staggered and leaned against
the wall for support.

Scully was immediately concerned. "What's wrong?  Are you feeling
dizzy again?"

"No," he lied.

"You look like you're having trouble with your sense of balance."

With a lopsided smile, he replied, "Scully, you're always accusing
me of being unbalanced."

*     *     *     *     *

The impatient patient sat in yet another waiting room.  Scully was
performing her traditional role of completing the ream of new
patient information forms while Mulder idly thumbed through at
least half a dozen back issues of "People" magazine.  There wasn't
a single "Sports Illustrated" in sight.  It was an absolute
travesty.  Didn't this doctor treat male patients too?
Oh no!  He hadn't bothered to ask what Molly's specialty was.
What if...?  The prospect was too terrible to consider.  He
abruptly jumped out of his chair, quickly regretting the sudden
movement.

Scully set the clipboard aside. "Mulder, what's wrong?"

"I uh...um...I'm going to the men's room."  He ran out the door
and nearly wilted with relief when he read the nameplate:  Molly
B. O'Sullivan, M.D., Internal Medicine.  Feeling incredibly
foolish, he went through the motions of maintaining his alibi.

Mulder returned to his seat and nervously chewed his thumbnail.
He silently cursed the fates for bestowing this latest indignity
upon him.  While he had their attention, he also bitterly
expressed his displeasure about his partner's overprotective
nature when it came to health-related matters.  Oh sure, he
trusted her with his life, and she *had* saved his sorry butt on
more occasions than he cared to admit.  But spending his life in
doctors' offices and emergency rooms was getting tiresome.  The
fact that she always seemed to have a friend in some position to
provide medical services grated on his nerves.  That little
"convenience" deprived him of an otherwise legitimate excuse to
ignore pesky symptoms.

His self-pitying reverie was interrupted by a melodic voice. "Mr.
Mulder? "  A young woman kindly motioned for him to follow her.
Sighing in resignation, he accompanied her with the enthusiasm of
a lamb being led to slaughter.  Predictably, Scully didn't wait
for an invitation.  They were escorted to an exam room where
Mulder endured being weighed and having his vital signs checked.

The nurse was recording her findings in Mulder's chart when the
door opened to reveal a white-coated figure.  She was slightly
taller than Scully and her shoulder length red hair was a few
shades darker, but the resemblance was downright spooky.

"Hi, I'm Molly.  I'm glad you came in today.  From what Dana tells
me, this could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.  Your
medical claims could make a sizeable contribution to my children's
college fund."

He laughed half-heartedly.  Scully was attempting to appear
inconspicuous and was failing miserably.  He wondered what else
they discussed.

The physician quickly reviewed his chart. "You're running quite a
temperature.   I understand you had an abscessed tooth treated
recently?"

"Yeah."

"How long have you had the nasal congestion?"

"A couple of days.  It's really not that bad."

The women exchanged knowing glances.  Neither was deceived by this
demonstration of masculine bravado.  Molly removed an instrument
from the wall mount. "I'm sure you're right, but humor me."

Mulder raised his arms in surrender.  Life was strange.  Until
now, his wildest fantasies never included dragging a handcuffed
Scully to an emergency room because she broke a fingernail.  Yes,
he was going to let his imagination run wild.

"He seems to be suffering from vertigo," Scully volunteered. "He's
had three episodes since I called you. "

The sick agent shot his partner a baleful glare.

Without interrupting her methodical exam, Molly asked, "Any
nausea?"

"Sometimes I get sick when the room won't stop spinning."

"Sometimes?  How often are you having these attacks?" Scully
demanded.

Crap.  He mentally slapped himself for his unintended admission.
"I'm not sure.  Usually they only happen when I turn my head or
move too fast."  He hastened to add, "But they only started
yesterday afternoon."

His addendum didn't provide the absolution he sought.  Scully's
expression reeked of "We'll discuss this later."

Molly tactfully redirected the conversation. "Okay, here's the
deal.  You have a moderate sinus infection that has spread to your
right ear, which is adversely affecting your equilibrium.  It's
highly likely your abscessed tooth is the source of the bacterial
infection since it's in close proximity to one of the sinus
cavities.  I'm prescribing a different antibiotic, a decongestant
and something to help with the vertigo.  You can take over-the-
counter Tylenol for the fever.  I also want you on strict bed rest
for the next couple of days until your balance improves."

The wheels turned in Mulder's twisted mind as he plotted his
revenge.  In his new fantasy, Scully would need an IV for
treatment of her broken fingernail.  No, make that two.  Of
course, the nurse wouldn't be able to find a decent vein on the
first stick...

Back in the real world, Scully gave her friend a quick hug and
thanked her for seeing Mulder.  Those were the last words she
spoke until they were safely seat-belted in the Taurus.

In a calm, measured voice she said, "We'll have your prescriptions
filled first.  Then we'll stop by your apartment to pick up some
clothes."

"Clothes?  Why do we have to pick up clothes?"

"Because mine won't fit you."

Did he just materialize into an episode of the Twilight Zone?
This conversation was making absolutely no sense.

She exhaled deeply before she offered her explanation. "You're
spending a few days at my place so I can keep an eye on you.  I'm
going to make sure you stay properly medicated and in bed."

"Oooooh!  Do you plan to take advantage of me in my vulnerable
condition?" Mulder asked hopefully.

"The weather forecast didn't mention anything about it raining
sleeping bags."

He charmingly displayed his best pout.  "Then can I crash on your
couch and watch TV?  I promise to eat any Cheetos that
accidentally fall between the cushions."

His frustrated partner gripped the steering wheel tightly and
silently counted to ten.  What had she done to herself this time?

*     *     *     *     *

Subjected to bed rest for less than twenty-four hours, Mulder's
mood was deteriorating rapidly.  A dozen bouts of channel surfing
failed to locate a daytime television program that held his
interest.  Lazily arching his back, he stretched his arms over his
head and yawned impressively.

Scully lightly nudged him. "Mulder, it's time for your meds."

"Again?"

"'Fraid so."  She placed the assortment of pills in his palm and
handed him a glass of water.

He hesitated.  "Isn't it a violation of the Geneva Convention to
drug prisoners against their will?  And what about my rights under
the Eighth Amendment?  Doesn't this constitute cruel and unusual
punishment?"

"I can't help it if you're a prisoner of your own stupidity," she
said. "If you hadn't prematurely discontinued your amoxicillin in
the first place, these restrictions you're griping about might not
have been necessary."

Properly chastised, Mulder reluctantly swallowed his medication.
"I hate that stuff," he complained.  "It makes me drowsy."

"Good.  Rest will help your body heal faster.  I'll bring you
something to eat while you're still conscious."

He crossed his fingers and hoped whatever she prepared didn't
include bee pollen, tofu, alfalfa sprouts or anything remotely
healthy.  That stuff was disgusting!  A few minutes later she
returned with a turkey sandwich and...a glass of iced tea?
Yesssss!!!  It must be love.

*     *     *     *     *

The next morning Scully awoke to the smell of coffee brewing.
Contentedly buried under her bedcovers, she was reluctant to
abandon the warmth of her cocoon.  However, the heavenly aroma was
wickedly tempting.  Loosely tying her robe, she sleepily headed
toward the kitchen.  Mulder was sitting on the couch, thoroughly
engrossed in the newspaper.  She softly cleared her throat to
attract his attention. "Hey, how are you feeling this morning?"

"Better.  My sinuses are giving me fits, but my balance has
improved somewhat."  He removed his glasses and rubbed at his eye.
"Scully, can I ask you a dumb question?"

"Why should today be different from any other day?"

"I'm serious.  Could any of my medications cause blurred vision?"

"It's a fairly common side effect of Antivert."

He fidgeted with his watchband. "Would the vision be blurred in
both eyes, or just one?"

"Usually both.  Why, is your vision blurred in only one eye?" she
queried.

Mulder stared at the paper again. "Yeah."

Scully fumbled for her cell phone. "I'll ask Molly to recommend an
ophthalmologist."

"Whoa!  Wait a minute!" Mulder insisted. "I already have an
optometrist."

She placed her hand over the mouthpiece.  "You need an
ophthalmologist.  Trust me on this."

Why did he have to open his big mouth?  In all probability he
would spend the day in yet another doctor's office.  Rubbing his
face in irritation, he realized he hadn't shaved in a couple of
days.  He decided he might as well make himself presentable.

After a quick hot shower, Mulder was almost feeling human again.
He wrapped a towel snugly around his waist and searched for his
shaving supplies.  Scully tapped him on the shoulder.

"Damn it, Scully!  Don't sneak up on people like that!  You nearly
gave me a heart attack."

She contritely passed him the black bag. "I have good news and bad
news."

He weighed his options. "Give me the good news first."

"Molly arranged an appointment for you with Dr. Dan Pearson at
nine-thirty this morning."

"That's the good news?  I'm not sure I want to hear the rest."

"We have a meeting with Skinner at ten.  I tried to reschedule,
but he's adamant about tying up a few loose ends before he leaves
on vacation."

"Oh, I forgot about that," Mulder chuckled. "He wanted to go over
some recent expense reports.  I guess you'll have to cancel my
appointment with the eye doctor."

"No, I'll take care of the paperwork, as usual."  Scully then
realized she was faced with a logistical dilemma. "I don't have
enough time to drop you off at the doctor's office.  You'll have
to take a cab since your driving privileges are temporarily
suspended."

"But Scully..."

"Don't even think about it," she slowly enunciated.

In defeat, he clutched his shaving kit and headed toward the
bathroom.

"Mulder?"  Her voice oozed with concern.

"What?"

"Give me a call after you've seen the doctor.  Okay?"

*     *     *     *     *

Unlike routine visits to his optometrist, the ophthalmologist's
office made an eye exam a major production.  Lauren, the senior
ophthalmic technician, grilled Mulder on his present symptoms,
general medical history, present medications and any known drug
allergies.  Then she tested his vision in each eye, performed a
gross visual fields analysis, checked for muscle imbalances and
pupil abnormalities and evaluated his color and depth perception.
To add insult to injury, she placed three different types of drops
in his eyes.  The first one, she explained, was to numb the
surface of the eye and apply a light coat of dye so she could test
his intraocular pressure.  The other two drops would dilate his
pupils and temporarily paralyze his ability to focus on anything
within arm's length.  Once Lauren obtained the requisite readings,
she informed her sullen patient Dr. Pearson would see him in
approximately fifteen minutes.

Mulder thought he could be more easily mistaken for a drug addict
than an FBI agent.  His eyes were dilated, red, irritated and
watery.  To compound his misery, his already congested nose was
running profusely.  Oh great!  Lauren forgot to mention the dye
would turn his snot a bright shade of orange!

In order to kill time, he viewed the magazine rack.  Fortunately
the ophthalmologist offered a more diverse selection, including
the all-important "Sports Illustrated" swimsuit edition.  Mulder
rationalized it was the only reasonable choice under the
circumstances.  Since his visual acuity was impaired, he could
hardly be expected to read a lengthy article in "U.S. News and
World Report."

As he admired the bounteous beauties, he found the exotic
locations superfluous.  Did the editors honestly think men
appreciated the awe inspiring Tahitian sunsets or cascading
waterfalls in the background?  These women would look hot posing
next to a condemned building.  He was ogling a red-haired model in
a blue thong when the doctor entered the exam room.

"Mr. Mulder?"

"Guilty as charged," Mulder nervously quipped.

The ophthalmologist strode across the room and seated himself on a
stool. "I'm Dr. Pearson.  I spoke with Dr. O'Sullivan earlier, and
she said you're complaining of blurred vision."

"Well, I'm not exactly sure I'd call it blurred.  It's more like
part of it's missing."

Dr. Pearson studied Mulder's chart. "Have you noticed any changes
in your color perception?"

"Well, certain colors look kind of bleached out on the right
side."

"Have you experienced any pain in or around the eye?"

"Yeah, mainly behind it."

"Does anything make it worse?"

Mulder tried to remember specific triggers. "Now that you mention
it, moving my eye hurts, especially when I look up."

Holding an amber lens, Dr. Pearson examined Mulder's optic nerves,
retinas and vitreous cavities.  Time passed interminably while
the doctor made him perform various ocular gymnastics.  The near
blinding light of the indirect ophthalmoscope's light source was
extremely disorienting.

After making a few notes, Dr. Pearson addressed his patient. "Mr.
Mulder, you have some inflammation of the optic nerve, which is
where the nerve fibers inside the eyeball converge to transmit
images to the brain."

"Is it serious?"

"The inflammation itself is usually not serious."

Mulder had a strange sense of foreboding. "But?"

"Optic neuritis can often be a manifestation of a more serious
disorder.  That is why I'm referring you to another
ophthalmologist who specializes in diseases of the retina and
vitreous.  He would be better qualified to treat your condition,
plus, he has access to more sophisticated diagnostic equipment.
I'll give him a call while my assistant organizes everything.  Do
you have any questions so far?"

There was only one that concerned Mulder.  How soon could Scully
get here?

*     *     *     *     *

Mulder knew it was pathetic, but he wanted Scully.  He tried to
delude himself by insisting he merely required her help in
deciphering the mind-numbing medical details, but what he really
sought was her companionship and moral support.

The receptionist had given him a copy of his chart and instructed
him to report to the sub-specialist's office on the third floor.
He felt he had completely lost control of events, and debated
whether or not to call his partner.  It seemed too needy and
unmanly to depend on her, but she did insist he call after he saw
the doctor.  If he played his cards correctly, he could provide an
update and toss in a casual plea for pity.  It was worth a try.
Mulder pulled his cell phone from his jacket and reached for his
emotional lifeline. "Scully, it's me."

She was relived to hear from him.  "Hey, how did your appointment
go?  What did Dr. Pearson say?"

The dejection in his voice was unmistakable. "He said I had some
swelling of the optic nerve.  He's sending me to another eye
doctor, a retina specialist."

"When?"

"I'm on my way now.  The guy's in the same professional building,
so it's really convenient," he grumbled. "Dr. Pearson said I'd
be there at least a couple of hours."  Mulder wondered if his
hint was too obvious.

Understanding the implications of the diagnosis, Scully's spirits
sank.  "Oh, Mulder!  I wish I could come right over," she
apologized, "but I have to straighten out a little matter at
Quantico.  It seems one of the pathologists felt my findings on
the Estrada case were too implausible so he completely rewrote the
report to support his theory.  Skinner brought it up during our
meeting this morning."

Surprisingly, Mulder was angrier at being deprived of Scully's
presence than having evidence in one of his cases sabotaged. "So
how long do you think it will take to get everything ironed out?"
he tentatively inquired.

"However long it takes for me to scare the crap out of him," she
mumbled.

He almost felt compassion for the poor soul who was about to be
unceremoniously emasculated for doing something stupid.
Been there, done that.

Guilt gnawed at Scully for what she perceived as dereliction of
her personal duty.  She wanted to be with Mulder, but Skinner's
order was clear.  The autopsy discrepancy had to be resolved
immediately.  In irritation, she pushed a stray lock of copper
hair from her face.  What's the name of the retina specialist?"
she asked.

"Mike Taggert."

She tried to sound upbeat. "I'll wrap this up as soon as I can.
Save a seat for me, okay?"

"You got it."

*     *     *     *     *

This unexpected detour was not improving Mulder's already grim
disposition.  To add insult to injury, Scully wasn't here.  His
chest felt tight and his heart began to pound.  He seemed to have
trouble breathing effectively and was lightheaded, not to mention
very nauseated.  Kneeling beside the trashcan, he emptied the
meager contents of his stomach.

Naturally that would be the precise moment the new doctor would
make his appearance.  The man gently rubbed Mulder's back until
the heaving stopped.   "Are you going to live?"

"Yeah, unless it's possible to die of embarrassment."

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about.  At least your aim is
good.  The Wizards could use a guy like you."  The doctor wrapped
his long, slender fingers around Mulder's wrist and spoke to his
technician. "His pulse is rapid and he's diaphoretic.  He's also
feverish."

For crying out loud, this guy was almost as bad as Scully! "I'm
fine," Mulder stated emphatically. "I had a stupid panic attack.
I haven't had one in years."

"Well, since CPR isn't indicated, let me help you up."

Mulder graciously accepted the assistance.  Once he was on his
feet, he was stunned by the doctor's height.  Good grief!  The guy
must be seven feet tall!  Why wasn't he playing in the NBA instead
of practicing medicine?

Unfortunately, the sickening revolving sensation returned as soon
as he took a few steps.  The medical personnel caught him before
he reached terra firma and guided him to the exam chair.

"Is he diabetic?" the technician asked.

"No, he had a severe episode of vertigo.  See the nystagmus?"

"He's shaking a little bit.  Should I bring him some orange
juice?"

"No, he might throw that back up.  Let's try some ginger ale.  Oh,
and Antonio?  Please take the trashcan and dispose of the
'evidence' on your way out."

The specialist gave his green-tinged patient a damp paper towel.
"Let's try this again.  I'm Dr. Taggert.  I understand you prefer
to be called Mulder?"

"Yeah, only people who have a burning desire to be subjected to an
IRS audit call me Fox."

"Duly noted.  How are you feeling now?"

The not-so-subtle stomach contractions continued to torment
Mulder. "Queasy.  I know I should have taken my medication with
breakfast, but I was hoping a couple of cups of coffee covered
some of the basic food groups."

"My wife subscribes to a similar philosophy.  She's convinced
Starbuck's coffee and chocolate supply most of her nutritional
requirements, except during a particular time of month when she
consumes nothing but Diet Cokes and McDonald's fries.  She swears
it's for medicinal purposes only, and since I value my life, I
don't dare argue with her."

In spite of his imperfections, namely being of the medical
persuasion, Mulder genuinely liked this guy.  He was beginning to
feel at ease when Antonio returned with a can of ginger ale and a
cup of chipped ice. "Here, hopefully this will settle your
stomach."

Mulder gratefully took several small sips.  So far, so good.

Dr. Taggert reviewed the other ophthalmologist's notes before
proceeding. "Mulder, I know you've already been through this, but
I need to perform my own exam, okay?"  With little deviation, the
retina surgeon asked the same questions and repeated the same
tests.  Then he leaned back in his high-backed chair and scribbled
furiously.

Mulder was perplexed. "Don't you have to see other patients while
my eyes dilate?"

"Nope, there are some aspects of your condition I want to discuss
with you."

"That sounds ominous."

Haphazardly draping his arm across the slit-lamp table, Dr.
Taggert said, "There are several causes of optic neuritis, the
term we use to describe inflammation of the optic nerve.  In many
cases there isn't an identifiable reason, what we refer to as an
idiopathic etiology, and the condition eventually resolves without
recurrence.  Sometimes it's a manifestation of a systemic disorder
such as Lyme disease, tuberculosis, syphilis or viral agents such
as HIV, hepatitis B or herpes."

The physician's mouth formed a tight line. "Multiple sclerosis is
always a concern.  Studies have shown that approximately 50% of
patients who present with an initial episode of optic neuritis
develop MS within a few years."

"MS? 50%?" Mulder repeated.  Another panic attack seemed
disturbingly imminent.

"I'm only discussing possibilities at this point.  That's why I
want to perform two more tests in my office before sending you to
the hospital."

"Hospital?"  Great, he had an Oxford education and he could barely
formulate single word sentences.

"Yes, it's essential that a neurologist assess your general
medical condition and neurological function.  You'll also require
lab work, chest x-rays, an MRI, a lumbar puncture..."

"A lumbar puncture?"  Wow, he outdid himself that time.  Five
syllables!

Dr. Taggert shrugged sympathetically. "I know it won't be
pleasant, but it's necessary to rule out a few things."

Mulder tried to assimilate all the information, but his mind was
reeling.  He nervously massaged the back of his neck. "So when do
you want to schedule this?"

"We can do the visual fields and fluorescein angiogram in my
office this morning, or what's left of it anyway.  My
administrative assistant should have you admitted by the time
you're finished here.  Once Dr. Cohen, the neurologist, has seen
you, you'll be placed on intravenous methylprednisolone for three
days, followed by a tapered course of oral steroids.  Unless your
cultures indicate your antibiotic needs to be changed, we'll
continue all your current medications."  Recalling his patient's
prior anxiety attack, he asked, "Have you ever had difficulty with
claustrophobia during an MRI?"

"Uh...I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Okaaaaay," Dr. Taggert replied cryptically. "Is there anything I
haven't covered so far?"

In a feeble attempt at normalcy, Mulder picked at his fingernails.
"Did you ever consider playing pro basketball?"

The doctor was taken aback.  This was not the line of inquiry most
patients tended to pursue after being told they might develop a
serious disease.  Somehow he had a sneaking suspicion Mulder was
not a typical patient.  The ophthalmologist laughed. "Would you
believe I've never played?"

"Never?" he asked incredulously.

"Never.  I was an awkward nerd with glasses when I was in high
school.  No one ever picked me to be on their team during gym
class, so I did my homework while I warmed the bleachers.  I was a
stereotypical bookworm who spent every waking hour either in the
library or the lab.  Girls wouldn't give me the time of day until
I graduated from medical school and had an M.D. after my name.
Then I automatically became a babe magnet.  I was still a nerd
with glasses, but one with a decent financial future.  Go figure!"

The tightness in Mulder's chest was beginning to dissipate.  Mike
Taggert was no Dana Scully, but he'd do for now.

*     *     *    *    *

Mulder decided Dr. Taggert's office resembled a modern day chamber
of horrors.  He had never seen so much diagnostic equipment
crammed into an office suite.  Antonio proudly informed him their
office was equipped to perform certain surgical procedures.  That
revelation did little to assuage Mulder's growing apprehension.

The visual fields exam was similar to playing an archaic video
game.  Mulder was instructed to press the buzzer each time he
saw a point of light.  He pretended he was shooting down UFOs
with a Star Wars type weapon every time an alien craft
zoomed past, and congratulated himself for single-handedly
saving the galaxy.  He was almost disappointed when the test
was over.

Regrettably, his next experience wasn't quite as enjoyable.
Mulder was seated before a special camera so the photographer
could take pictures of his retinas.  John explained he would shoot
two rolls of film, one in color and the other in black-and-white.
That seemed harmless enough.  After the color pictures were taken,
John opened an overhead compartment.

"Mr. Mulder, the next test is what we call a fluorescein
angiogram.  It's used to determine if you have any circulatory
abnormalities in your eyes.  To do that, I'll give you an
injection of a water-soluble dye in your arm.  Your skin will be a
bit jaundiced for several hours and your urine is going to be an
almost fluorescent yellow-green until the dye flushes out of your
system, so to speak."

"Great.  Is that all?" Mulder asked.

"Some people feel nauseated for a few seconds after the dye is
injected.  If it happens, try to relax and take deep breaths."

John swabbed Mulder's arm and inserted the large-bore needle.
Once the plunger was depressed, Mulder felt the cool substance
enter his vein.  Initially he felt fine, and was grateful to be
spared an unpleasant side effect.  He was feeling almost
insufferably smug when he became aware of an awful taste in his
mouth.  Oh shit!

The photographer was all too acquainted with this reaction.  He
shoved the trashcan in front of Mulder and waited patiently for
the vomiting to cease.

"You about done?"

"I hope so.  I'm sure you're running out of clean trashcans,"
Mulder grumbled.

"Nah, we keep some hidden away for these contingencies."  Noting
the seconds ticking away on the timer, John said, "I hate to ask,
but I need to take a few more frames.  Are you up to it?"

"Sure.  Let's let this over with."

When the angiogram was finished, Mulder was escorted to the
deserted waiting room.  Twisting his wrist in a futile attempt to
read his watch, he remembered his visual sense was incapacitated.
He was about to ask the receptionist for the time when Dr. Taggert
came out and pulled up a chair.

"I don't suppose the governor called with a stay of execution,"
Mulder joked weakly.  "Am I still going to the hospital?"

"Sorry, we couldn't cancel your reservation on such short notice."
Dr. Taggert's face became serious. "Here's what we found.
Everyone has a physiological blind spot that corresponds to the
optic nerve.  It's usually not perceptible because the visual
field in each eye overlaps, thus covering the natural defect.  In
your case, the blind spot in your right eye is unusually large and
extends in an arcuate pattern.  That's why you're missing an area
of your vision.  The angiogram showed swelling of the optic nerve,
but the vessels appear within normal limits."

Mulder stared at the floor.  "So is that good or bad?"

"It's what we expected," Dr. Taggert replied. "In addition to
confirming the diagnosis, it was necessary to establish a baseline
for future reference."  The doctor didn't say it directly, but the
meaning was clear.  If Mulder developed multiple sclerosis, they
had to be able to gauge the rate of his deterioration. "We're
admitting you through the ER, so they'll collect your lab work
before sending you to your room.  Antonio will take you there by
wheelchair."

"I'd prefer to walk," Mulder implored. "Trust me, I know where
everything is."

"Nice try, but that's non-negotiable.  I don't want to take the
chance you'll have another vertigo attack before you reach your
intended destination."

Burying his face in his hands, Mulder asked, "Am I allowed to make
a phone call before you incarcerate me?  And could I stop by a
vending machine first?  I'm starving.  I haven't kept anything
down today."

Dr. Taggert paternally patted Mulder on the knee. "So I've heard.
We'll scrounge up some crackers and another ginger ale for you.
Hopefully that will tide you over until you can eat some
appetizing hospital food."

The reality of his impending admission was sinking in.  He needed
Scully.  Now.

*     *     *     *     *

Alone in the waiting room, Mulder absently drank his soft drink
and tried to collect his thoughts.  Was it only this morning when
life seemed relatively normal?  He felt he had aged a lifetime
since nine-thirty.  How had a seemingly innocuous symptom become a
prospective harbinger of doom?

Mulder retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and pressed speed
dial "1."  He held his breath until the familiar voice answered.
"Hey, it's me," he said in a forced relaxed tone. "Can you do me a
favor?"

"That depends.  Is it moral, legal and decent?" Scully asked
playfully.

"Killjoy," he muttered.  "Seriously, can you bring me some
clothes?"

"Why, are you naked?"

There was a discernible pause.  "Uh, not exactly."

"What hospital?"

"Huh?"

"Are you being admitted to Georgetown Memorial Hospital?"

His mouth gaped open.  "How did you know I'm being admitted to the
hospital?"

Scully responded, "I work for the FBI, possess superior deductive
skills and can read you like a book.  Besides, they covered this
subject in one of my training classes at the Academy.  I think it
was discussed in 'Babysitting Your Fellow Agent.'  Perhaps if your
recurrent severe hemorrhoidal condition doesn't flare up next
month, you can attend a seminar with me called 'How To Prevent
Your Partner From Ditching You.'  Maybe we can finally get around
to building that tower of furniture."

Mulder was not amused. "C'mon Scully.  You know how those stupid
hospital gowns are.  They don't provide adequate coverage and
my butt will be hanging out."

She tried to suppress a giggle. "And the downside to this would
be?"

"Scully!"

"Don't panic," she soothed.  "I promise I won't complain about any
accidental exposure.  But I'm afraid you'll have to make do
tonight."

"Why?"

"Because I'm closer to the hospital than I am to your apartment.
I can pick up any basic toiletries from the gift shop until I can
bring your stuff in the morning."  Actually, that statement wasn't
entirely true.  Scully simply wanted to be with him as soon as
possible.

His protest was cut short by Antonio's arrival with the despised
wheelchair. "Okay, you win, this time.  They're admitting me
through the ER..."

"I'll be there as soon as I can.  Try to stay out of trouble until
I get there."

"Aw, Scully.  You never let me have any fun."

*     *     *     *     *

Scully found her partner lying listlessly on a gurney, his arm
draped across his eyes in an attempt to block out the bright light
of the emergency department.  The tension in his body was
glaringly apparent, and she cursed herself for not coming earlier.
Intellectually she understood professional obligations often took
precedence, but her heart differed with her priorities today.
Almost fearful of reproach, she hesitantly walked to her friend's
side and whispered, "Mulder, it's me."

He turned to face her.  She exuded an aura of comfort, and he was
grateful she was here.  The oppressive sense of dread that had
plagued him throughout the morning began to diminish.  Yet, at an
irrational level he was angry and disappointed she had not been
with him when he received the unsettling news.  He felt totally
forsaken.  On the other hand, he frequently rebuked her for being
overly involved in his medical care.  How could she possibly know
this time was unimaginably different?  Preferring to defer any
serious discussion for the time being, he opted for a diversion.
"Did you get everything straightened out at Quantico?"

"Yeah.  The pathologist withdrew his version of the report once he
had me where I wanted him."

"Ah ha!  So, you convinced him it was his idea," Mulder remarked.

"Sometimes it's a necessary evil."

He felt strangely uneasy.  "Have I ever been a victim of this
ploy?"

Raising her right hand, she innocently recited, "I assert my Fifth
Amendment privilege."

If he were interrogating a suspect, he'd interpret that as a
"yes."  He wondered what else she did to manipulate him on a daily
basis.  Not wanting to pursue the matter further, he prompted,
"What about the expense reports?  Did Skinner sign off on
everything?"

"Eventually.  I had to modify your explanation about how you lost
your cell phone.  Skinner refused to approve the form as it was
submitted."

Repositioning himself on the gurney, Mulder prepared to defend
himself.  "Scully, my phone was engulfed by a blob of green alien
ectoplasm, pure and simple.  It could have happened to anyone."

She rolled her eyes heavenward.  "Do you want a reimbursement
check or not?  The accounting department is more likely to
believe a suspect knocked your phone into phosphorescent
sewer water."

"Is that what you told them?  Dana Katherine Scully!  I can't
believe you spent half the morning raking some guy over the coals
for submitting a report that didn't agree with your interpretation
of the facts while you knowingly falsified a government document."

Filled with remorse, she said, "Mulder, I didn't come here to
upset you.  I'm sorry."

"No, it's my fault," he assured her.  "I shouldn't have taken my
frustrations out on you."

"That's okay, I understand."

An uncomfortable silence ensued.  Abruptly changing the subject,
Scully asked, "How are you feeling?"

"A few quarts low," Mulder complained. "I'm going to need blood
transfusions to replace what they siphoned off.  The tech must
have drawn at least a hundred tubes!"

"Aren't you exaggerating a little?"

"Okay, maybe it was only seventy-nine.  I know a few vials are
necessary to run some tests, but I detect a conspiracy afoot.
I'll bet they're selling the extra blood on the black market."

Undeterred by her partner's sarcasm, she was determined to catch
up on the day's events. "What have they done to you so far?"

"You mean besides the blood-letting ritual?  Let's just say they
obtained some other lab specimens and leave it at that."

His uncharacteristic display of modesty was humorous.  Usually
Mulder derived a perverse sense of pleasure in trying to
embarrass her.  He *must* be preoccupied.

Given her medical background, Scully was familiar with the
possible diagnoses and the procedures Mulder would undergo, but
she didn't know how much information he absorbed this morning.
She didn't want to insult his intelligence by insinuating he
didn't pay attention or was incapable of understanding medical
terminology.  She decided on a more neutral approach. "What do
your doctor's diabolical plans include?"

Mulder stared at a loose thread on his blanket.  "From here I'm
supposed to go to radiology for chest x-rays and an MRI of my
optic nerves and brain.  Then they'll transfer me to my room and
I'll wait for the neurologist to do his exam and stick knitting
needles in my back.  After he's finished torturing me, they'll
start IV steroids for the inflammation.  And speaking of torture,
I'd almost kill for some hospital food about now.  Oh, man.  I
can't believe I actually said that!"

As if on cue, Scully's stomach growled loudly. "Once you're
settled in, I'll run down to the cafeteria and find something
reasonably palatable."

Unexpectedly, Mulder was confronted with conflicting emotions.  He
was afraid to let Scully out of his sight and wanted to cling to
her like a security blanket.  But he also wanted to delay any
substantive conversation.  Piteously rubbing his stomach, he
suggested, "Why don't you go to the cafeteria and enjoy a
leisurely lunch?  You can bring me a doggie bag, preferably with
something decadently greasy and high in cholesterol."

"Are you sure you don't want me to go to radiology with you?  I
don't mind waiting."

"I'm positive.  Go eat your rabbit food and I'll see you in my
luxurious accommodations.  I hope room service has improved since
the last time I was here.  They didn't even leave chocolates on my
pillow."

*     *     *     *     *

While waiting for her partner to be delivered to his room, the
health conscious Dr. Scully couldn't resist temptation any longer.
The tantalizing smell of fries was extraordinarily seductive, and
she could not remain virtuous any longer.  She snuck her hand in
the brightly colored sack and withdrew three fries.  That was her
limit.  Unaccustomed to eating junk food, the crispy mouth-
watering snack provided a near sensual experience.  Now the sack
cruelly beckoned her to return for more.  As she struggled with
her conscience, Mulder was wheeled into the room.  He appeared to
be in a drugged haze.

"What happened?" she asked the medical staff as they transferred
him to the bed.

"He had a major panic attack during his MRI, so they gave him
something to help him relax.  Obviously it worked," the nurse
wryly stated.

The semi-conscious patient moaned.  "Ummm.  Do I smell fries?"

"Maybe you should wait until you're more alert," Scully cautioned.

Mulder bolted upright in the bed, his hair in disarray and
pointing in every conceivable direction.  "I'm awake, I'm awake,"
he declared.

Scully made a mental note to herself to never underestimate the
power of fast food to heighten her partner's level of awareness.
She positioned the table over his bed and neatly arranged the
food.

He blinked several times.  "Do my eyes deceive me?"

"Since your last stay at this overpriced resort, they've made some
'improvements.'  There's a McDonald's on the first floor near the
cafeteria."

"This is terrific!  A Big Mac and fries!"  He pushed his luck and
took a small sip of his drink. "And iced tea, too!  Scully, you're
the greatest."

"Well, I figured if all this stuff gives you a heart attack,
you'll already be in the hospital," she teased.

Even though the food satisfied Mulder's definition of fine
cuisine, he discovered he wasn't ravenous at all.  Deep in
thought, he perfunctorily nibbled at his burger.  He had no idea
how to approach this subject.  The doctors glossed over some
possibilities, but he needed another opinion, specifically hers.
Although he knew she would be honest and supportive, he was afraid
she would view him as damaged goods.  Injuries were different, he
reasoned, because he eventually made a full recovery and resumed a
normal, active life.  But he wasn't sure he could accept the
prospect of a progressive and debilitating disease.  He lowered
his gaze and summoned his tenuous courage.  "Scully, how serious
is this optic neuritis thing?"

"That depends.  Sometimes it happens for no particular reason and
resolves on its own."

He had difficulty articulating his fears.  "But what if I have
MS?"

"That's one possibility," she calmly explained. "There are several
other diseases that can cause inflammation of the optic nerve,
many of them less serious."

"I'm not sure I want to know.  Maybe I should check out AMA before
the neurologist gets here and hope it's a fluke."

"Mulder, you don't mean that.  If you're sick, your long-term
prognosis is more favorable the sooner you're diagnosed.  In most
cases, newer drug therapies are available which can enable
patients to live a near normal life span and enjoy a better
quality of life."

The information failed to provide any reassurance.  To him, the
phraseology was medical speak for "you're screwed, so get
over it."   Did all doctors take a course in Scatology 101?

His ruminations ceased when he heard a loud knock at the door.  A
horizontally gifted individual wearing glasses introduced himself.
*What was the deal today? he wondered.  Did all his doctors emerge
from the same gene pool?*

"Dr. Cohen," I presume.

"I'm sorry I'm running late," the neurologist apologized.  "I got
tied up at the office."

"Sounds fun," Mulder said mischievously.  He was rewarded by a
stinging slap on his arm.

"Ow!"  He jerked his head toward the source of the reprimand.
"Doc, this sadist is my partner, Dr. Dana Scully.  She knows my
medical history better than I do."

The bemused doctor removed a pen from his lab coat.  "Care to test
that theory?  I have a checklist any pilot would envy."

Mulder gave him the thumbs up signal.

"You say today is the first day you've noticed the patchy vision,
decreased color saturation and pain in the right eye?"

"Yeah."

"Do you recall being bitten by a tick or having a peculiar skin
rash?"

"No."

"Have you traveled to a wooded area within the past couple of
months?"

"No," Mulder lamented. "The closest I've come to roughing it
lately has been staying at a Red Roof Inn without ESPN."

"Ouch!  That's inhumane," Dr. Cohen sympathized.  Tapping the
chart with his pen, he resumed the verbal barrage.  "Any
coughing?"

"No."

"Fever?"

Scully fielded this one. "Yes.  He's had an upper respiratory
infection, apparently secondary to an abscessed tooth."  She added
accusingly, "He neglected to take his antibiotics following the
root canal about a week ago.  An internist prescribed Ceclor,
Guiafed, Antivert and Tylenol."

"Antivert?"

"Yes, he's suffering from severe bouts of vertigo."

Dr. Cohen scrawled some indecipherable hieroglyphics.  "Mr.
Mulder, have you experienced any headaches, neck stiffness,
vomiting or seizures?"

How could he answer this truthfully and not incur his partner's
wrath?  There was a perfectly logical explanation for each
symptom.  Mulder admitted, "I've had some wicked headaches over
the past few days due to the sinus infection.  In addition to the
vomiting associated with the vertigo, I got sick today from a
vicious panic attack and an allergic reaction to a diagnostic dye.
As far as the neck stiffness, that's what I get for sleeping on
the couch, right Scully?"

Scully's head dropped to her chest.  She should have known he was
withholding information from her.

"Any numbness, tingling or weakness in your arms or legs?" Dr.
Cohen asked.

"No."

"Could you have been exposed to an infection through contaminated
blood products, intravenous drug use or unprotected sex?"

Hell, Mulder didn't remember the last time he had *protected* sex!
He was about to vehemently deny any of these modes of transmission
when Scully interceded.

"Several years ago he was infected with a rare retrovirus which
required numerous blood transfusions, as well as an aggressive
regimen of antiviral agents and anticoagulants.  Bone marrow
aspirations were performed regularly until the virus achieved a
dormant stage," she supplied.  Scully then enlightened the
neurologist about Mulder's prior medical history.

To his credit, Dr. Cohen appeared nonjudgmental, even when Scully
told him about the time Mulder allowed an unethical psychologist
to drill a hole in his head in an attempt to recover lost
memories.  She also mentioned his exposure to "an unknown power
source" that caused excessive activity in his temporal lobe.
Scully explained that this had ceased after he underwent
unsanctioned experimental surgery to remove unspecified genetic
material.  Throughout the recitation, the neurologist's face
remained impassive until she told him about the tobacco beetle
infestation in Mulder's lungs.  Dr. Cohen flinched at that one.
When the doctor finished summarizing Mulder's extensive medical
history, he set the chart on the table.

Mulder smiled.  "See Doc?  I told you she was better at this stuff
than I am."

"She's had a lot of practice, no doubt."  Dr. Cohen unpacked
several items from his black bag and placed them on the table.
The doctor assessed Mulder's gait, speech, orientation, reflexes,
muscle tone and strength.  Then he subjected his reluctant patient
to an array of other tests.  He bent Mulder in awkward positions,
touched him with cotton wisps, made him distinguish between sharp
and dull objects and sniff the contents of various bottles with
his eyes closed...the list was seemingly endless.  When the exam was
finally over, Dr. Cohen excused himself and returned with a nurse
carrying a draped instrument tray.  Mulder buried his face in the
pillow in trepidation.

"Mr. Mulder, I believe Dr. Taggert has already explained the
necessity for the spinal tap, correct?"

"I vaguely remember it had something to do with ruling out a few
diseases."

"That's right.  Spinal fluid abnormalities can indicate the
presence of Lyme disease, meningitis, multiple sclerosis or other
disease processes."  Anticipating the doctor's actions, Scully
adjusted the bed and brightened the room lights.  She moved Mulder
into a fetal position and tenderly brushed his bangs away from his
face.

The neurologist swabbed Mulder's lower back with Betadine and
draped it with blue sterile towels.  He firmly palpated the lower
vertebrae until he was satisfied he had located a suitable
location.  Dr. Cohen warned his apprehensive patient, "I'm going
to inject a local anesthetic.  You're going to feel a little
stick."

Ah, another medical euphemism.  Translation:  "This will hurt like
hell."

When Dr. Cohen decided the area was sufficiently anesthetized, he
introduced the catheter between two vertebrae.  Mulder inhaled
sharply, and Scully squeezed his hand reassuringly.  He was
dimly aware of the sound of glass vials clinking, and then
the exquisite pressure in his back was gone.

"It's over," Scully cooed. "You did fine."

The nurse removed the drapes and helped Mulder roll flat on his
back.  She snapped the railing into place and began to gather the
discarded supplies.

"Leave that down," Mulder objected.  "That will be in my way when
I have to go to the bathroom."

Dr. Cohen frowned.  "That won't be a problem.  You need to lie
flat on your back for at least twelve hours to prevent a post-
spinal headache.  Besides, until I'm satisfied the vertigo has
dissipated, you're confined to bed rest anyway."

"But how am I supposed to go to the bathroom?"

"Other arrangements have been made."

"Other arrangements?"  Mulder croaked.

The nurse placed a plastic urinal on the counter.  "If you need
anything else, let us know."

Ah, the dreaded urinal.  Still, it was better than being
catheterized, but not by much.

Clutching the chart against his chest, Dr. Cohen said, "There are
two more tests I want to run.  I'm ordering an MRI of your spinal
cord because it's another area where plaques develop.  I don't
realistically expect to find any, but I want to cover our bases.
The other test is a VEP.  It evaluates the integrity of visual
pathways as nerve impulses travel to the part of the brain that
interprets visual signals.  I'll schedule these for tomorrow.  Do
you have any questions?"

Mulder turned toward Scully.  "I'm not sure where to start."

Ever practical, his partner asked, "How do you plan to treat him
initially?"

"We'll continue his current medications until the labs come back.
Once we have a better idea what we're dealing with, we may need to
make some adjustments.  We'll start the IV steroids now that the
lumbar puncture has been done."

Mulder felt completely helpless lying flat on his back, and it was
difficult making eye contact with his doctor.  "Dr. Cohen, why is
everyone making a big deal about the connection between optic
neuritis and MS?"

Dr. Cohen rested his forearms on the bed's railing.  "As I'm sure
Dr. Pearson and Dr. Taggert told you, optic neuritis can be an
isolated finding.  However, optic neuritis is frequently the first
symptom of multiple sclerosis.  Approximately 50% of patients with
optic neuritis develop MS within a few years.  You fall within the
target age range when most patients begin to develop symptoms."

"What causes MS?"

"We're not quite sure.  No clear cause has been determined yet,
but viral infections are involved in approximately 25% of cases."

A horrible thought struck Mulder.  "What about the retrovirus I
was infected with?  Could that cause MS?"

"I believe speculation is premature," the neurologist cautioned.
"We won't have your test results available for a while."  Dr.
Cohen collected his bag.  "Gracie will be in shortly to start your
IV.  I'll see you in the morning."

A funeral atmosphere permeated the room.  Scully teasingly mussed
Mulder's hair.  "You're going to be awfully embarrassed if this
is the result of spending too many hours watching those videos
you don't own."

The attempt at humor fell flat.  "Scully, tell me about MS.  What
is it exactly?  What are the symptoms?  Don't sugarcoat it, I want
all the gory details."

"Mulder..."

"C'mon Scully, you're my one in five billion...I'm begging you."

"There's no indication so far you even have MS."

He could sense her caving in. "Just the facts, Ma'am."

In the finest tradition of a medical school professor, she began
her lecture. "In multiple sclerosis, the myelin sheath becomes
inflamed.  The myelin sheath is the fatty insulation that
surrounds nerve cells, as well as the brain and spinal cord.
Think of the myelin as the insulation of an electrical cable.  If
the insulation is compromised, the electrical current doesn't
travel efficiently or essentially shorts out.  Over a period of
time, the damaged areas form scar tissue, referred to as
sclerosis, in multiple areas.  That's why the disease is called
multiple sclerosis.  These areas of scar tissue, or plaques,
commonly occur in the brain, spinal cord and optic nerves."

"So that's why Dr. Cohen ordered all the MRIs?"

"Yes.  As he said, optic neuritis is one of the first findings.
So is fatigue, trouble with balance, temporary weakness or
tingling sensations in a limb, difficulty urinating, slurred
speech, confusion and other less common symptoms."

He persisted. "What exactly happens in the later stages of the
disease?"

Scully crossed her arms in defiance.  "Mulder, I'm not answering
that.  Too much information is a dangerous thing.  I won't have
you writing your epitaph before you have a diagnosis."

Fortuitously, Gracie choose that precise moment to bring the IV
paraphernalia, thus effectively ending the gloomy exchange.

From his supine position, Mulder tried to watch the nurse prepare
the infusion pump.  "Excuse me," he interrupted.  "How many bags
are there?"

"Three."

He scrunched his face.  "I thought I was only supposed to get
steroids intravenously."

She answered, "No sir.  Dr. Cohen changed your antibiotic to IV
form.  He was also concerned about dehydration so he added the
third bag as a bonus."

"This day keeps getting better and better," he moaned.

Gracie expertly established the IV, and Mulder barely felt the
needle slide into his vein.  He was definitely making a note to
remember her name.  When he thought his ordeal was over, she
handed him a small paper cup and poured a glass of water.

"What is this?"

"It's your other meds."

"Oh yeah.  I was having so much fun, I forgot about them."

She laughed as he swallowed the pills.  "I'll see you later."

Mulder reached through the railing for Scully.  "Why don't you go
home?  You know how the Antivert knocks me out."

He was undoubtedly physically and emotionally exhausted, but
Scully couldn't bear to leave him.  "I could watch the game with
you."

"Nah, it's a foregone conclusion.  The Yanks will whip the Blue
Jays.  It's no contest."

"Then let me stay with you until you fall asleep."

"Okay, but you have to promise to do me a favor."

"Possibly.  I do have standards," she winked.

"Would you bring me my laptop?"

"No.  You'd use it to work or look up medical information you have
no business knowing.  I'll stop by the news stand in the morning
and pick up some magazines to keep you entertained."

"Scully, you don't have to go through all that trouble.  I'm sure
I have some magazines at home you can bring," he suggested.

She grinned evilly.  "I don't know.  I'm afraid your taste in
magazines would make your blood pressure rise, among other
things!"

"Hey, I only buy those for the articles.  Did you know Miss August
is one of the greatest undiscovered literary talents?"

*     *     *     *     *

The next morning during rounds, Dr. Cohen explained the cultures
indicated Mulder's antibiotic needed to be changed.  Otherwise,
the tests thus far did not reveal any significant findings.  The
MRI was within normal limits, as was the spinal fluid and most of
the lab work.  Some tests were pending, and the neurologist would
inform Mulder of the results as soon as they were available.

But...

Mulder's blood pressure was elevated due to the intravenous
steroids.  This was a relatively common side effect, but usually
not to this degree.  Dr. Cohen left orders to monitor the
development closely, especially considering his patient's family
history.

Characteristically, Mulder quizzed Scully after the doctor left.
"So am I officially out of the woods?  Did he say I didn't have
MS?"

She hated it when he put her on the spot.  "Not exactly.  He said
your MRI was within normal limits."

"What's the difference?"

"Often there's a delay between the time a patient begins
experiencing symptoms and a diagnosis can be definitively
confirmed," she hedged.

"You mean all my tests can turn out perfectly normal and I can
still develop MS a few years from now?"

"It's possible."

His mind rapidly switched gears.  "What if the retrovirus is
active again?  Would that show up in a bone marrow aspiration?"

"Mulder, are you familiar with the acronym KISS?  You know, 'Keep
it simple, stupid'?  There might not be an explanation for your
optic neuritis, or the source could be appallingly simple.  Your
cultures confirmed the presence of a bacterial infection."

Unconvinced, he continued to brood.

Scully discretely noted the time.  "Do you want me to reschedule
my interview with your contact?"

"Huh?"

"The guy the Three Stooges referred to us?  The cell phone
conspiracy?  I can stay here if you prefer."

Mulder sadly answered, "No, you go ahead.  I have a couple of
tests scheduled
anyway."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah.  But Scully?  Wish me luck.  I didn't study at all."

*     *     *     *     *

Despite his lack of preparation, the tests passed without
incident.  Dr. Cohen had the foresight to order a dose of Versed
prior to the MRI, so Mulder was blissfully relaxed during the
exam.

Alone in his room, Mulder obsessed about missed opportunities.
Why had he taken Scully for granted all these years?  Ironically,
he was well renown for his brilliant mind and comprehensive
vocabulary, but he couldn't manage to say three simple words
to her.  How did he become so dependent on her, and how would
he ever manage without her?  They weren't married or in a
relationship, at least not in the widely understood definition
of the term.  She didn't owe him anything.  After all these
years, would she accept his declaration of affection?  Or under
the circumstances, would she tell him what he wanted to hear
out of obligation?

The deep contemplation exacerbated Mulder's excruciating headache.
He pressed the call button and summoned the nurse.

"Man I help you?" asked the disembodied voice.

"Yes, can I have some Tylenol?"

"I'll have to check your chart to see if you're due.  I'll get
right back to you."

Mulder massaged his throbbing temples.  In hospital language, he
could languish for hours before anyone checked on him.  His faith
in the nursing profession was restored when Glenn entered the room
bearing the traditional paper cup containing his medication.

Noticing Mulder's appearance, he said, "I'm going to take your
vital signs before I give this to you.  You look flushed."  The
nurse was surprised to discover Mulder's temperature was about the
same.  However, Glenn was shocked to discover his patient's blood
pressure had risen to 210/130, and quickly double-checked his
findings.  He gave the Tylenol to Mulder and poured a glass of
water.

"Mr. Mulder, your blood pressure is higher than it was earlier.
I'll call your doctor and see what he wants to do about it, okay?"

"Sure.  Fine.  Whatever."  Mulder was too miserable to care.

Glenn soon reappeared with a syringe.  "Dr. Cohen ordered
something to help lower your blood pressure.  He's on his way to
see you."  Mulder was only peripherally aware of the nurse
injecting the medication into his IV port.  Shortly thereafter, he
managed to drift into a restless slumber.

He was awakened by a deep voice.  "Mr. Mulder."

"Whatimizzit?"

Dr. Cohen's voice penetrated through the fog.  "I need to check
you out, okay?"

Mulder didn't care if the neurologist cut his head off.  He simply
wanted the headache to go away.  Nonetheless, he acquiesced to the
inevitable exam.  He heard Dr. Cohen issuing orders to Glenn, but
didn't pay attention to what was said.  Not that he would have
understood it anyway.

"Mr. Mulder, your blood pressure is dangerously high.  We'll keep
giving you medication and monitor your vital signs until things
stabilize."

"Can I have something stronger for the headache?" he whimpered.

"Is it that bad?" the doctor asked.

"Uh huh."

"All right.  We'll get you taken care of."

Whatever the doctor gave him provided near instantaneous pain
relief.  It also made him sleep like the dead.  When he awoke, Dr.
Cohen was gone and Scully was in her customary place.

"What are you doing here?" he rasped.

"Glenn called me after he contacted Dr. Cohen.  How do you feel?"

"Usually with my thumb and forefinger, although I have been known
to use all five digits on occasion."

"I'm not kidding, Mulder," she chided.

Moving his head experimentally, he answered, "The headache's not
as bad."

"Your blood pressure is still coming down.  Dr. Cohen is going to
keep you on anti-hypertensive medication prophylactically for a
while."

"Gee, Scully.  That's not my idea of prophylactics."

She snorted. "You must be feeling better if your mind is back in
the gutter."

"Scully..."

"Yes, Mulder?"

"Please stay with me for a while," he pleaded.

She was bewildered by his request.  "Of course I will, Mulder.
Where else would I go?"

*     *     *     *     *

Mulder expressed his intense displeasure about the salt-free diet
that was imposed on him at dinner.  "Ugh!  It tastes like
wallpaper paste."

Scully was intrigued.  "How did you become a connoisseur of
household adhesives?"

"I ate some I when I was twelve years old.  Abe and I were working
on a paper-mache project during social studies, and I said the
paste looked like snot.  Naturally, he dared me to taste it.
Since my budding manhood was at stake, I had to try it."

"Since you've piqued my curiosity, what did it taste like?"

He made a face.  "Imagine cold, unsalted, watered down oatmeal.
It was awful.  But the heroic deed placed me in the Cool Hall of
Fame."  He lethargically stirred his tasteless mashed potatoes.

"What's really on your mind?"

"You don't want to know.  It's pretty morbid."

"Mulder, don't do this to yourself.  You shouldn't dwell on things
that may never happen."

"Now I know how Damocles must have felt," Mulder said
despondently.

Scully looked confused.  "Damocles?"

"According to the legend, there was a tyrannical king named
Dionysius.  He was hated and feared by his subjects, and he lived
in constant fear of assassination.  His only friend, Damocles,
admired the king's lavish lifestyle and said he'd love to trade
places for a day.  Dionysius agreed, and the following morning the
men switched roles.  Damocles was having a great time, but for
some reason he happened to look up at the ceiling.  A sharp sword
was hanging above him by a single hair.  Horrified at the thought
it could fall at any second, he could no longer enjoy the
pleasures of his existence.  When the day was finally over, he
demanded to know why his friend ruined his experience by scaring
him so badly.  The king smiled and said, 'Now you know what it's
like to have everything, but to live in fear it can all be taken
away at any moment.'"

"Is that why you've been upset?" she asked earnestly.  "Are you
afraid your world is going to come crashing down on you without
warning someday and you'll lose everything that's important to
you?"

He pushed the tray away from his bed.  "I've never told you this
before, but my greatest fear is developing a disease that would
ravage my body or my mind.  I don't want to robbed of my
independence or be abandoned by the people I care about."  Mulder
wondered if she understood what he was implying.  "Scully, I'd
rather kill myself with my service revolver."

"Oh, Mulder!  Is that why the possibility of MS scares you so
much?"

"I never realized I was coward before.  I envisioned myself as a
fearless crusader, prepared to die in a blaze of glory for a noble
cause.  Somehow the prospect of a protracted, debilitating illness
is more frightening.  I don't want to lose my dignity and self-
respect."

"It takes tremendous courage to overcome life's obstacles,
especially when they seem insurmountable," she reminded him.  "But
I have faith you'll be able to rise to any challenge."

He gazed into her deep blue eyes.  "Do you honestly mean that?"

Scully's voice wavered with emotion.  "I do."

For the first time since his ordeal began, he felt a sense of
peace.

*     *     *     *     *

By the fourth day of his hospitalization, Mulder was driving
everyone stark-raving bananas.  Once Dr. Cohen told him a
bacterial infection triggered by the abscessed tooth was a
possible source of the optic neuritis, Mulder lobbied for his
immediate release.

Satisfied his patient would be "encouraged" to follow the
appropriate discharge instructions, Dr. Cohen agreed.  Mulder
would need to continue the steroids and anti-hypertensive
medications for a short time and adhere to a salt-restricted
diet until his follow-up visit.  Although the exhaustive
testing was inconclusive, Dr. Cohen recommended evaluations
at six-month intervals since Mulder was technically
considered a candidate for developing multiple sclerosis.
However, Mulder chose to ignore that inconvenient fact
for the time being.

Dr. Taggert suggested Mulder wear his glasses on a regular basis
to reduce eye fatigue and headaches.  The retina surgeon was
fairly optimistic the visual field defect would eventually
resolve, although Mulder would be limited to desk duty until his
vision reached an acceptable level.  In a moment of whimsy, Mulder
proposed to rename the X-Files division Nerd Headquarters, and
threatened to require all department personnel to be of the four-
eyed persuasion.  He said he would grant special waivers to short
people who were willing to fetch his coffee.

Before the ink on his discharge papers was dry, Mulder struggled
to change into his sweats.  He didn't even wait for the nurse to
remove his IV, which made for a less than graceful experience.
Scully felt compelled to help, but the scene was so hysterically
funny she preferred to sit back and watch her partner's desperate
antics.  He had been a bundle of nervous energy once he learned
the specter of a disabling disease was no longer looming on the
immediate horizon.  In other words, he was an absolute pain in the
ass.

It was wonderful to have him back.

*     *     *     *     *

Mulder was initially disappointed Scully wouldn't let him return
to his apartment after he got out of the hospital, yet he was
grateful for the chance to spend time with her.  The arrangement
made it easier to discuss certain matters.  Not that he had in
fact done so...he was still trying to summon the intestinal
fortitude.

While absentmindedly channel surfing, he heard her opening the
door.  She was trying to balance a brown paper bag on each hip
while retrieving her keys from the door.  Mulder ran over to
provide much needed assistance.

"Thanks!  I thought I was going to be wearing dinner!" she
exclaimed.

"Oh, Scully.  You know you look good in anything."  Peering into
the bag, he asked, "So what did you cook?"

"Michelle has been raving about this barbecue place, so I decided
to give it a try."

"Barbecue?"  He did a double take.  "Are you a pod person?"

"What?"

"Didn't you see 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers'?"

Scully unloaded the dishwasher in search of clean plates.  "I'm
sorry.  I'm sure it was another classic."

"Never mind," he replied.  "I thought you were someone else.  Dana
Scully doesn't encourage me to eat decadently delicious food."

"Well, this is a special occasion, so we won't tell Dr. Cohen
about it.  Agreed?"

"Wholeheartedly!"

He blindly rummaged through one of the sacks.  "Is it safe to
assume there's iced tea in here?"

"No."

His disappointment was palpable.  "Please tell me it's not root
beer."  Instead, he pulled out a six-pack of chilled Shiner Bock.
"Scully!  Are we living la vida loca tonight?"

"What can I say?" she said.  "Your bad habits are rubbing off on
me."

With a grand flourish, Mulder draped a kitchen towel over his arm
and presented her with a beer.  "Scully, if you really want to
make me happy, let's take a few days off and take a vacation
together.  There's this beautiful place in Tahiti with the most
spectacular waterfall.  We'd have a great time."

"Are you serious?" she asked.

"Yeah.  You could even wear a blue thong.  It would be perfect."

Scully regarded her partner with amusement.  "Do you plan to wear
your red Speedo?"

"I could be persuaded."

To his astonishment, she leaned forward and kissed him.

*     *     *     *     *
A month after his release from the hospital, Mulder's vision
cleared sufficiently for Dr. Taggert to allow him to resume field
status.  However, he still had to wear his glasses when reading or
working at the computer for lengthy periods of time.  Thrilled he
was no longer a desk jockey, he reported for work promptly at 5:30
the next morning, anxious to start his next case.  Mulder sighed
with satisfaction as he surveyed his basement office.  His
uncomfortable government-issued chair never felt so perfect.  He
leaned back in an exaggerated motion, lacing his fingers behind
his head as he propped his feet on his desk.  Everything was going
to be just fine.

Deciding to use this quiet time productively, Mulder sifted
through a folder of bizarre articles collected from various
tabloids and opened several e-mails from Frohike with borderline
pornographic attachments.  He shuddered to think what his
partner's reaction would be if she knew how her image had been
digitally altered.  Hopefully the jury would be sympathetic and
acquit her of any charges.  Oops.  The sound of approaching
footsteps startled him into alertness.  Yes, he would recognize
those ridiculously high heels anywhere.  Before logging off, he
wistfully admired Frohike's editing prowess one more time.

Scully breezed through the door and tossed her coat on her chair.
"So am I still assigned to Nerd Headquarters?"

Her bespectacled partner instinctively touched the wire frames.
"News flash, Scully.  You've been working in Nerdvana for years.
It's another government conspiracy.  Reclassifying cases as the X-
Files sounded loftier.  Besides, glasses haven't adversely
affected Bill Gates' earning power.  This could be a good omen."

Admiring him appraisingly, she said, "I could get used to it."

"Used to what, the glasses or the potential financial gain?  If
it's the money, I hope you're prepared to help me pick my lottery
numbers this week."

"Is that what you're working on so diligently?"

"Um...it's a..." Mulder fumbled for a reply.  "It's a surprise."

His curious partner lifted an eyebrow.  "A surprise?"

"Yeah, you're always complaining about getting stuck with the
paperwork, so I thought I'd pitch in."

"Mulder, the printing on those forms is practically microscopic.
You'll give yourself a headache from eyestrain."

"I won't ruin my eyes from filling out a few forms."  Wagging his
eyebrows, he added, "Although I've been told doing other things
can make you go blind."

"Is that a confession, Mulder?"

Before he had a chance to defend himself, she reached for the
paperwork.  He desperately tried to clutch it protectively
against his chest, but he was no match for her determination.

She quickly scanned the purloined form.  "Mulder!  This isn't an
expense report.  This is a 302!  What the hell is going on?"

In the spirit of "the best defense is a strong offense," Mulder
cleared his throat and delivered his mentally rehearsed speech.
"Most people know of the atrocities inflicted upon Union soldiers
at the prisoner-of-war camp in Andersonville, but its counterpart
at Point Lookout in Maryland has been largely ignored by history
books.  It was originally designed as a hospital for Union
casualties, but in early 1863, authorities began confining a small
number of Confederate prisoners to the grounds.  After the Battle
of Gettysburg, the federal government built a prison camp known as
Camp Hoffman. Over 52,000 men were confined to the overcrowded
prison during its two years of operation.  Thousands died from
disease, starvation and exposure.  Spectral sightings are
common, and many visitors have reported apparitions attired in
Confederate uniforms wandering the grounds.

Point Lookout Lighthouse is the focal point of paranormal
activity.  Researchers have reported dramatic temperature changes,
inexplicable power outages, strange animal behavior, the smell of
freshly lit cigars and voices from what appear to be former
occupants of the lighthouse.  If we leave in the morning..."

Her shoulders slumped.  "Oh, Mulder!  Not another Civil War ghost
story!  I have this eerie sense of deja vu all over again.  Wait!
Maybe that's an X-File!"  Depositing a brown paper bag on his
desk, she dryly remarked, "Perhaps you can think more coherently
if your blood sugar improves."

Eagerly removing the contents, Mulder was a little disappointed to
discover a package of light cream cheese to go with his bagel.  It
was only a matter of time before she had him eating salads and
yogurt.  Yuck!

Scully returned to his desk bearing two mugs of steaming hot
coffee.  He enthusiastically accepted a cup of the invigorating
substance.

"Ah, you're too good to me!" he declared.

In a rare moment, Scully graced him with a dazzling smile.  "I'll
probably regret saying this, but it's good to see you obsessing
over a case again."

"Thanks."  He lifted his coffee mug as though proposing a toast.
"To life."

"To life," she echoed as she gently touched his ceramic coffee cup
with hers.

He took a long swig of the hot brew.  The effects were almost
immediate.  Yelping in pain, he clutched his face.

"What's the matter?" she anxiously asked.

"My tooth is killing me!"

"Is it the same tooth that was bothering you before?"

"No," he confessed.  "It's a different one, on the opposite side."

The room fell eerily quiet.  "Uh, Mulder...how long have you had
this problem?"

"Since Friday.  I bit down on a Jolly Rancher too hard."

"Is the pain constant?"

Still holding his face, he nodded.  "Yeah, my jaw throbs pretty
much most of the time.  The pain wakes me up at night."

She hesitated before asking her next question. "Does exposure to
hot or cold make it worse?"

"Uh huh."

Wincing, she said, "Mulder, it sounds like you probably need another
root canal."

His eyes widened in disbelief. "No!" he wailed plaintively.  "This
is not happening!"


-The End-