Title: Via Dolorosa (Way of Sorrow)
Authors: Satchie and Obfusc8er
Feedback: satchie51@hotmail.com,
aobfuscata@hotmail.com
Spoilers: "Teliko" and a "blink-and-miss-it"
reference to "Squeeze".
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions, and/or FOX.
Rating: R for language, disturbing imagery, and
sexual themes.
Category: MT/A, SA
Archive: Gossamer, Mulder in Jeopardy, After the
Fact, and Enigmatic Dr.'s. All others please ask
first.


Notes:

Dedicated to xphylia, who loves Mulder from his
head to his TOES. Thank you for the
"encouragement" and input. ;)

Thanks to Buc252 for the most helpful beta.


This story contains religious references.
Additional notes at the end.


(Part 1/3)

+ + + + + + + + + +

From "For You" by Johnny Cash and Dave Matthews

I will drink the cup, the poison overflowing
I will lift you up, watch over where you're going
The first one in, the last one gone
I'll be the rock to stand upon
For you
For you

My spirit aches, and I can't stop this river
flowing
In fear I take each labored breath I draw in
knowing
That this could be my last, my final hour
But faith and hope and love give me the power
For you
For you

+ + + + + + + + + +

Prologue

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

My partner never ceases to amaze me with his
blind faith in the bizarre. Just once I'd like
to solve a case based solely on solid, scientific
evidence. So when Skinner and a physician from
the CDC's office in Philadelphia asked me to
consult on an unusual post-mortem, I assumed I
could enjoy the novelty of applying standard
procedures. As Dr. Bruin had phrased it, "This
investigation should begin and end under a
microscope." Alas, my good fortune was short-
lived. Barely two hours elapsed before Mulder
intruded upon my "slicing and dicing" in the
Bureau's pathology lab. Damn him.

All right, so I didn't exactly have an
explanation as to why an otherwise healthy, young
African-American male was melanin depleted, yet.
Was that any reason for him to immediately jump
to the conclusion that a sinister conspiracy was
afoot? If we *are* dealing with an infectious
disease, it's not unreasonable to assume three
other men believed to have been recently
kidnapped succumbed to a similar fate.

Unfortunately, that premise is far too mundane
for my relentless partner to consider. Like a
bird of prey, Mulder swooped down and seized
possession of the hair and fibers I collected
from Owen Sanders' body. For all practical
purposes, this was no longer my investigation.
Before I knew it, he had whisked the evidence to
the lab. Perhaps I should be grateful I was
spared another awkward encounter with Agent
Pendrell.

Soon afterward, Mulder called me from a pay
phone. A pay phone? From Mr. "I'm-so-totally-
dependent-upon-my-cell-phone-you'll-have-to-
remove-it-from-my-cold-dead-fingers"? I was
processing that anomaly when he told me Pendrell
had identified a thorn-like seed from West Africa
that contained a cerebropathic glycoside. I
could already anticipate his next question.
Could the victim have been killed by an exotic
poison? I almost derived a perverse sense of
pleasure informing him the tox screen was
negative. I briefly speculated Mr. Sanders'
depigmentation could have resulted from the
necrotized pituitary gland, but I got the
impression Mulder's mind was somewhere else.

Did I mention I'm currently trapped in a rental
car with my partner? In Philadelphia, discussing
his latest conspiracy theory? After another
victim, Alfred Kittel, was reported missing,
Mulder and I arrived in the city of brotherly
love. I can't believe we're pursuing leads based
on a single seed. What is it with Mulder and
seeds? I'm surprised I didn't find any errant
sunflower seeds in Mr. Sanders' body when I
performed the autopsy. That could have seriously
skewed my findings. Death by sunflower seed.
I'll bet Skinner would have loved that.

According to Mulder, the New York Port Authority
reported a similar death on a chartered flight
from Burkina Faso approximately one week before
the first man in this area was reporting missing.
However, the man's embassy arranged for the body
to be returned to his home country before an
autopsy could be performed. We contacted the
local INS office for assistance in cross-
referencing the flight's passenger manifest with
anyone who may have applied for residency or a
work visa within the past three months.
Initially the social worker, Marcus Duff,
hesitated to help us until we explained we could
be dealing with a potential public health threat.
After consulting his notes, he provided us with
information about Samuel Aboah. To make a long
story short, Aboah was less than enthusiastic to
see us. He immediately bolted, although we found
him a few minutes later in a most unusual place.
Mulder spotted him through a drainage pipe. I
can't even begin to explain what I saw, or what I
*thought* I saw.

Since I suspected Aboah might be suffering from
an unidentified viral or bacterial infection,
arrangements were made to place him in quarantine
at Mt. Zion Medical Center and perform a battery
of tests. The results were perplexing. Not only
did his x-rays reveal an inexplicable object in
his esophagus, his PET scan indicated the absence
of a pituitary gland. I was still trying to
digest that information when Mulder announced the
patient had escaped. Within minutes, the
Philadelphia police department provided a
promising lead. By the time we arrived at the
scene, Duff was being loaded into an ambulance.
Curiously, a small hollow spear was embedded in
his nose. Mulder and I exchanged knowing
glances. It was the mysterious object detected
in Aboah's x-rays. Apparently this is how he has
been extracting melanin from the pituitary glands
of his victims.

Mulder is convinced Aboah will seek another
victim since his attack on his immigration
counselor was abruptly thwarted. So now we're in
the car, canvassing the neighborhood for a
melanin-sucking vampire. Okay, those weren't
Mulder's exact words, but that's the general
idea. He surmises Aboah's ability to drain
hormones from his victims is the result of an
evolutionary adaptation that has allowed him to
survive despite his obvious physical defect.
That almost sounds plausible until he mentions a
tale from African folklore. Folklore? Great.
This case has officially become an X-File. I
roll my eyes in frustration. Sometimes I get so
pissed-off at Mulder, I want to wrap my hands
around his neck and choke the living daylights
out of him.


+ + + + + + + + + +

Chapter One

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

Mulder thoughtfully points to a demolition site
and stops the car. He recalls that asbestos
fibers were retrieved from Mr. Sanders' body. I
already know where this is heading. Asbestos
fibers were found on the victim, ergo; we'll find
the suspect here. After four years together,
I've become accustomed to my partner's
extraordinary leaps in the deductive process. If
I were to ask him right now, I'm sure he could
recite statistics as to how often his intuition
is correct, give or take a decimal place or two.

Our weapons drawn, we cautiously enter the
abandoned building. Once in, we split up and
begin our search. We have only been separated
for a few minutes when I hear Mulder weakly call
out to me. Already I fear the worst, that Aboah
has claimed him as his latest victim. I
anxiously return to the location where I last saw
Mulder, but he's nowhere in sight. His abandoned
flashlight lies on the ground in mute testimony
to his disappearance.

A nearby vent attracts my attention, and I peer
inside. The duct could have provided a
convenient escape route, but to where? I climb
inside the cramped tube and crawl through the
musty labyrinth. Each movement disturbs an
accumulation of debris, and minuscule particles
float through the air. An annoying ticklish
sensation teases at my nose, and I struggle to
suppress a sneeze. I call out Mulder's name
several times, but he does not answer. My heart
races as I consider the implications. Is he
physically unable to respond? Is he...? No, I
refuse to believe that. He's here. I feel it.

As I continue my journey in this narrow maze, my
muscles begin to cramp. Even though I'm petite,
some of these hairpin turns are challenging to
navigate. I can't imagine how uncomfortable they
must be for Mulder. An involuntary gasp escapes
my throat when I stumble across Kittel's body,
his skin totally devoid of pigment. Oh, God!
Please don't let me be too late for Mulder!

An inert form lies close by. Mulder?! In the
dim lighting, he appears unnaturally pale. Is
his ghastly white complexion the result of
injury, shock, fear...or has Aboah drained the
melanin from his pituitary gland? I frantically
crawl toward him and instinctively check his
carotid artery for a pulse. Yessssssss! The
rhythmic tattooing against my fingertips provides
reassuring, tangible proof he is alive. Mulder's
eyes are open, but he is completely non-
responsive. Before I can perform a more thorough
assessment, a noise startles me and I drop my
flashlight. In the near darkness, I see Aboah's
face at the end of the tunnel, and I fire my
weapon three times. I can't tell if I hit him or
not, but at least he's not continuing to advance.
I'll worry about that later. Right now, I need
to get Mulder out of here and summon help.

There's a vent cover behind Mulder, and I
awkwardly reach across him to knock it out. A
swift survey reveals a courtyard littered with a
couple of corpses. I'll need to notify the
police to search the area for the rest of Aboah's
victims as soon as I get Mulder taken care of.
After jumping out of the duct, I struggle to pull
him onto the ground. With one final tug, I
accidentally send Mulder falling to terra firma.
Oops. Sorry about that.

I immediately reach for my cell phone and call
911 for EMS assistance and police backup. The
operator interrupts me to ask for my badge
number. What? I don't have time for this
nonsense. This is a life-or-death emergency.
I'm not a giggly teenager calling in a pizza
order as a prank. I can't convey a sense of
urgency to this idiot. Nearly blind with rage, I
repeat our location, again. I don't believe
this. My partner is in dire need of medical
attention, there are at least three dead bodies
on the premises, a killer could still be nearby,
and I'm arguing with a 911 operator because she's
confused about our position! Arrggghhhh!

I glance at Mulder to make sure he's okay, but
the expression in his eyes sends shivers down my
spine. It's one of pure, unadulterated panic.
He seems to be attempting to communicate with me,
but about what? Is he in pain? Is there
something I need to tell the operator? I'm
desperately trying to figure out what he wants in
this psychic game of charades. How many
syllables, Mulder? Person, plant, animal,
mineral...help me out here.

His mounting agitation is almost palpable as he
focuses on something behind me. Behind me?
Shit. Aboah! Reflexively I simultaneously reach
for my weapon and turn around, firing several
rounds at our menacing attacker. To my profound
relief, I hit Aboah in midair, and he falls to
the ground. Duty dictates that I should evaluate
the status of this worthless piece of human
debris that tried to kill my partner, so I go
through the motions. Okay, fine. I came, I saw,
I confirmed he's alive and not going anywhere
soon. My obligation has been fulfilled.

When I return to Mulder's side, his eyelids
flutter convulsively for a couple of minutes
before they slide shut. I try to rouse him, but
he does not react to external stimuli. He is
drooling excessively, and in his unconscious
state, I'm afraid he will choke on his saliva. I
sit down on the ground and support his head in my
lap. As I cradle him in my arms, his lips turn a
slightly bluish hue. Damn it! Where are those
paramedics?


----------------
MULDER
----------------

The pieces fall into place while I am informing
Scully of the results of the fiber analysis. The
crippled hulk of a building before us is the
perfect place for Aboah to hide. She agrees, and
we decide to take a look. The interior is dark,
musty, and hopelessly crowded with partitions and
gangways. My favorite. I head for the upper level
while Scully searches the ground floor. The beam
of my flashlight seems to be devoured in the inky
atmosphere. The futility, and perhaps
inadvisability, of this venture strikes me as I
climb the rungs to a catwalk. A faint noise
distracts me from the thought almost immediately.
The sound came from somewhere above, just a soft
stirring of the air.

I proceed cautiously, sweeping the walk with the
flashlight's beam before climbing up all of the
way. There is no further sound, but a primal fear
grips me. It is a programmed reaction to
something here that is equally primal. I train my
weapon on the vent opening in front of me,
sensing that Aboah is approaching. The hairs
standing on the back of my neck are the only tip-
off.

Suddenly, the tingling wave of a shiver coursing
it way up my spine turns into searing pain. I
reach back reflexively and pull the offending
object from my neck. It is difficult to see, but
it resembles the thorn recovered from Sanders'
body. Shit. I know I am in trouble, so I call out
for my partner while trying to catch a glimpse of
Aboah. A fire spreads rapidly from the site of
the wound, and gravity seems to increase on an
exponential scale. The gun and flashlight become
too much to handle, so I drop the flashlight and
muster all of my waning strength to hold onto the
gun. Where the heck is Scully? I am losing
control fast, my muscles burning with strain. I
hear the sound again behind me, much louder this
time, but my legs ignore the command to move. In
spite of my best efforts, the weapon slips from
my hands. Okay, this is pissing me off. My
stomach turns to knots, and the floor rushes up
to meet me.

I lie stunned for a moment, a few stars swimming
before my eyes. I could not even use my hands to
cushion the fall, so my head had obviously taken
the brunt of it. For a moment, the darkness seems
very inviting, whispering to me with promises of
reprieve. A heavy thud to my right reminds me
that I should be afraid right now, jolting me out
of the reverie.

Before I know it, incredibly strong hands are
lifting me into the air. I try to struggle, but
my arms only dangle uselessly. Aboah turns me as
he stuffs me into the vent opening. His pink
irises capture the scant light, and he flashes
his teeth in a huge, predatory smile. I attempt
to call to Scully again, but the effort is
frustratingly futile. My jaw hangs open, and my
tongue feels like nothing more than a wad of
cotton. Aboah squeezes past me and grabs my left
arm. He yanks on it hard, and I flop onto my back
as the wind is knocked out of my lungs. He begins
to drag me like a carcass. How prophetic.

As we turn the first corner, my right shoulder
catches against the metal, but he doesn't slow
down. He pulls harder on my left arm. I hear a
sickening crunch, and pain tears through my
shoulder. I become completely disoriented in the
black space, lost to agony, frustration, and the
fading hope that Scully will somehow find me.

Our progress slows for a moment. At least, I
think it does. I am not sure how darkness can
spin aimlessly, but it is doing so now. In the
eye of the vortex, I hear a distant scuffling
sound. It echoes in my ears, magnified
unreasonably. I must be imagining things. Before
I can filter the thought through the throbbing in
my head, Aboah takes off again, elevating the
strain on my shoulder to an excruciating level. A
scream wells up but dies in my throat. A clicking
sound is all I can manage, and that does not last
long.

After a few more seconds of being dragged through
the maze of ducts, I am tugged around another
turn. This time, my shoes catch on a seam, and my
chest is pinned against the corner. Aboah is
obviously in a hurry, so he grabs both of my arms
and pulls for all he is worth. A sharp crack
announces the fracture of my ribs. The stabbing
sensation on the left side steals what is left of
my breath, and my stomach churns. I close my
eyes, trying to stay as calm as possible while
functioning with very little air. It seems that I
am floating now, and I cease to care what my
destination is. I am completely defenseless, so
it does not matter.

Just as I am beginning to rather enjoy the
gliding sensation, it stops. I am lifted into a
sitting position, slumped over inside the small
space, and left alone. I pry my eyes open,
preferring to face death directly, but Aboah has
gone. Perhaps he left his pituitary extraction
tool in his other pants. So, I have little to do
now except try to think about anything but
vomiting. The dreaded urge is building, and I
know I will choke if it happens. Must think about
something pleasant. Something Scully.

A warm trickle of drool runs down my chin. It is
a coincidence. Really. The cramped metal duct
reminds me of our last rental car. My entire left
side hurts, the intensity oscillating with each
shallow, desperate breath. My feet, already
useless, have started to go numb now. Perhaps
that is for the better. Maybe the loss of feeling
will spread in all its mercy.

This waiting game is infernal. My vulnerability
is complete, leaving my otherwise idle mind to
imagine and dread what will soon follow. A few
beads of sweat roll into my eyes, stinging and
obscuring my sight. I blink hard, unable to wipe
away the perspiration. It is now that I notice
the light coming from my right. I am close to an
opening, close to escape, and yet impossibly far
away.

Another shuffling sound catches my attention. It
is getting louder, approaching quickly from
behind. Shit. So this is the way it will end. I
am not ready. I clear my mind, focusing only on
Scully. I want my last thought to be of her.

Now, her image firmly ensconced in my head, I
open my eyes to face fate. My eyes are playing
tricks on me, but what great tricks. Scully is
here sporting her "no BS" expression. I love
that. She touches her fingers to my throat. She
is checking for my pulse. That is just creepy.
Then, we both hear the same scuffling noise echo
through the ventilation system, and her eyes grow
wide. For a moment, the shining gleam of her fear
grips me. I forget to breathe. She is here
because of me.

She disappears, and gunshots ring out, piercing
my head with sharp reports. What I wouldn't give
to be the one protecting HER right now. She
hurries back to me, relieving a totally
irrational thought that she would not return to
my side.

The next thing I know, she is crawling over me.
Apparently, not quite all of my body is
paralyzed. Thankfully, she doesn't notice,
digging her sharp little elbows into my legs. Oh,
but the pain is worth it. She kicks off the vent
cover and pulls me toward the opening. Surely
not. It is a long way to the floor. She cannot
support my weight. This is really going to...
Owwwwww! That's my Scully. Gentle touch.

I lie here salivating while she is busy doing all
of the dirty work, calling 911 and watching me
like a hawk. She is a very authoritative figure,
barking into the cell phone while gesturing with
her gun. This is a rare view. I seldom have the
occasion to physically look up to her. The moment
is ruined by the growing pressure on my chest. It
feels as if my lungs are in a vice. Each
inhalation is excruciating, and each exhalation
grows increasingly difficult.

My vision blurs, but a flicker of motion catches
my eye. At first, I cannot make out any details.
I almost wet my pants when two pink eyes and a
feral smile materialize in the shadows behind
Scully. Shit. An attempt to yell to her is
totally futile. I can't even point at him. His
lithe form creeps toward her, and I can do
nothing. I look at her, and the fear must show,
because she cocks her head slightly and frowns.
Her gaze is questioning as she prattles on to the
911 operator. Damn it, turn around!

This is my panic face, Scully. Right here. Please
do something. Anything. I try to guide her gaze
toward him, being as deliberate as possible with
my eyes. He crawls closer to her with each
glance. I swear he is dragging this out
deliberately, reveling in my fear and utter
helplessness.

Scully suddenly balks. I can see her putting two
and two together, but Aboah has already jumped.
My heart flutters as she turns and fires. His
body jerks in midair and lands unceremoniously
next to her. Thank God.

As Scully checks on him, something goes horribly
wrong. My lungs seize up, and blackness descends.
The odd floating sensation returns, only this
time, I can feel Scully's hands guiding me, her
arms supporting my body. The air seems to turn to
gel, and I feel the throb of each heartbeat
shoving blood against tender nerves. A rushing
sound envelops my head, broken only by Scully's
sweet voice. The pain and pleasure swirl
together, and I sink somewhere in between.

 
See headers in Part 1.

(Part 2/3)


+ + + + + + + + + +


Chapter Two

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

A small eternity passes while Mulder's condition
continues to deteriorate. I feel utterly
helpless and alone. Clutching him tightly
against me in a macabre embrace, I whisper into
his ear. Stay with me, Mulder. You're going to
be okay. Hang in there. Everything is going to
be fine. His breathing is becoming increasingly
labored, and the cyanosis is more pronounced. He
needs oxygen and God knows what else. And Aboah?
To be honest, I really don't care what he needs.
A quick death to spare the taxpayers an expensive
trial and lengthy incarceration sounds like a
good start, although admittedly I'm hardly an
unbiased party.

Finally, the paramedics arrive with their
precious, life-sustaining equipment.
Immediately, I bark orders for them to start
Mulder on five liters of oxygen via a non-
rebreather mask. Thankfully they're more
responsive than the 911 operator, and they comply
without question. I hastily explain that I'm a
medical doctor and an FBI agent, and they merely
nod. The taller, dark-haired man frowns as he
assesses my partner's status. A couple of ribs
are broken, and there are diminished breath
sounds on the left side, as well as bilateral
rales. Not only is a tension pneumothorax a
possibility, Mulder may be developing other
serious respiratory problems. As he continues
his exam, I give him the Reader's Digest
condensed version of the toxin Mulder has been
injected with, in lieu of a better term. He
echoes my confusion as to why a drug that usually
only paralyzes voluntary muscles should be
affecting Mulder's breathing, an involuntary
process. Shaking his head, he completes the
examination. In addition to the broken ribs,
Mulder also has a dislocated shoulder, sprained
ankle, probable concussion, and numerous cuts,
scrapes and contusions. Did I cause any of this
damage when I accidentally dropped him in the
courtyard? Mortified at the prospect, I close my
eyes and bury my face in my hands.

My self-pitying reverie is interrupted when a
uniformed officer politely calls my name.
Police? When did they get here? And how does he
know my name? Sensing my confusion, he explains
he has already spoken to the other paramedic who
has been attending to Aboah. Oh, yeah. The
suspect. My mind is somewhere else. Notepad in
hand, the officer is eager to obtain my
statement. I know I'm always admonishing Mulder
to play nice with the locals, but I'm not in the
mood to play the role of Dana K. Scully, Special
Agent at the moment. I simply need to be a
friend. With a forced smile, I ask if we could
defer this little procedure as a professional
courtesy, but he is determined. We step aside
for a few moments and I give him an abbreviated
account of events while the paramedics prepare
their patients for transport. I surreptitiously
steal a glance inside the ambulance, and I'm
alarmed at what I see. One of the paramedics is
ventilating Mulder with an Ambu bag while the
other is in contact with the hospital. I climb
into the ambulance's doorway and watch in stunned
silence. Mulder's oxygen saturation is
dangerously low, and he is developing tachycardia
consistent with respiratory distress. As I
numbly watch the dark-haired paramedic retrieve
the IV paraphernalia from the drug box, I bang my
fist against the door in frustration. This is
unbelievable. Can anything else possibly go
wrong?

The ambulance driver apologetically informs me I
need to step outside the vehicle so they can move
along. I automatically protest, citing my
qualifications as a physician, but he is
compassionately firm. With two paramedics
attending to two seriously injured patients in
the ambulance's cramped quarters, I would be in
the way. He offers to let me ride in the front
seat with him as a compromise, and I grudgingly
accept his invitation. My heart aches, being
separated from Mulder like this. I want to
actively participate in his care and comfort him.
My only small solace in this arrangement is that
he is mercifully unconscious and doesn't know
I've abandoned him to the care of strangers.

From my perception, the seven-minute trip to the
hospital is interminably long. I peek in the
back of the ambulance, and am marginally relieved
by the forced rise and fall of Mulder's chest.
Less than an hour ago, I was so irritated I
wanted to choke the living daylights out of him
with my bare hands. Now I just want him to be
okay. Oh, my God! Did I inadvertently tempt
fate? Is this some sick karmic justice for an
errant thought I entertained in a fleeting moment
of anger? I didn't mean it, really. I take it
back. Every single word.

The siren's incessant wailing ceases, and I
realize we've stopped at the hospital. By the
time I scramble out of the ambulance, the medical
staff is helping to unload the gurneys. Refusing
to be separated from Mulder again, I grasp the
railing while a bespectacled man in wrinkled
scrubs shouts out a succession of orders.
Suddenly the gurney is rolling, and I curse my
short stature as I struggle to keep pace with the
group. After four years of working with Mulder,
I should be used to moving my little legs in a
hurry.

We have barely passed through the doors of the
trauma room when the medical staff descends en
masse. On the count of three, Mulder is
transferred from the paramedic's gurney to the
hospital's examination table. They're very
gentle with him, although he isn't able to
appreciate their professionalism. Listening to
the rapid-fire exchanges, I learn the man in the
scrubs is the attending physician, Dr. Daniels.
During the course of their update, the paramedics
mention I'm Mulder's partner. Dr. Daniels
suggests I wait outside until Mulder has been
stabilized, but I let him know in no uncertain
terms I'm not leaving. I display my badge and
brazenly inform him it is FBI protocol to be in
attendance when an attempt had been made on a
federal agent's life. If he sees through my
exaggeration of the truth, he doesn't challenge
me on it. Resigned to my presence, he instructs
me to move to the foot of the gurney.

From my vantage point, I see only bits and pieces
of the organized chaos. Two nurses promptly cut
away the remnants of Mulder's coats and shirt.
The paramedics obviously needed to slit the right
sleeve to establish the IV. A tall, redheaded
medical student unbuckles his belt and
efficiently slides it though the loops of his
trousers. With practiced ease, she cuts away his
pants, exposing his lime green boxers. Lime
green, Mulder? And is that a wine stain near the
left thigh? I feel my cheeks flush from
embarrassment. I'm not sure I want to know the
story behind that puzzling stain. The young
woman strips the last vestiges of Mulder's
clothing and dignity and tosses the boxers onto
the floor with the rest of his discarded
garments. A thin hospital sheet is draped over
the lower half of his naked body.

Meanwhile, the ER physician is issuing orders for
blood work, a tox screen, ABG, urinalysis, x-rays
and an assortment of other tests. He tilts
Mulder's head back slightly and deftly passes a
laryngoscope past his vocal cords. I shudder
when the ET tube is passed into his trachea,
knowing how much Mulder hates to wake up
intubated. Not only is it physically
uncomfortable, it is a painful reminder he has
lost control over a part of his life. Once the
tube is secured and the ventilator is set for the
appropriate values, air is mechanically forced
into Mulder's lungs. A nurse bathes his left
side in Betadine in preparation for placement of
the chest tube. Normally a local anesthetic is
administered or the patient is sedated for the
procedure, but Mulder's unconscious state allows
the staff to dispense with these niceties. Dr.
Daniels makes an incision between the fourth and
fifth ribs and places a small clamp between them.
Then he introduces a finger into the wound to
separate the pleura and to confirm proper
placement of the tube. After one end of the tube
has been placed into the chest cavity and
stitched into place, the other is attached to a
water-filled canister. Suction is attached to
drain air from the pleural space without allowing
more to seep in. A resident swabs an area near
his left collarbone with povidone-iodine, and
then applies a sterile drape. He makes an
incision and inserts a central line into the
subclavian artery so fluids and medication can be
rapidly infused through the superior vena cava,
the large vein that feeds directly into the
heart's upper right chamber, or atria. Mulder
will require intravenous solutions for an
extended period, and traditional peripheral lines
tend to become blocked after relatively short
durations. Next on the agenda is an arterial
line. It's another uncomfortable procedure, but
fortunately Mulder is blissfully unaware of the
deep, stabbing pain in his wrist. As a final
indignity, a Foley catheter is inserted.
Honestly, Mulder. I didn't peek.

Unable to see the pulse-ox reading, I decide to
perform my own informal evaluation.
Surreptitiously, I lift the sheet and expose his
feet. His toes and nail beds are pinking up,
which tells me his oxygen level is improving. I
can't resist the urge to massage his feet,
telling myself the gesture is intended to help
promote circulation. Who am I kidding? I need
this physical contact with him, and at some
level, I believe he needs it too.

Dr. Daniels clears his throat and gently taps me
on the shoulder. No doubt he's wondering if this
is also official FBI protocol. Most of the
medical personnel have cleared out of the room.
A couple of nurses are checking monitors and
cleaning up the minor landfill of discarded
supplies. I approach the head of the gurney and
impulsively reach to brush away an imaginary
strand of hair. Mulder's face is damp, and I'm
confused. The staff didn't need to irrigate his
eyes. Are these tears? They can't be, can they?
That would mean he's conscious and aware. If he
is...oh, no. Please let me be wrong.

I blindly reach for Dr. Daniels. Seconds pass
before I'm able to articulate my fears. Is
Mulder conscious? Has he felt everything that
has been done to him? Every agonizing, invasive
procedure? The doctor is skeptical, but at my
insistence, he performs a few tests and repeats
his Glascow coma scale assessment. Mulder is not
able open his eyes, verbalize, or respond to
pain. Based on that criterion, Mulder is
technically considered comatose. But I can tell
something is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

I've heard stories about people being declared
dead, until a perceptive person noticed a few
precious teardrops streaming down the deceased's
face. I used to think those tales were only
urban legends, something Mulder would believe in.
Under normal circumstances, I'd place my faith in
scientific findings. But intuitively, I am
convinced Mulder is aware. I should have known
this sooner. If only I had forced the issue in
the ambulance, I might have seen a flicker of
awareness. I should never have retreated to the
foot of the gurney. Maybe I could have witnessed
something significant. I should have threatened
to have anyone who crossed my path investigated
by the IRS, DEA, FDA, DOL, DOJ, EPA, or any other
alphabetical government organization. Damn it!
How can he ever forgive me? How can I ever
forgive myself?

Another doctor enters the room, and Dr. Daniels
introduces him as the orthopedic surgeon. He has
been summoned to reset Mulder's dislocated
shoulder. I protectively move closer to my
partner in nervous anticipation. I adamantly
refuse to allow the orthopedist to perform the
reduction without benefit of anesthesia. I can't
fail Mulder again. Dr. Daniels smiles
indulgently and reminds me Mulder has been
subjected to an unknown toxin, and that his
respiratory system and vital signs are
significantly compromised. Since they're not
quite sure what they're dealing with at this
time, they feel it's best not to confuse the
issue by administering medication that could
wreak further havoc on his system. Grasping at
straws, I ask them to consider sedation or a
local anesthetic, but my efforts are in vain.
From a medical perspective, I know they are
right, and I reluctantly provide my consent. I
just hope Mulder can forgive me for my complicity
one more time. While the surgeon performs his
unpleasant task, I hold Mulder's right hand. I
silently scream and cry for both of us.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

What the heck is happening, Scully? I can't see!
It feels like she's actually sitting on my chest.
However, her arms are wrapped around me,
trembling slightly. I think she is confiding
whispers to me, borne on ruffles of warm breath,
but I only hear the hard edges of consonants
beyond the rush of blood in my ears.

I fight to breathe, barely holding onto
awareness. The panic rises a bit, but in spite
of this, I know I am safe in Scully's embrace.
She will take care of everything. All I have to
do is stick around in the meantime. My part of
the deal. Oh, God. Difficult enough. Each ragged
breath may be my last. Amazing how time can move
so slowly. Scully, I want to stay here with you.
I want to stay.

Please, help me.

My body tilts as she lays me down on the hard
floor. Unfamiliar voices, deep ones, interchange
with hers, and soon there are rough hands poking
every spot that hurts. A smooth ring of soft
plastic descends around my mouth and nose just as
my lungs are about to give out. Air is forced
into my lungs. My first instinct is to fight the
well-intentioned intrusion, but I cannot.
However, now that the air is actually moving I
feel a rattling inside. It is getting there, but
it is not doing much. I try to relax in an effort
to ease some of the pain, blocking out the
prodding of gloved fingers around the broken
ribs. The cold surface of something small and
smooth pressed against my chest brings me back to
full awareness.

The voices come gradually into focus now. A male,
probably a paramedic, is discussing something
with my partner about the toxin and listing my
various injuries. The particulars do not matter
to me; it hurts all over. I am rolled onto my
right side, and a flat board slides underneath
me. A couple of people converge on either hand,
strapping me down firmly. Not like I can exactly
make a run for it, or anything. Oh well.

They lift me up to another slightly springier
surface, a gurney, I think. More straps. Give me
a break here, guys. I try to open my eyes and
follow what is happening, but it is simply
impossible. The gurney rises with a click, and I
am well on my way to...somewhere. Scully's voice
fades behind me. She's talking to another person.
Come on, Scully. I need you here.

One bang and a big jolt later, the gurney is
shoved ever-so-gently into the back of an
ambulance. Ah, crap. That did not help matters at
all. I feel the ends of the broken ribs grating
against each other, and my head is ready to
explode. The forced air is not getting very far,
either. My chest feels swollen inside. No room.
My heart begins to flutter, obviously not beating
correctly. Shit, shit, shit. I know. Must try to
stay calm. Another loud bang accompanies the
squeak of another gurney's wheels. Oh, no.

Did something happen to her? What's going on?
Scully, say something. There is her voice, behind
me. Whew. But who...? Oh right. I forgot about
Aboah. What a shame. Scully is trying to talk
them into letting her ride. Good idea. Very good.
I cannot hear the verdict. Other people are
clambering into the ambulance. They shoot some
medical jargon back and forth, always referring
to me in third person. I hate that. Hello! I'm
not quite dead yet! I'm getting better!

No use. Someone opens my jacket and shirt,
palpating the ribs more. Freaking stop, already!
Now they are listening to my lungs again with the
World's Coldest Stethoscope. Just keep that air
coming, boys. The roughness of sandpaper scrapes
against my chest in a few places, and they attach
monitor pads. Not long to go, now. I only have to
keep fighting until they get my sorry ass to the
hospital and load me up on the good stuff.

I hear orders for a saline drip. Oh boy. A couple
of gloved fingers press against the inside of my
right elbow. A seemingly icy wad of cotton wipes
the area a few times. I know what's coming next.
The ambulance starts off just as a guy wraps a
rubber tourniquet tight around my upper arm, taps
the vein a couple of times and then... Whoa! Whose
idea was it to jab an industrial drain pipe in
there? All of that for some refrigerated saline?

He attempts to distract me with questions. Yes, I
know my name, the year, my badge number, every
statistic of the New York Yankees from 1871 to
the present, and the original radio broadcast of
War of the Worlds in its entirety, but my
inability to speak pisses me off. This is
Scully's dream come true. I couldn't voice a
single smart-ass sexual innuendo if my life
depended on it. Every bump in the road
intensifies the electrical complaints coming from
my ribs and shoulder. Even my right ankle is
getting in on the act. I try to remember how far
we are from the nearest hospital. I should have
the routes down by now, but my mind is still a
bit fuzzy.

I hear Scully's voice again, rising above the din
of the engine, the sirens, and the whoosh of the
ventilation bag. What did she do, kick the driver
out and commandeer the ambulance? Again, that's
my Scully.

The ride stretches on for quite a while, it
seems. One paramedic turns his attention to
Aboah, fussing over his gunshot wound. If only I
could guide my hands to wrap around his neck, I
would take care of that issue. What am I over
here, chopped liver? After reflecting on past
cases, I decide that perhaps the question is best
left alone.

The ambulance takes a couple of sharp turns,
rocking the gurney a bit. I really, really hope
we are almost there. Cannot take much more of
this. Blood rushes to my head as we come to a
sudden stop. The door latch clicks. Aaaargh. I
think the sirens are quite loud enough. My gurney
bumps its way out of the ambulance into a
cacophony of orders, numbers, and unintelligible
medical mutterings.

They keep me moving, which is good. I am having
some serious trouble with flashes of light
playing over the backs of my eyelids. Ooooh. My
stomach is not terribly happy, either. The smell
of alcohol and sickness mingle in the air, not
helping matters. Okay. I'm ready for some magic
drugs. Anytime, now. The gurney shudders as it
bangs through a pair of doors. The voices grow
louder, sterner, and more impatient.

The ridiculous straps are removed, and I am
lifted onto a fairly hard, flat table. It is very
cold in here. I strain to listen for Scully over
the shuffling of many feet and the squeaking of
equipment dollies. Someone pries open one of my
eyelids but subsequently blinds me with one of
those damned pocket pen lights. Although unable
to focus or direct my gaze, I think I see my
partner's red hair and her small hands
gesticulating wildly as she argues with someone
in scrubs. Go, Scully, go. The image is short-
lived, though, as the eye exam is over quickly.

I hear someone give orders to prep me for a chest
tube. Sounds pretty dire, but I am relieved.
Finally, they might actually give me some happy
juice. Hands immediately begin to tug at my
clothes, and I hear the scissoring of large
shears near my head. Someone takes care not to
disturb my shoulder as they remove my shredded
coat and dress shirt. I guess Scully will know
what to get me for my birthday. Next, I feel my
shoes being pulled off while another person tugs
at my belt. Oh brother. Is this really necessary?
I would roll my eyes if I could. The cold edge of
the shears slips under the waist of my slacks and
makes short work of them. Soon, they have me
stripped down to nothing but boxers.

Oh, crap! The wine stain! I bet she has a shit-
eating grin on her face right now, my addled
brain muses. It had been a long, long day, and I
was trying to relax. I had the bath water
running, steamy hot. Even put some bubbly stuff
in there. Well, I do not keep actual bubble bath
on hand, so I used a complimentary bottle of
shampoo from a hotel. Anyway, I deftly and
gradually shed my clothes right up to the edge of
the tub, leaving a nice trail of garments on
which to wipe my wet feet before hitting the
bedroom. Planned ahead, and everything. I was set
up with a glass of wine to sip on while soaking
my sore ass. It would have been fine if I had
not knocked it off of the side of the tub with my
big, stupid elbow. Right on my cleanest pair of
boxers. I will never drink and bathe again, cross
my legs and hope to exfoliate. Could this
possibly be more humiliating?

The shears return, pressing against my hip as
they cut away my boxers. This is stupid. I did
not hurt anything THERE. So, now I'm lying
sprawled on display for all to see in a freezing
cold Emergency Room. Um, don't judge, Scully.
Really, this is not doing me justice. Someone
drapes a paper-thin sheet over my exhibition, for
all the good it will do now.

I hear a man ordering lab work on pretty much
everything my body produces. A nice oxygen mask
would be good about now. My entire chest is
burning. Right on cue, a pair of hands tilts my
head back, holding it steady. A couple of gloved
fingers force their way into my mouth, sticking
to my dry tongue. My mouth is pried open. This is
seriously wrong. I should be drifting through la-
la land by now.

A piece of plastic is jammed into my mouth, but
it doesn't stop there. Scully! What are they
doing?! The tube scrapes its way down my throat.
Every nerve in my body screams, "Fight it!" I
can't breathe at all for a moment, gripped by
panic. A stabbing pain accompanies the tube as it
shoves past my vocal cords and down into my
trachea. It feels completely wrong, and the
foreign object makes the inside of my chest feel
crowded. Now, the only movement my body was
capable of is under the control of a machine. I
despise this, waiting for Scully to speak up and
tell them that I'm still in here. I'm here, damn
it! Surely, there must be some way she can tell.
The heart monitor beeps at a frightening rate,
but still she does not intervene. Scully owns my
heart; she ought to be able to feel it racing
now.

Someone secures the tube, covering my lips with
tape. I have woken up with one before, but never
had them insert it while I was still conscious.
Shit. The possibilities make my stomach flip. Not
now. I would choke for sure. The hands are back.
Lots of them. They are rolling my limp body onto
its right side. I feel like a piece of meat,
nothing more. An ache builds at the back of my
throat, and it has nothing to do with the
tracheal tube.

A cold liquid is being smeared all over my left
side, causing a grinding pain when the swab
passes over the fractures. I hear the male voice
ask for a scalpel. Ooooh, no you don't. Fuck, no.
Scully! Please, please, please make them stop!
You can't let them do this to me! The touch of
the man's hand on my chest scares me to death,
and I soon realize that he is bracing himself for
the incision. My heart beats once before...

Shit, shit, shit! Stop the fucking bastard,
Scully! Now that he's sliced me open, he pulls
the skin apart and sticks a piece of metal
inside, widening the incision. The agony is
unbearable, and I wish for the darkness that I so
foolishly rejected earlier. My inability to
scream only fuels my rage, gathering like the
clouds of a tempest. The gloved fingers return,
only this time, they reach INTO MY BODY. Fucking
shit.

The fingers tear their way to my lung. I try to
force myself to wake up, convinced that this is a
nightmare, but I cannot. I am still trapped here,
unable to move away from the intruder. My soul
cries out as he forces the wound wide open and
inserts a large, cold plastic fitting into the
gap. The torment continues as a needle pierces
the skin, slowly sewing its way around the tube.

Scully, where the hell are you? Why are you
letting them do this to me? I sink into anguish
at the thought that she is here, yet allowing
these people to butcher me. This fact hurts as
much as their invasive procedures. My only
directive is to resist, but my body refuses the
order. The many hands return, rolling me onto my
back. I hear a hissing sound, and the tube
creates a vacuum in my chest, partially inflating
my lungs. I feel mentally quicker and more lucid
with the additional ventilation. Crap. I was
hoping for sweet unconscious ignorance.

More of the liquid is swabbed on my chest, the
upper right side this time. Someone lays a smooth
paper sheet over the area, leaving the collarbone
exposed. Not again. This is not happening. Ooooh,
shit. Yes, it's happening. Steel slices through
the skin just under the bone. It does not stop
there, either. A needle digs in excruciatingly
slowly. I feel an odd pressure and yet another
tube being led into my shoulder. They start
stitching around this latest insult to my body. I
count each penetration. I reach five before I am
distracted by a much more intense stabbing pain
in my wrist. They have skewered it, digging
around for a nice, fat artery to leech. Craaaaap.
How difficult can it be? The pain shoots up and
down my arm as they hit a nerve. A fucking
artery, people, not a nerve! Finally, the needle
stops. Scully, please don't leave me to this slow
torture. I need you now. I need you always.

I cannot help but plead for her to deliver mercy,
even with the mortification from her inaction
fresh in my mind. God is obviously on vacation;
she is my only option. She clears her throat, the
light sound flitting from the direction of my
feet, very close by. So, she's had a front-row
seat this entire time and still did not
intercede. What did I do to deserve this? Did I
make one too many smart-ass comments? Did I pull
you into harm's way for the last time? Did I
ditch you too many times? Did I take your trust
for granted? If this is what your trust gains me,
you can have it back.

I hear a deep male voice order a Foley. The paper
drape is lifted from my chest while the longer
sheet is pushed down to my knees. Oh, you really
are getting the whole show, here, aren't you,
Scully? Fucking enjoy it while it lasts. She
clears her throat again just as a gloved hand
wraps around the intended target. The contact
startles me, even though I expected it. A frigid
piece of plastic touches the tip and winds its
way up my urethra. God, this is humiliating. I
want to be alone. I want to run and hide
somewhere. Anywhere but here.

As soon as the sheet is repositioned, the other
end is lifted. I seethe, anticipating yet another
sadistic procedure. A pause seems to make time
stand still as my mind races. Small hands gently
grasp my left foot, kneading and rubbing the sore
muscles and tendons, then move to the other foot.
Scully's familiar warmth is not impeded by
gloves. A few amazingly effective messages of
pleasure and calm reach my brain, blending with
the maelstrom of hurt. More than this, her simple
touch goes straight to my empty heart. The
conflict of betrayal and affection are too much
for me to process. I surrender to the
conglomeration and allow countless emotions to
come to the surface. Why not? At least in frailty
I can feel somewhat human. The flood is
overwhelming, and I feel the hot tracks of tears
slide down the sides of my face.

I sense that Scully is nearby. Her scent,
something I cannot describe but instinctively
recognize, tickles my nostrils. She brushes her
fingertips across my forehead. A tingling
sensation passes up and down my spine. In spite
of her trespasses, she is a part of me, with
powers no one else has.

After a moment, she mutters then calls for the
doctor. The last thing I want is that goon's
attention. She FINALLY asks him the question of
the day: Might the patient be conscious? Holy
shit, someone give the woman a prize. The doctor
mentions a reassessment and soon moves to hover
close to me, saying my name deliberately and
asking me to reply if I can. If only I could
laugh in his face. A random song quote comes to
mind: "You can't swallow what I'm thinking."
Satisfied that I will not respond, he asks me to
open my eyes. Nothing doing right now. He scares
the crap out of me with a loud clap next to my
ear. Okay. That was just obnoxious. He jabs the
sensitive skin near my eye with a tiny needle,
but the lids are not budging, for him or anyone.
The asshole asks me to move any limb. Yeah,
right. That's a good one. He pokes me a couple of
times in various places with the needle, but the
muscles are totally slack.

I hear him walk a short distance away and
continue his chat with Scully. They bicker back
and forth, becoming progressively quieter as they
argue. Perhaps they realize that I might be
listening in. I strain to hear the outcome, but
they are interrupted by a third party. He
introduces himself as an orthopedist, here to
repair my dislocated shoulder. Party time. Just
when I thought that tube insertion was the
pinnacle of undesirable medical procedures, they
come up with something new. This bunch is
definitely a step ahead of me. Surely, Scully
will put a stop to this.

She demands a sedative or pain-killer. The choirs
of Heaven sing. However, the doctor objects,
citing possible complications or interactions
with the toxin in my system. He also mentions
that my vital signs are not exactly all that and
a bag of chips. I don't care if they have to
start using a crash cart as my alarm clock, I
need some medication. I need a sign that someone
gives a flying leap about me.

The doctor asks Scully if she is willing to let
them proceed without anesthetic. My heart sinks
when she agrees. I note reluctance in her tone,
but it is of no avail. The orthopedist grasps my
left arm, bending and raising it in preparation
for the reduction. My shoulder grinds in protest,
but of course, I cannot inform him. I feel my
right hand pulled away, held between Scully's.
She squeezes it tightly, forcing more tears from
my eyes as the doctor begins his torturous work.


+ + + + + + + + + +

Chapter Three

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

Once again I have shamelessly used my FBI and
physician's credentials to secure access to
Mulder's medical records and unlimited ICU
visitation privileges. Translation: I'm firmly
ensconced at his side, reviewing the copious
notes and reports.

A pulmonary specialist named Dr. Wuensche is now
overseeing Mulder's care. He believes the
respiratory failure was caused by a combination
of a severe anaphylactic reaction to asbestos
fibers Mulder inhaled, an idiosyncratic response
to the cerebropathic glycoside and the
pneumothorax, which resulted from the broken
ribs. In a nutshell, it was a classic case of
Mulderluck. If anything can go wrong, it will.
Theoretically, Mulder should be showing signs of
improvement by this stage, but fluid continues to
accumulate in his lungs even though he is
receiving diuretics. He is not aggressively
fighting the ventilator, but his distress is
patently obvious to me. I've maintained too many
bedside vigils not to recognize the subtle clues:
the fine creases around his eyes and mouth, the
pallor of his complexion, the light sheen of
sweat on his face and the occasional hitch in his
breathing. I beg Dr. Wuensche to administer a
stronger sedative, but I'm not sure whether it is
for Mulder's comfort or mine. Every involuntary
flinch causes me to cringe in sympathy. Or is
that guilt?

A rational side of me recognizes Samuel Aboah as
the rightful culprit who put Mulder in this
hospital bed, yet my self-flagellating side
accuses me of committing this unpardonable
offense. If only I had given credence to
Mulder's theory earlier, we would have
apprehended Aboah earlier in a more controlled
environment, or I would have called for backup
before we entered the demolition site, or...I'm
not sure what. Hindsight isn't always crystal
clear. I feel there was something else I could
have or should have done. Partners are supposed
to watch each other's back. In this sacred duty,
I have failed miserably.

Aboah's endocrinologist has sought my
professional opinion, and I confess I have been
less than helpful. For that I am deeply ashamed.
Mulder would probably still consider this an open
case, and would be pursuing farfetched cures
outside the realm of traditional science.
Unfortunately for Aboah, I'm not that ambitious
or benevolent. I have contacted Skinner, and
made arrangements for Bureau resources to be made
available at his discretion. It's the least I
can do, so to speak. In the interim, the doctor
plans to treat his unusual patient with an
aggressive regimen of hormone replacement
therapy.

Marcus Duff appears to be in relatively stable
condition, all things considered. Unlike Mulder,
he did not suffer from any respiratory symptoms,
and barring any unforeseen complications, the
endocrinologist is optimistic he will make a full
recovery. I hope the same can be said about
Mulder.

I put the chart aside and observe my insensate
partner. There's something oddly hypnotic
watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
But he looks so pale and fragile. A myriad of
tubes invade his damaged body, and several pieces
of medical equipment emit a cacophony of
unsynchronized sounds as they monitor his vital
signs and force air into his lungs. His left arm
is immobilized and secured to his chest, and his
right ankle is wrapped in an ACE bandage and
propped on a small pillow. Multiple cuts and
contusions attest to Mulder's ordeal in the air
ducts at the demolition site. If only I had
found him sooner, maybe I could have prevented
some of this.

I keep thinking about how Mulder was probably
awake and coherent throughout so much of his
nightmarish experience. I can't imagine being
paralyzed and not being able to communicate.
When I was a medical student, I heard horror
stories about people who endured excruciating
pain during surgery and were helpless to cry out
for help. Sometimes anesthesiologists add a
muscle relaxant to paralyze voluntary muscles for
certain surgical procedures. However, in rare
cases, the sedating agents either wear off too
soon or do not render the patients completely
unconscious. Because they are temporarily
paralyzed, they are not able to alert anyone
about their harrowing plight.

Clearly I forgot these cautionary tales. As a
result, I caused Mulder unspeakable pain and
suffering. I have no right to ask for his
forgiveness.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

The scrape of wood on tile jars me from sleep. I
slowly re-orient myself and become disappointed
at the realization that I am still pinned inside
an inert body. A light sigh flows over the
flutter of paper, and Scully's sweet breath
caresses my face. I have to wonder if she is
doing this on purpose, tantalizing me with a
promise that dissolves in the ether. I can feel
the warmth of her skin very close to my hand, yet
I cannot reach for her. It is reflexive for me
to seek her out, but I cannot ignore the part of
me that is abhorred by her negligence, by what
she allowed to happen.

With every breath, I am reminded of her
transgressions and the viciously afflictive
ministrations of the medical staff. The
ventilator pumps air into me and sucks it back
out again at an unnatural pace. Every time it
fills my lungs, it puts pressure on the chest
tube, aggravating that tender wound. My body has
become some sort of macabre experiment for them,
bypassing the person inside. I am a mere display,
like a fly trapped in amber. I have lost every
means of physical control and now lie here with
only my partner's intentions to ponder. What are
you thinking, Scully?

Would she really do this on purpose, betray my
trust intentionally, just to prove a point? She
did eventually inform the staff that I was
conscious, but something is still wrong. She is
withholding her touch and her words, the small
comforts I so crave. I must have pissed her off
somehow, and my mind seizes that idea, searching
for a reason. The notion bounces around
relentlessly in my head, twisting and turning
like a Rubik's cube. Perhaps it is because I
failed her, because I've turned her into someone
who takes lives rather than saves them. Perhaps
she has sacrificed more than I realize, and now
she's making up for it.

I mull over the issue for what seems like hours.
It consumes me, draining what little energy I
have, just as all of the infernal tubes slowly
drain my life away. I am on an endless schedule
of unseen hands poking and prodding until they
are satisfied that my heart is still beating and
that I'm not about to go anywhere. Time is of
little consequence. It is a hollow invention with
no significance in this place. My mind finally
tires of chasing its own tail, and I drift again
into some restless semblance of sleep.


+ + + + + + + + + +

Chapter Four

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

These days my world revolves around cubicle
number 4 in the ICU, Mulder's latest home away
from home. The accommodations are cramped, the
temperature is near sub-Artic and the coffee
should be condemned by the CDC. It's eerily
reminiscent of some cheap motels I've stayed in
since I've been assigned to the X-Files. I truly
don't believe Mulder deliberately books us in
dumps simply to annoy me. I guess a basic flaw
in the y-chromosome programs men to be less picky
about their surroundings. If a room comes
equipped with a working toilet, a bed rejected by
the Marquis de Sade as being too comfortable and
a television set that will pick up a couple of
ballgames, Mulder is a happy camper.

Sipping hideously strong coffee at Mulder's
bedside, I'm startled into alertness when he
turns his head toward me and slowly moves his
hand. I run my fingers through his sweat-
drenched hair and softly speak his name. I'm
paradoxically relieved and scared about this
development. I'm glad he is coming around, but
I'm afraid Mulder will blame me for his torment
when he wakes up. He lethargically opens his
eyes and blankly scans his surroundings. For a
fleeting moment he stares at me with an
unreadable expression, then suddenly all hell
breaks loose. Mulder shoves me away and makes a
frenetic attempt to extubate himself, while the
high shrill of the vent alarm summons the medical
personnel. He is extremely disoriented and
frightened, and violently thrashes against the
hard, unyielding bed railing. Dr. Wuensche is
paged, and every available staff member in the
unit flocks to the cubicle to provide assistance.
Several nurses try to restrain his arms and legs,
but he fights with the fury of a demon. His
fevered skin is slippery with sweat, and it's
difficult for the nurses to pin him down. Each
side in this battle is fiercely determined to
accomplish its mission, and despite Mulder's
weakened state, he puts up an impressive fight.

After several exhausting minutes, his energy
begins to fade. A nurse wearing brightly colored
scrunchies in her dark, thick hair attracts his
attention, and he fixates on her while she speaks
in a soothing cadence. Esperanza's soft melodic
voice is mesmerizing, and Mulder's struggles
gradually diminish. I have mixed feelings about
her results. I'm glad he's quieting down, but
I'm a little jealous I wasn't able to elicit the
same response. Usually I'm the person he looks
to for encouragement and solace. Is this his way
of expressing his anger at me?

One of nurses returns with the much-needed
sedative, and injects the medication into the IV
port. With Mulder's attention temporarily
centered on Esperanza, someone fastens a Velcro
restraint around his right wrist and secures it
to the bed. The action enrages him, and he
wildly kicks out at anyone within his reach. The
staff is impeded by their desire not to further
injure his right ankle, but Mulder has no such
concerns. After several frustrating,
unsuccessful attempts, the staff manages to
restrain his legs. I'm not sure whether he has
succumbed to exhaustion or the drugs, but he
finally stops fighting. Mulder's unfocused stare
settles on my face again, and he quickly turns
away. Is he confused as the result of a febrile
delirium or residual effect of the toxin?
Doesn't he recognize me? Or is that the problem?
Is he remembering? Is he holding me responsible
for his predicament? What are you thinking,
Mulder?

Dr. Wuensche quietly enters the partitioned
cubicle and assesses Mulder's current situation.
He shakes his head slightly as he listens to
Mulder's chest. Obviously he is not pleased with
his findings. Putting his stethoscope back into
an overstuffed lab coat pocket, Dr. Wuensche
reaches for the voluminous hospital chart. After
reviewing Mulder's latest lab results, he
scribbles new orders before giving the binder to
Esperanza. I listen intently while he goes over
the instructions with her. A portable x-ray
machine will be brought in to take pictures of
Mulder's chest, blood and urine samples will be
obtained and sputum cultures will be collected.
At least the arterial line will spare him a
painful stab in the wrist for the ABG. That's one
small blessing.

As she makes the necessary arrangements, Dr.
Wuensche motions for me to join him in the tiny
consultation room. I numbly sit down in the
proffered chair and wait for the bad news. The
doctor reveals Mulder has developed bilateral
pneumonia, and he names some potential sources of
the infection. It could have been triggered by
contaminants from the asbestos fibers he inhaled,
or though any of the numerous tubes invading his
body. He changes Mulder's medication to a
broader spectrum antibiotic until the lab has
identified the causative organism.

This setback poses a difficult dilemma. We had
hoped Mulder would be off the respirator by the
time the effects of the cortical depressant had
dissipated. Now due to the onset of pneumonia,
his battered lungs will be dependent upon the
machine awhile longer. Since he is regaining
motor function and fighting the vent, a decision
has to be made. In addition to the sedative, Dr.
Wuensche is inclined to administer Pavulon in
order to allow Mulder's body to recover faster.
Pavulon is a muscle relaxant commonly used in
these situations. The drug-induced paralysis
prevents the patient from exerting unnecessary
energy, thus reducing metabolic needs and
elevating the oxygen level in the blood. His
medical judgment is sound, but I'm loath to
subject Mulder to any more traumatic episodes
like the one in the emergency room.

This decision requires Solomonic wisdom. It's as
though I've been asked to authorize the doctor to
amputate Mulder's right foot or his left one.
Neither option is desirable. Do I agree to the
paralyzing drug and possibly prolong Mulder's
mental anguish, or do I refuse and compromise his
physical recovery? What if the sedative doesn't
send Mulder into oblivion? What if he's trapped
in a living hell? I recall the haunted
expression in Mulder's eyes at the demolition
site, and make my decision. Refusing to inflict
that agony on him again, I respectfully decline
the Pavulon.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

I am sitting on the edge of a crystal blue lake
mirroring an azure sky and surrounded by
mountains. The water looks inviting. Its allure
piques my curiosity, so I reach out with my hand.
However, instead of the wet surface I expect, I
meet impenetrable glass. It flows and undulates,
mimicking water in every way, but I cannot get
through. Suddenly, out of the depths, I see
Scully's pale form ascend. Her eyes are open
wide, and she is frantically clawing at the other
side. Her mouth forms the words "help me". She is
drowning.

I throw myself on the surface and pound on it
with all of my strength. We are separated by a
mere thin sheet of translucence, but our efforts
are futile. I grow frustrated and weary, but I
push myself. I cannot take my eyes off of her. I
cannot give up. Finally, my strength gives out,
and I collapse flat upon the glass. Scully looks
up at me. I see her hand reach toward mine, and
it goes through the glass as if it was never
there. Her freezing cold hand grips my wrist and
begins to pull.

I try to resist, but now there is no surface to
push against. I am submerged, holding my breath,
dreading the inevitable influx of water. I jerk
and twist, shoving against her with my other
hand, but she will not release me. I thrash about
in anger and shock until she stops and turns to
me. Her mouth moves, and inside my head, I hear
her say "let go".

I suddenly find myself lying prone on a rocky
surface. When I open my mouth to breathe, water
gushes out. It continues at an unbelievable rate,
as if my lungs hold an endless supply. A pain
begins to grow deep in my chest, working its way
up my throat. I try to call out for Scully, but I
am choking, struggling, and the words die before
they reach her...

I awaken with a start, the dream still firmly
intact in my mind. I am unsure where it ends and
where reality begins. My throat still hurts,
compromised by the endotracheal tube, and I know
I was in the midst of attempting to yell to
Scully when I woke up. My heart pounds furiously,
and I feel the heat of adrenaline coursing
through my blood. I cannot stand the ET tube
dictating my every breath, reaching deep into my
body to steal my soul. I try to move away from
it, rolling my head to one side. Unsuccessful, I
attempt to pull it out, but my hand only
twitches. Twitches?

I realize that the paralyzing toxin must be
wearing off. My relief is short-lived, though, as
I feel someone brush their fingers through my
hair. Scully must have seen me move. I flash back
to the dream in abject fear. She tried to kill
me. I need to get out of here, now.

My eyes peel open with some difficulty; the lids
are a little crusty and stick together for a
moment. Everything is blurry at first, spinning
uncontrollably. It takes me a while to adjust to
the light. My hands and feet are freezing cold,
but my head and body feel hot. Sweat stands in
beads on my forehead. I feel terrible, but I must
find a way out of here. I search the right side
of the room. It is unfamiliar, with several
monitors on stands at the head of my bed, a
partly drawn privacy curtain, and the foot of an
empty bed. To the left, I see my objective: the
door. A motion catches my attention, and Scully's
face swims into focus. She reaches for me.
Unexplainable terror builds. I only know that I
have to get away from her before she drowns me.

First, I have to get this damned tube out of my
throat. Fear feeds my stiff muscles, and I lift
my right arm, grabbing and yanking on the tube.
The tape around my mouth hampers the effort, and
I quickly grow angry with the situation. An alarm
sounds. Scully tries to hold my arm still, and I
shove her away in panic. She stares at me with
disbelief, as if I am the basest creature she's
ever laid eyes on. I simply want out of here. I
want privacy, and she will not leave me alone.

More people come streaming through the door. Oh,
God. What are they going to do to me, now? I am
cornered, so I lash out with everything I have.
They can't take me. They'll hurt me again.

They all reach for me, trying to pin me down. The
hands are suffocating, each touch an intrusion.
My heart jumps wildly in my chest. The bed shakes
as I thrash against the railing, trying
desperately to knock them loose. Their hands
slip off of my arms and legs, and my foot
connects with soft skin, eliciting a grunt. I
look up, meeting Scully's gaze as she presses the
immobilized left side of my body against the bed.
Her eyes claim me. She is deeply hurt. Shit,
Scully, what am I supposed to do? Let them slice
me open again? I am still unsure of her
intentions. The images of the nightmare haunt me,
but pangs of sadness grip me upon seeing her
expression. She looks as vulnerable as I feel.

I do not have time to contemplate any further, as
the medical staff continues to struggle with me.
My strength ebbs as I look from one strange face
to the other, all set with grim, imposing
expressions. One nurse is different, though. She
is not angry at me. Her soft features convey
concern. She moves up to help hold my right arm.
I catch a flash of color in her black hair.
Bright, solid colors. Their simplicity draws my
attention, allowing my mind to forget about
everything else as she talks quietly to me. She
promises that she will not hurt me. She will not
let anyone hurt me. My energy to resist is gone.

The nurse maintains eye contact, as I know she is
trained to do. She smiles at me, but her eyes
quickly flicker sideways. I follow suit, but it
is a moment too late. A nurse holding a syringe
with a large needle leans over, pushing a clear
liquid into the port of my central line.
Simultaneously, I feel a wide Velcro strap being
wrapped around my right wrist. I am infuriated,
betrayed yet again, and immediately kick out with
my legs. A strange cold snakes into my shoulder
through the port, but I ignore it. I writhe with
all of the leverage I can manage, trying to twist
my legs free of the hands. All of the staff now
moves to the foot of the bed and bodily press my
legs into the mattress. Their combined weight is
far too much for me to move. This is not fucking
fair. No matter what I do, I am too weak to
prevail. They securely strap my ankles to the
sides of the bed. It is over.

I am tired, body and soul, so I give up. Let them
do with me as they will. I can see that this
ordeal has affected Scully just as deeply. She
tries to look strong, but she cannot hide her
disappointment, her shock. What have I done? She
moves away before I can get her attention, making
room for a doctor.

He looks at me with a bit of hesitation. I can
sense that he is afraid of me. I lower my eyes as
a sign of surrender. I cannot physically resist,
anyway. Besides the restraints, I am sinking into
a drug-induced stupor. The doctor presses the
disc of his stethoscope against my bare chest.
Everyone holds very still so he can hear my lungs
clearly. He does not seem pleased. He and Scully
leave the room quietly. The dark-haired nurse
notices that I had kicked the sheet off of my
legs during the struggle. She thoughtfully
replaces it, but I do not look at her. I am
gazing at the still-closing door that stands
between me and my partner while I fade to gray. I
spiral into oblivion before the door clicks shut.
 
See headers in Part 1.

(Part 3/3)

+ + + + + + + + + +

Chapter Five

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

I've spent most of the afternoon listlessly
glancing at ancient magazines from the ICU
waiting room. The majority of the garish covers
juxtapose ridiculously incongruous titles like
"Lose 30 pounds in 30 days!" and "100 Decadent
Chocolate Desserts!" That's so unrealistic. A
person can't have it both ways. In the real
world, we often have to make difficult choices
and accept the consequences of our actions. To
quote sage contemporary musical philosophy, "You
can't always get what you want."

This certainly isn't what I wanted for Mulder.
Because I chose to withhold the muscle relaxant,
restraints prevent him from accidentally injuring
himself or trying to remove the endotracheal tube
again. His immobilized arm, bandaged ankle,
chest tube, central and arterial lines,
monitoring wires, butterfly bandages, bruises,
cuts and scrapes exacerbate the grotesque sight.
Have I really done him a favor? Did I withhold a
crucial medication purely to assuage my guilty
conscience?

Mulder's normally lean body is wasting away. I
can count every one of his ribs, and his face is
wan and gaunt. As he fights off the infection,
Mulder is rapidly depleting his limited reserves.
In order to provide additional nutrients and to
keep his digestive tract functioning during his
ordeal, a gastroenterologist put in a temporary
g-tube this afternoon. Great. One more tube for
his ever-growing collection.

His fever has been steadily climbing over the
past several hours. He shivers uncontrollably,
and his teeth chatter against the endotracheal
tube in an eerie staccato. Joshua, the
respiratory therapist, reports that the pulmonary
secretions are becoming thicker and more
difficult to suction. A change to an organism-
specific antibiotic has not yet provided tangible
relief. Dr. Wuensche has been paged, and I'm
trying to prepare myself for the inevitable
administration of the paralyzing medication.

I lean over Mulder's bed and clear my throat. I
don't know how much he understands, but I explain
what is about to happen and beg for his
forgiveness. The palms of his hands are turned
slightly upward as if in supplication. Is the
pose a coincidence, or is he begging me not to do
this? My voice wavers, and my eyes sting with
unshed tears. No longer able to speak, I lean
forward and kiss his perfectly sculpted hands.
The emotions of the past few days give way, and I
finally break down and cry in front of Mulder.
Unbidden tears spill from my face onto his
feverish skin. Reluctant to relinquish physical
contact, I ignore the box of Kleenex beside the
bed and dry his hands with my hair.

I'm startled into alertness by Dr. Wuensche's
quiet baritone voice. I struggle to regain my
composure while he performs a quick assessment of
Mulder's condition. I already know the outcome.
His exhausted body does not have the energy to
fight off this infection without help. Before
the doctor finishes delivering his rehearsed
speech, I nod in agreement and defeat. He knows
how much I have struggled with this decision, and
assures me Mulder will not suffer. I want to
trust him. Reviewing the chart one more time,
Dr. Wuensche decides to use a stronger sedative.
I breathe a cautious sigh of relief.

A few minutes later Esperanza returns with a
couple of syringes. I gently squeeze Mulder's
hand one more time and kiss his forehead in a
peculiar benediction. How strange. I have just
betrayed my best friend with a kiss. Should I
expect thirty pieces of silver in return?

As the nurse swabs the IV port with alcohol,
Mulder's eyes flutter open and my resolve
weakens. He stares at me as if to say, "Et tu,
Scully?" While the plunger of the syringe pushes
medications into his veins, a knife is plunged
into my heart. I have sent us both to Hell.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

I awaken from a dreamless sleep, pulled from the
blackness by Scully's voice. There is a soft
rustling of pages and a rhythmic tapping sound.
My muscles, in contrast with the stillness of a
day ago, are now quivering uncontrollably,
tugging against the restraints. I want to jump
out of my skin. It's obvious that I have a high
fever, and I begin to wonder exactly how much
more my body can take. Or the rest of me, for
that matter.

I am ashamed at what I've become since the
attack. I've allowed Aboah to victimize me both
physically and psychologically, and I allowed him
to drive a wedge between me and Scully. She is my
partner in more than one sense; I am incomplete
without her. I wonder what she must think of me.

In spite of my anger, childish frustration, and
attempts to thwart the medical staff, she has
been next to me the entire time. She is giving up
work, personal time, and God knows what else to
sit there and watch over me. She does all of the
little things that no one else thinks of: she
wipes the sweat from my forehead and saliva from
the corners of my mouth, she makes sure my
various tubes are not twisted, snagged, or
pulling against my skin, she covers me up,
restoring my privacy when the nurses are in too
much of a rush to notice. It hits me that she has
been doing so all along, when she could. She has
always remembered that I am a person, not merely
a hollow shell to keep alive.

Still, I am puzzled by her lack of, well,
affection. Usually, when I am confined to a
hospital bed, she touches my hand, my face, or
whatever is not wrapped in bandages at the time.
I've grown so accustomed to our intrinsic form of
communication that the absence of her reassuring
contact disturbs me greatly. I wonder if she is
mad at me. I know she saw the blame and outrage I
directed at her earlier. If this is so, I will
spend eternity kicking myself for using my one
moment of physical control to insult and hurt
her.

In the midst of my rumination, Scully speaks my
name. It is followed by a wavering hesitation, an
obvious pause to collect composure. She speaks
softly, informing me that the doctor wants to
give me a paralyzing drug in order for my body to
get more rest to fight an infection. The constant
shivering is deleterious to the effort, she
explains. Her voice cracks a bit when she says
that she was forced to approve of the plan, in
the end. She does not want me to relive the
effects of the toxin again, but she sees no other
choice. Scully apologizes profusely, because she
says that she knows I must be frightened.

You are so right, Scully. I don't want to face it
again. It scared the shit out of me the first
time. She interrupts my thoughts by saying that
she will stay with me and make sure that I am not
hurt again. She says that she just doesn't know
what else to do. I hear a shuddering breath, and
my heart skips a beat when I realize that she's
trying to repress intense sorrow. In a very small
voice, she says that she's sorry for the pain she
inflicted and begs me to forgive her. It finally
hits me. The reason for her distant manner was
not anger. She was afraid to face me, afraid that
she had violated my trust beyond redemption.
Blaming herself. I truly want to forgive her,
absolve her completely, but first, I must deal
with my own guilt for causing her such
consternation.

Suddenly, I feel the puff of her breath against
the palm of my hand, followed by the moist,
gentle caress of her lips. Her breathing hitches.
The room is as still as a tomb for a moment, and
I wonder if she will ever be able to be this open
with me again. It is a rare gift indeed, even
bittersweet. In the midst of the silence, a cool
droplet falls upon my hand, clinging to the heel
for a moment before sliding down to the center of
my palm. It is soon followed by another and
another, one on my arm, one on my side. She
sniffs once, a soft and tiny sound, before
bathing my hand in her own misgivings.

Oh, God, no. She is sobbing, and I can't even
hold her. Her crying always rips me in two, no
matter the cause, and I need nothing more than to
comfort her, be her support and pull her close.
My soul is but a collection of her tears, each
one a reverent reminder of how valuable each
moment with her is.

I feel her fine hair press against my palm,
soaking up the saline, but it has already made
its way inside me. A male voice brings an end to
the sacred commune. He is a doctor, here to check
on my progress or lack thereof. He listens to my
lungs, checks my temperature with a digital
thermometer, and rustles the pages of what I
presume is probably my chart. He tells Scully
that I cannot afford to go without the paralyzing
agent any longer. There is a pause before he also
mentions prescribing a stronger sedative. I am
looking forward to the shelter it will afford,
but I'm also glad that I was able to share this
time with Scully.

I hear her sigh with relief as she grasps my
hand. She toys with my pliant fingers for a
moment, bending and moving them about, entwining
mine in hers, before wrapping them into a fist.
She holds them in this position, her sign that
she wants me to fight. I hear another person
enter the room. Scully's familiar lips alight on
my forehead in a brief kiss. It is not a goodbye,
but an "I'll be here". That is all I need.

Her confidence imparts a measure of strength, and
I am able to open my eyes. I see the nurse
preparing to inject the paralyzer and sedative
into my IV. I am unsure of what to expect, but I
gaze at Scully while I still can. She looks
incredibly beautiful but sad. The sight rends my
heart, but I latch onto the image as a reminder
of what I'm fighting for. Who I'm fighting for.
Shortly afterwards, the cool tingling of the new
drugs spreads throughout my body. Instead of the
usual sensation of being pulled into an abyss, I
feel wrapped in a blanket, warm and secure, and
Scully's poignantly exquisite face lingers until
sleep befalls me.


+ + + + + + + + + +

Chapter Six

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

I can't remember the last time I took a long, hot
shower or slept in a comfortable bed. I refuse
to allow myself any petty indulgences. To atone
for my sins, I must renounce all earthly
pleasures. If Mulder suffers, I must suffer.

I hope he's really unconscious this time. The
monitoring equipment would seem to confirm that
theory, but I have lingering doubts. After the
drugs were injected, I removed the restraints
from his arms and legs. Since he's paralyzed
now, I realize it's an empty gesture, but it's
something I needed to do.

My thoughts are extremely disjointed. Stress and
sleep deprivation are taking their toll. For
some bizarre reason I've been thinking of a book
I read in high school. Strange, huh? It was
called "The Scarlet Letter." The story was set
in Puritan New England, and was about a young
woman who bore a child out of wedlock. As
punishment for her sin, she was sentenced to wear
a scarlet "A" on the bodice of her clothing as a
public symbol of her shame. Sitting at Mulder's
side, I wonder what letter I would be forced to
wear for my role in his story. "B" for betrayal?

One of the nurses applied some ointment to his
eyes earlier. Grace explained it's to protect
his corneas while he's paralyzed. To be honest,
I'm glad he can't open his eyes right now. I
can't see his tortured expression or condemning
glare. Selfish, I know.

Electrodes are attached to Mulder's wrist to help
determine the effectiveness of the paralyzing
agent on his muscle tone. An electrical impulse
is delivered to his ulnar nerve, and the response
is evaluated. They're trying to achieve a
delicate balance. If the neuromuscular blockage
is insufficient, Mulder will instinctively fight
the vent and deplete critically needed energy
reserves. On the other hand, if the muscles are
completely relaxed for a prolonged period, he may
have difficulty regaining muscle tone and
function later. Later. I pray there *is* a
later for Mulder.

Mulder's fever is dangerously high, and shows no
signs of abating. Standard antipyretic measures
such as Tylenol, tepid sponge baths, a cooling
blanket and ice packs applied to his groin and
armpits have failed to reduce his temperature.
During one neuro check after Mulder's vital signs
went haywire, his pupils were dilated and
nonreactive. Dr. Wuensche hooked Mulder up to an
EEG for continuous monitoring because he
suspected the Pavulon would mask symptoms of
seizure activity. Unfortunately, his assumptions
have proved correct. Because of the drugs
coursing through Mulder's body, his seizures do
not present in the usual manner. Instead of
violent convulsions, the only outward signs of
his distress are anomalous brain activity
readings and a few subtle twitches of his hand.
Oh, Mulder. I sincerely pray you're not aware of
any of this. I can't imagine how trapped and
violated you would feel.

Over the past five hours, Mulder has suffered
seven seizures of substantial duration. The
neurologist has prescribed hefty doses of
Dilantin, an anticonvulsant. He is also
concerned about the poor pupillary reflexes and
other neurological findings. Mannitol is
administered to reduce the developing cerebral
edema. To combat the underlying organism, an
infectious-disease specialist adds additional
medications to his antibiotic cocktail. Unless a
miracle occurs, Mulder has a grim prognosis.

I'm overwhelmed by exhaustion, worry and grief.
His steady deterioration is painful to witness,
and part of me desperately wants to escape from
this desolate scene.

Joshua greets me almost apologetically. It's
time to suction the secretions from Mulder's
lungs again. He dons a pair of latex gloves and
opens a package of plastic tubing.

All of a sudden, I can't seem to breathe. My
chest feels tight and my pulse races. The room
is closing in on me. I have to escape. Now.

A lump forms in my throat and my eyes fill with
tears as I flee toward the door. I'm so sorry,
Mulder. Please forgive me.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

I am detached, blissfully so, drifting between
moments of awareness. Sometimes, I awaken in the
middle of a chest x-ray or a procedure to clear
my lungs of buildup. Other times, though, I
awaken to Scully's voice as she whispers her
concerns to me. She obviously doesn't know that I
can hear her. Right now, she is expounding on how
responsible she feels for putting me through this
ordeal. She does not realize that I am equally to
blame, if not more so. I am the cause of her
guilt, a fact that is difficult to face.

My limbs are no longer tied down by restraints,
so she pulls my right hand above the bed rail,
pressing the back of it against her soft cheek.
She caresses my arm with words of love and
regret. I am simultaneously fascinated and
embarrassed at hearing her confessions. I do not
know how I earn this attention and devotion from
such a remarkable person. In making me whole, she
leaves me at a complete loss.

Scully turns her head, brushing her lips against
my skin and moving my hand away from her face.
She does not lay it on the bed, however. She
holds it against her chest with both of her own
hands, lowering her chin to rest upon my
knuckles. I can feel each heartbeat through the
fabric of her shirt, each gentle rise and fall of
her chest. I am stunned by her gesture of
compassion. If I mean so much to her, I must find
a way to dispel her worries. I must forgive
myself first, if only because it is what she
asks. I know that she does not want me to suffer.

I am absorbing this moment, recording every
touch, every smell, every sound for divine
reference. As my senses reach a plateau, however,
I can tell that something is wrong. I see an odd
sort of pulsating glow through the backs of my
eyelids. It burns brighter and brighter until the
illumination manifests in shooting streaks, like
some exaggerated meteorite shower. The light show
is accompanied by a faint smell of ammonia. A
familiar nausea and dizziness follows, harbingers
of a worse affliction. I deny the fact for a
moment, thinking that maybe this time, it will
pass by, but I know it won't. Uneasiness builds,
and I am already dreading the coming seizure. I
have had several already today, still burning hot
and disoriented from fever, and lost count of the
episodes. Scully squeezes my hand, and I know I
have reason to face the coming throes without
fear, because when they are over, she will still
be there, beside me.

My physical being slips away from me, and I waver
between total confusion and agitation. In spite
of the paralyzing drugs, tremors travel down my
arms and legs. My eyes roll painfully back, and
my jaws clench around the ET tube, bending it
into an oval. I have difficulty even conceiving
what is happening to me. I feel like a foreigner
in my own body. An alien.

Scully must have noticed the faint spasms,
because she grips my hand tighter, murmuring a
rhythmic stream of comforting words. I try to
focus on her voice as I ride out the seizure.
Finally, the attack stops, leaving me
disoriented, slow. I'm not sure what to do next,
if anything. I can't remember where I am for a
short time, only that Scully is here with me. She
lavishes comforting words upon my ears and
soothing, cool dabs of a damp cloth on my fiery
skin. I allow her calmness to overtake me.

I know this is taking its toll on Scully. She
sounds exhausted and worried. We wait together,
both unable to do anything constructive right
now. After what seems like several minutes, I
hear the door open. The shuffling entity
approaches. It is the respiratory therapist. He
tells Scully that he needs her to move to the
other side of the bed so he can suction my lungs.
I hear her not only get out of his way, but she
leaves the room without a word. I am puzzled.
Confounded, really.

The man informs me that he will be inserting a
small suction tube inside the artificial airway.
I will feel the pull of the negative pressure as
it clears the sputum from my lungs, he tells me.
He says not to worry. It will not hurt. Just let
it happen. The medical staff all do this now,
explain what they are doing. Scully insists on
it. I mentally prepare myself for the unusual
feel of the extra vacuum in my lungs, but my
thoughts are really with my partner. I hope she
is okay.


+ + + + + + + + + +

Chapter Seven

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

Once again, I have retreated to the relative
sanctuary of the hospital cafeteria. The serving
line is closed, so I am forced to resort to the
bio-hazardous waste material they call coffee
from the vending machine. No matter. My senses
are completely blunted, so I am fortuitously
spared the deleterious effects of the caffeinated
swill. Then again, I don't deserve any small
mercies.

I can almost hear Mulder's voice telling me I'm
not to blame for his misfortunes, but I still
feel responsible. Ironic, isn't it? I'm usually
the one who seeks scientific proof to establish
guilt or innocence, and yet I refuse to apply
those same standards to my case. I will offer no
defense for my monstrous crimes. I shall serve
as judge, jury and executioner and mete out the
most severe punishment possible for my role in
Mulder's sufferings.

And what about Aboah? How should he be punished?

Mulder would presumably argue that Aboah has
already been subjected to a death sentence, but
I'm not that forgiving. I'm furious for what he
has done to my partner. In my bloodthirsty lust
for retribution, I want to exact the most
horrible demise possible. I want to resurrect
the penalty for traitors from days of yore.
Aboah should be grievously racked, publicly
flogged, drawn on hurdles, hanged, castrated,
disemboweled, beheaded and quartered, in no
particular order. For good measure, his
mutilated flesh should be boiled in oil or
dissolved in acid. Once his evil spirit departs
its mortal coil, I hope Aboah's miserable soul
burns in the fiery lakes of Hell raining with
fire and brimstone. Amen.

Suddenly a more earthly tribulation demands my
attention. During my judicial musings I have
crumpled the paper cup in my hand, splashing cold
coffee onto my sleeve and the cream-colored
tabletop. I promptly grab a handful of napkins
and mop up the toxic spill before the liquid
drips onto the floor. My stained shirtsleeve
will require more effort. Discarding my cleaning
supplies into an overflowing wastebasket, I
search for the nearest ladies' room.

As I wander the nearly deserted halls, a small
nondescript sign outside an ornate door catches
my attention. Catholic Mass celebrated daily. A
list of times is inscribed on the bronze plate
outside the chapel, and I glance at my watch.
I'm not sure why I did that. I no longer
practice the faith of my youth, limiting my
grudging attendance to an occasional Christmas or
Easter service with my mother as a token of
respect for her beliefs. I've become more
worldly and sophisticated, and the church's
simplistic explanations have lost their appeal.

I furtively glance over my shoulder as though I'm
about to commit a felony and want to ensure there
are no available witnesses. Satisfied my secret
is relatively safe, I cautiously venture into the
darkened chapel. With the practiced ease of a
skilled investigator, I quickly survey my
surroundings. I'm somewhat relieved to discover
I'm the only one here. Normally I'd quietly
slink into a pew near the back in order to remain
inconspicuous, but I feel strangely drawn toward
the altar as though reducing the physical
distance will close a spiritual gap. Emboldened
by my privacy, I approach the elaborately carved
crucifix. Kneeling in genuflection, I lower my
head and cross myself.

Now what? I feel hypocritical being here. I'm
not a practicing Catholic anymore, much to my
mother's dismay. I place my faith in my
irrefutable science, while my partner believes in
government conspiracies and little green men.
Excuse me. Little *gray* men.

An oft-repeated phrase from my childhood Sunday
school classes comes to mind, "By His stripes we
are healed." Hmm. Would God grant the entreaty
of a skeptic and cure an agnostic? I can almost
hear Mulder laughing at the absurdity. Well, he
*is* always asking me to consider extreme
possibilities.

Clasping my hands together, I close my eyes and
take a deep cleansing breath. After all these
years, does God still remember my voice? Will He
hear my pleas of intercession? Will He, in His
infinite mercy, heal Mulder's tortured body and
mind? I can't bear the thought of losing him.
He's my partner, my friend...he's the other half
of my soul.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

The respiratory therapist tells me that he's
almost finished. My lungs feel clearer already.
He moves to the foot of the bed and rattles the
pages of my chart, recording the results of his
work. He wishes me well and continues on his way.

I am alone in the quiet of the room. My skin is
frigid, covered by the cooling blanket, and my
hands and feet are blocks of ice. I have plenty
of time to ponder Scully's words. She sounded
reserved, but barely so, as if some gate inside
her was bending but not yet breaking. There was a
strain in her voice, but I could not tell if it
was from stress or from words left unsaid. I
wonder with some regret why she cannot share such
thoughts with me. If I have done something to
make her too uncomfortable to do so, it is surely
my greatest violation of her trust.

The door opens again, and I am buoyed by the
simple thought that it might be her, returning to
my side, but it is not. It is one of the nurses.
Esperanza. She introduced herself on a visit
subsequent to my embarrassing resistance against
the respirator. I remember her well. She wears a
light, pleasant perfume, sweet with the scent of
tropical fruit. I have learned to shunt air into
my nose and directly out of my mouth using the
back of my tongue. It is the only way I can get
any past the tubes. The damned tubes. I can't
stand them any more, always itching or pulling
or...just irritating me. The Foley is the worst.
Why do hospitals always insist on going the wrong
way on one-way streets?

Esperanza checks the chest tube, making sure the
site is clean and intact, but her touch feels
chilly. It elicits a shudder. She draws her hand
away, momentarily doing something else, but the
shivering continues, only spreading and growing
in magnitude. I am broiling on the inside. The
mixed signals make me queasy and skittish.

The nurse notices my distress, lays a reassuring
hand on my arm, and says that she will get
something to help me. She hurries out the door.
In the midst of my febrile misery, I concentrate
on Scully. Even memories of her small form
leaning against me, arms wrapped around my waist,
head resting against my chest, make me feel
stronger. She does that like no one else.

I hear Esperanza return, interrupting my
daydream. She lays a plastic container on the
small table to my right. It sloshes with water.
She tells me that it isn't quite time for my
regular sponge bath, but she thought she would
take care of it now, in hopes of relieving some
of the discomfort of the fever. A regular sponge
bath? I don't remember any such thing. I must
have missed that part while the sedative was
still working its magic. Right now, I am
shivering in earnest. I truly hope it does some
good.

Esperanza carefully removes the cooling blanket.
Splashes sound as she dips the sponge in the
basin and wrings it out. She starts with my face.
The tepid water is a blessing, wiping away beads
of cold sweat and dried tear tracks. The sponge
passes over my forehead lightly, reminding me of
the way Scully habitually brushes stray strands
of hair from my face. It is a pleasant thought, a
diversion from the ugliness of reality. The
sponge catches at my cheek on stubble that is a
couple of days old. I continue to shiver as
Esperanza gets fresh water and washes my neck.
She continues down my right arm, gently lifting
it with gloved hands for easier access. She
cannot get to my left arm; it is still
immobilized by a sling.

Instead, she turns her attention to my chest. The
sponge feels shockingly cold there, jerking
slightly as I shake beneath it. Its path meanders
around the various conduits attached to my body.
The soothing touch soon begins to calm the
shivering, though. It does not take much for me
to imagine Scully here, tenderly ministering to
me, caressing me in a way that is entirely
separate from my present circumstance, these
sterile surroundings. She might brush her hand
across my chest, as she did during my seizure,
barely sweeping over the hair as I lie completely
still, basking in her attention. Of course, in my
fantasy, I am not impeded. I can reciprocate her
actions as she explores the warm skin of my
stomach, tracing the muscles and making me twitch
as she finds a ticklish spot. Then, she draws her
finger over my belly button and follows the trace
of the dark, curly hair...

Oh, shit. I am shaken from the illusion quite
rudely as I realize what is happening. I try to
sever the association of the dangerously
encroaching sponge with any thought of Scully. It
began as a single innocent memory, but it is
quickly warping into a depravity. I desperately
do not want her image to be reduced to a mere
temptation, just another craving upon which I may
sate myself.

It is too late. Losing the internal conflict, I
am both ashamed and incited as I feel my body
begin to react to the nurse's ministrations. The
freaking sponge grazes against my groin, and that
is all it takes to make the blood run south. Oh,
God. The nurse is the least of my worries. I know
she has probably seen it all, although I must be
quite the sight, still catheterized and
shivering, my internal heat now considerably
concentrated. My fevered pleasure is
simultaneously heightened and compromised by the
hard plastic curve of the damned Foley. The nurse
continues on in a professional manner, bathing my
legs, but I am in a vulnerable state of mind.
Scully brings me so much comfort, so much
happiness, I hate to think that I have taken
advantage of her in any way, even through a
careless moment of mental self-indulgence.

I am savoring the guilty pleasure, though. I am a
naughty boy, I have to admit. The thought of her
gives me a reprieve from my dismal infirmity.
Even my involuntary physical response is a
confirmation of life, after days of lying trapped
and hopeless in an immobile body. I soon realize
that she would not want me to be ashamed that she
has such an affirming, if arousing, effect on me.
The power she wields is extraordinary indeed, in
conjunction with the fragile heart I have
relinquished to her, a burden I cannot bear
alone.


+ + + + + + + + + +

Chapter Eight

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

Over the past four days, I have visited this
chapel many times. Its familiar symbols and
ancient liturgies comfort me. I am reminded of a
less complicated time in my life when all things
were possible. It's a pity we lose that
childlike faith.

I have converted Mulder's bedside into a
confessional of sorts. I babble incessantly
about my faults, and beg for his understanding
and mercy. The last of my reserves has crumbled,
and in a torrent of emotion, I unleash the
secrets of my heart. I tell him how important he
is to me, and how much I have come to depend on
him. After four years together, I have crossed
the proverbial Rubicon. In the midst of his
drug-induced slumber, I wonder if he understands
anything I have said. To be honest, I'm not sure
whether I reveal my innermost thoughts for his
benefit or mine. Doubt gnaws at me. What if
he's not in a conciliatory mood when he awakens?
What if my words come back to haunt me? Can the
damage be repaired? What have I done?

I may not have to wait much longer for my answer.
Mulder's condition has vastly improved.
Approximately forty-eight hours ago, his fever
broke and has been steadily declining. His lungs
are clearing, and Dr. Wuensche is so pleased, he
is tapering Mulder off the Pavulon and weaning
him off the ventilator. I was so ecstatic I
celebrated by taking a long, hot shower and
getting a good night's sleep for the first time
in ages. Do I know how to have a good time or
what?

I offer one last prayer of thanksgiving before I
leave the chapel. A multi-colored shower of
light streams through the stained-glass window
and bathes the altar with an ethereal glow. For
the first time in days, I am imbued with a
renewed sense of hope.

When I return to the ICU, I hear Grace cooing
encouraging words to Mulder as she finishes towel
drying his freshly shampooed hair. He is freshly
shaven, and the scent of aftershave lingers in
the air. Her cherubic face lights up the moment
she sees me. She excitedly tells me he is
beginning to wake up. Grace dresses him in a
clean gown and ceremoniously adjusts his pillows.
Gathering her washbasin and supplies, she smiles
and leaves us alone.

I tentatively approach his side. I'm afraid.
What if he remembers everything that has
happened? What if he blames me? What if he
rejects me? Can I accept the consequences?
Deciding I have to know, I rest my elbows on the
railing.

Maybe it is my imagination, but Mulder's face
appears almost peaceful. Strands of damp hair
loosely frame his face, and I instinctively brush
a lock from his forehead and place my hand in
his. He slowly opens his eyes, and I hold my
breath in fearful anticipation. But there is no
expression of condemnation, only unconditional
forgiveness. His long, slender fingers awkwardly
curl around mine and he lightly squeezes my hand.
With that one small gesture, he has bestowed upon
me perfect absolution. Relieved of my burden, I
feel reborn. My soul smiles.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

I have been able to do some serious thinking
lately. Since the doctor started tapering me off
of some of the drugs, my mind has been free to
contemplate this time I've spent with Scully. I
am her captive audience, surreptitiously
accepting and collecting her inner thoughts one
by one. I am not sure if she really means for me
to hear, or if she is just trying to straighten
things out for herself. Either way, I anticipate
her revelations with rapt attention. I feel like
a voyeur, although I have no way to communicate
with her, tell her that her painful honesty is
not as secure as she might believe. In fact, I am
still wrestling with the option of informing her
of the unintentional deception when I am able.
I'm not sure what the point would be, really. I
feel the impetus to be totally honest, but I also
do not want her to think that she has betrayed
herself.

She addresses subjects we rarely discuss, things
people usually leave unsaid until it is too late.
I am overwhelmed, hearing the person I most
respect beg for my forgiveness and express in
unreserved detail exactly how much I mean to her.
These feelings are gifts we have not yet found a
way to openly share. They are the elephant in the
middle of the room that no one mentions.

I realize that the tribulations of this case, the
circumstances of my affliction, have provided a
rare opportunity to witness the stunning
unconditional love Scully holds for me. She has
stayed at my bedside many times before, always a
source of strength, but I never knew the
excruciating torment she feels or the desperate
prayers she offers on my behalf. I decide to keep
her statements in total confidence. I am willing
to return to our status quo, playing our game of
unspoken devotion. Words are incredibly powerful,
but her actions have always said it all.

My musings are interrupted by the nurse, Grace,
as she finishes rinsing shampoo from my hair into
a basin. The clean scent compliments the
aftershave still tingling on my freshly-shaven
face. It is a relief to no longer carry the
ubiquitous and unexplainable hospital scent.
Grace says jokingly that she is going to make me
look pretty for my partner. Very funny. She
removes the basin and begins to rub my hair dry
with a towel.

I hear the door open and the unmistakable tapping
of Scully's high-altitude heels. As she
approaches the bed, Grace informs her that she
thinks I might be waking up. It's true that I am
having some minor success in commanding reluctant
muscles to move, but I've been awake far longer
than she knows. The nurse leaves quickly, giving
us privacy.

Scully sits next to me. She is silent, but I can
feel her gaze. I wonder what she is pondering
while she watches. I feel her fingertips graze my
forehead, brushing some hair from my face, as is
her habit. She lays her hand in mine. The contact
sends a jolt through me. I have something to tell
her.

My eyes open with some difficulty, slowly
revealing her face before me. She looks
questioning, perhaps even intimidated. She has
been alone through this ordeal, fighting for me.
I want to support her now. I answer her gaze with
one of gratefulness. I need to let Scully know
how much she means to me, how much I appreciate
her. I need to support her, reciprocate her
devoted respect. I do all of this the only way I
can; I squeeze her hand and hold on tight.

My eager imagination takes over, and I see the
ice dream again, superimposed over reality.
Scully reaches for me, pulling me along behind
her into unfamiliar waters. The simulacrum does
not frighten me this time, though. I know now
that Scully is not trying to drown me or drag me
into the abyss. She is showing me something new,
ushering me into the depths of her soul. This
time, I will follow.


+ + + + + + + + + +

Epilogue

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

Mulder is being uncharacteristically cooperative
with the hospital staff since being extubated and
transferred to the intermediate care unit
yesterday afternoon. He meekly tolerates the
requisite tubes, wires and other insults to his
dignity, and even allows me to feed him the much-
despised green Jell-O without complaint.
Respiratory therapy remains the only aspect of
his care he hates with a vengeance. The fact
that Joshua is a rabid Knicks fan does little to
endear himself to his miserable patient. Mulder
complains about the bitter tasting medication he
must inhale, and the vile secretions he is forced
to cough up from his sore lungs. When the
session is over, he begs me to procure a voodoo
doll resembling Joshua. In a moment of whimsy, I
create a balloon from a latex glove and scribble
his therapist's likeness on it. My amateurish
efforts are embarrassingly awful, but Mulder
positively beams with delight and demands I tape
it above his bed as a friendly warning.

My task accomplished, I settle back into the
tattered blue chair next to Mulder's bed. I am
deliriously happy he is alive, and that I'm able
to spend this time with him. I am also
profoundly grateful he has generously chosen to
absolve me of my transgressions. Each moment
together is precious. I promise myself not to
take him for granted anymore. Yet, my
celebratory mood is dampened by the fear I may
have permanently sabotaged our peculiar
relationship. Neither of us is comfortable
discussing our feelings, and I hope I have not
irrevocably betrayed his trust. I'm afraid to
ask if he heard my incoherent declarations of
affection, and so far, he hasn't volunteered any
information. I'm not sure how to proceed. For
now, I am content not to pursue the subject. I
merely smile at him and playfully kick off the
high-heeled pumps he's been teasing me about this
morning. He jokes it's a wonder I can sneak up
on a suspect in them. Why, they've even been
known to wake up people in comas! God, it's
wonderful to hear him laugh again.

His voice still raspy from the endotracheal tube,
he asks for an update on the case. I try to keep
my summary devoid of emotion, and I wonder if my
deception is glaringly transparent. I tell him
Duff has been discharged from the hospital, and
will probably be subpoenaed to testify before a
Grand Jury when our suspect is charged with five
counts of capital murder. However, since Aboah
is not responding to hormone therapy, it's
doubtful he'll live long enough to be indicted,
stand trial or serve out his sentence. I'm
ambivalent about that prospect. Part of me is
disappointed he won't suffer temporal justice for
taking innocent lives and nearly depriving me of
my partner, while another part of me hopes he'll
be subjected to excruciating torment in the
afterlife for his heinous deeds. I'm sure Mulder
is more charitable than I am, and attributes
Aboah's actions to an innate need to survive at
any cost. Whatever. My best friend is alive,
and that is all that matters to me right now.

If Mulder sees through my clumsy attempt to gloss
over subjects of a more personal nature, he has
the decency not to show it. He sagely nods and
stares at his hands. The same beautiful hands I
have recently held, kissed and bathed with my
tears. We have traveled a most unusual journey
over these past several days, alone, and yet
together. Our unique bond has been strengthened,
one which transcends mere words. But already I
sense we are retreating back into a comfortable
distance. Regrettably, our carefully constructed
masks are slipping back into place as we resume
our well-rehearsed dance. Perhaps our fear of
intimacy causes us not to seek the truth within
ourselves, but rather to "deceive, inveigle, and
obfuscate." If so, is it possible to overcome
these self-imposed barriers? I want to believe.


+ + + + + + + + + +



Finis






Additional notes:

Lines quoted from the script of the episode
"Teliko" were written by Howard Gordon.
Contains quotes from "You can't always get what
you want" by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards and
"Dead and Bloated" by Stone Temple Pilots.
Also contains a quote from Monty Python and the
Holy Grail, written by Chapmen, Cleese, et al.,
property of FOX.