Date: Wed, 24 Feb 1999 16:11:35 -0500 Subject: NEW: Almost 2: Again 1/2 by Laine TITLE: Almost 2: Again 1/2 started 2/18/99 finished 2/24/99 AUTHOR: Laine EMAIL: loislane@bright.net DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Sure, go ahead. But I would love to know where so I can visit, OK? SPOILER WARNING: Assumes US Season 6 and especially heavy Tithonus spoilers. FTF spoilers, too. CONTENT WARNING: Mulderangst, MS UST leaning heavily to the shippy side - no romos warning: Here be monsters...run away now. RATING: Strong R for language...lots and lots of language CLASSIFICATION: V, MS/UST, A, MSR SUMMARY: Sequel to "Almost" Author highly recommends reading that one first. If you want it in an email, ask and ye shall receive. Otherwise, you can find it at The Ticket Counter on The Crystal Ship website: http://www.bright.net/~loislane of all places. lol. DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully don't belong to me (DUH) If they did, there would be no need for relationshippy fanfic, because I would've had them in bed a long time ago. I'm only borrowing them, I promise. COMMENTS: This is, as always, and most especially, for my eviltwin, Lana, who gets to sleep with Mulder every night. But, you'll have to ask *her* about that. This also is for all the wonderfully kind people who received "Almost" so very well. I hope this isn't a let down for you. And it wouldn't be right not to give proper thanks to my moms, who sat silently on the phone through various rewrites of "Almost" and didn't get too shocked by the language. My mother the nurse contributed *greatly* to this story with the medical lingo. Thanks, moms. You're the coolest. FEEDBACK: yes, please - I write back! loislane@bright.net Constructive criticism is always appreciated, but flames just go up in smoke. OK, here we go! Almost 2: Again 1/2 I can't imagine what I'm doing here. I have the same thought every time I'm faced with the smooth, white wood of Scully's door. There are so many reasons I shouldn't be here that I could stand out here staring at the outside of her door running down a predetermined list of reasons for about an hour. And every time I get to this point, my palms start to sweat like a teenager picking up his prom date. It's ridiculous, I know. But what in my life isn't? I spent a considerable amount of time at my apartment before I finally showered, changed and drove my sorry ass over here. And now I'm standing face to face with Scully's door and my traitorous arm will *not* reach up and allow my hand to knock. I'm paralyzed. I'm frozen in place because I have not been able to successfully remove the morbid thoughts from the mush that has become my brain. Jesus. What the hell was I thinking? I can't just walk in here and pretend everything's OK, that I'm all better and we can just sit here being normal, watching a movie with me acting as if I promise not to think about the fact that a bullet with her name on it found its way home, setting up a somewhat permanent residence in her stomach and my soul. The mess that is Fox Mulder's mind just doesn't work that way, Scully. You should know that by now. So, I continue standing here, waiting on who the fuck knows what, still a little shaky from the day, still a little dazed by the weight of her eyes on me in the elevator. I am so pathetic I can't stand myself sometimes. What the hell is wrong with me? I should just make up my mind and either knock or go home. I'm just not quite ready to do either at the moment. Damn it. If I don't show up, she'll be even more worried than she was this afternoon at the office, and frankly, I've given Scully a lifetime of worry already. So, I knock. And then I hold my breath and brace my body for the intense physical caress of her eyes when she opens the door. OK, I'll knock again. This time, with a frown I can't stop, I call out her name. "Scully? Scully, it's me." Of course it's me. Who the fuck else would it be? I have, after all, managed to take over your life so completely that the chances of it being a real man standing outside your door ready to spend an evening with you are about a billion to one. But hey, you're my one in *five* billion, remember? And if you have finally come to your senses and decided to run the hell away from me, I understand. My heart will stop beating, I will cease to draw breath, but I understand. Where the hell is she anyway? A third, dull rap on her door with my left hand is preceded by my right plunging quickly into my coat pocket, and I come up with the key before I am fully aware of what I'm doing. The soft snick of the lock does something damn near Pavlovian to my brain, and my adrenaline immediately begins to take my blood's place in my veins. Rationally, I know there is nothing wrong with Scully. But I'm not in the mood to be fucking rational when Scully is supposed to be here and she's not answering her goddamned door. I resist the urge to draw my weapon and step cautiously inside, searching for anything out of place. "Scully?" This time I hear it, just a soft moan and the sound of movement over by the couch. And when I kneel beside her, it is positively confirmed that I am an insensitive bastard. But I knew that already - both parts. She's asleep. She's asleep on her couch with her head turned in toward the cushions looking so completely angelic and childlike and so impossibly fucking *small* that that the alpha male in me kicks into overdrive and for a minute I consider just picking her up and carrying her to bed. And then I remember that I like my dick just where it is, thank you very much, and I opt for waking her instead. But not before I crouch here and stare at her for awhile. Just a little bit. What she doesn't know won't get me killed. Of course she's tired. She pushed herself to come back to work after only three and half weeks of the five to six weeks the doctors recommended for her recovery, but that's my Scully. Can't keep her down for long. She is the strongest person I know. Jesus, I love her strength. Still, that doesn't mean that she doesn't need time at the end of the day to rest and regain some of that strength, especially after dealing with me and my baggage for hours on end. I can feel the shame and guilt start to burn my face and gut in harmony and I'm beginning to wonder why I left the Rolaids at home when Scully stirs again, shifting her face toward me. Her hair is splayed across her countenance like some sort of curtain of fire and silk, and I know before I even lift my hand that I'm going to revel in touching it when I sweep it away. I wonder briefly in some romantic flight of fancy if it will burn me when I touch it. It doesn't, of course. It's soft and smooth and silken, just like I remember. I only use the very tips of my unworthy fingertips, and I know I must look ridiculous, like some fucking religious fanatic given the opportunity to touch the Shroud of Turin, but I don't give a damn. Nobody's watching. I don't think. Besides, I've done this very thing for Scully so many times before, usually when she's in a hospital bed, that I know exactly the right amount of pressure to apply to the strands to start a copper avalanche. Just one little swipe and each strand will follow the next, gliding and tumbling over each other as they scurry away from the bright heat of her face. Fuck. I am truly a sap. Who talks like that? "What the fuck?" The raspy sound of my expletive startles me a little - I didn't mean to say that out loud - but it doesn't jar me nearly as much as what her hair did, or did not, do. Only the very top layer fell away on cue, revealing JesusfuckingChrist. Her hair is sticking to her face, the wet clumps looking less like copper and more like blood every second. "Scully?" My voice has gone dry and desperate. I don't know what it is, but something is very, very fucking wrong here. "Scully," I say, louder and stronger this time, belying the acidic feeling in my gut. My hand is beginning to shake as I reach out and wipe her face free of the snarled hair and her fucking face, not her hair, burns my hand. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh no. Oh shit. I fight to breathe and say her name again, wanting nothing more on this planet than to just see the blue of her eyes. Damnit Scully, wake the fuck up right now. My body decides to play a cruel joke on me and I go simultaneously hot and cold all over. I don't recall having my blood replaced with antifreeze, but apparently it has been. Her face is hot, it's so fucking hot and I can't breathe. What the fuck does this mean, Scully? Your the goddamned doctor. Wake up and tell me what to do, Scully. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh no, oh shit.. "No. No goddamnit. Scully, Scully you need to wake up. Come on, Scully. Open your eyes." I'm pleading with her, even as I'm scanning the room for something, anything that will tell me what the hell I'm supposed to do now. And then God, or whatever, decides to have mercy on the mess that is my soul because Scully is stirring again, and her eyes are fluttering open. Oh shit. Her eyes. They're about as glassy as a couple of pot smoking kids' eyes would be when they're telling you a UFO shaped like a hamburger is exactly what they saw. If I thought I was scared before, I'm damn near hysterical when she looks through me, rather than at me. Hey Scully, you know that face we talked about in Dallas just before the bomb went off? Well, I'm making it again. "Scully? Scully, it's me." Great. Can't I think of anything *else* to say to her today? I see a brief flash of recognition, and Scully mumbles something about it not being the flu. Of course, she follows that by asking what time the flight is, so I'm not sure what the fuck she's talking about. I know enough to know that high fevers can cause delirium, brain damage and death, so I know not to take too much stock in anything she says. Right now, I'm more concerned with how I'm going to get her out of here without killing us both. I fumble blindly for my cell phone and hit 911, and I'm talking to Karen-what-the-fuck-is your-emergency-The-Dispatcher before I can blink. What's my emergency? I'll tell you what my emergency is, *Karen* The reason the air fills my lungs, the reason my blood continues to circulate, the reason my fucking miserable life keeps going day after day is sprawled out on her couch hot enough to fucking cook off of, and not in the good way, either, and you want to know what the *fuck* my emergency is? Goddamnit. My emergency is that I can't figure out a way to kill *you* through the phone line. Somehow, I manage to choke out a brief description of Scully's symptoms and I think Karen's telling me something about ice and that the ambulance is on the way. Ambulance. Help is coming. Ambulance. Ambulance... Oh, I don't fucking think so. I drop the phone as though it were on fire and stare at it where it lands for a minute. Ambulance my ass. We've gone that route before, haven't we Scully. And there are *no* hospitals in Antarctica. Before I can map out a clear plan of attack in my brain, or what's left of it, I'm scooping Scully and her blanket up off the couch. Something inside me dies when she gasps and clutches her stomach, and a new fear for the freak show of my memory eats its way to the front. This is somehow connected with her injury. Guess what, Peyton? Your new lease on life just got a little shorter. Time to renegotiate the contract you sonofabitch. I cradle her head between my shoulder and neck and manage to make it out the door without dropping her and incapacitating us both. I'm talking to her the whole way, barely conscious of the stream of nonsense I'm spewing out, but I know she needs to hear my voice. She needs to somehow stay connected to this world, and if I'm all she's got right now, I'll do my level best to accommodate her. Her forehead is so hot, so fucking hot, that I'm sure I'm getting a second-degree burn on my neck from the contact. This is not the mark I had in mind when I pictured you leaving a calling card on my neck Scully. Shit. Was that out loud too? Loading her into the car damn near throws out my back, but I refuse to put her pristine body on the ground even long enough to open the door and push the seat up. Now if I can just get us to the hospital without killing us or anyone else who happens to get in my way things will improve immeasurably. If I never do anything else right in this farce I call a life, please just let me get her to the hospital. With a squeal of tires and some unpleasant gestures from the guy in the sedan I just cut off, we're on our way. Yeah, fuck you too, buddy. The only sounds I hear are the pathetic drone of my voice and the blessed assurance of her breathing from behind me. My pulse zeros in on the rise and fall of her chest, and if her breathing is thready, then my heartbeats must be, too. As we approach the halfway point, I hear additional Scullynoises coming from the back. Scully does not moan and groan in agony, and Scully does *not* whimper. Not my Scully. She's trying to say something, so I check the rear-view in time to see her mouth my name and I feel like praising angels I don't believe in. Instead, I just continue to praise her, the closest thing to an angel my sorry ass is likely to ever see, telling her things I've known forever about how strong she is and how I know she's got it in her to hang on just a bit longer. That's when I notice we have a police escort of sorts. Problem is, escorts aren't usually chasing you. Fuck that. I'd no more pull over right now than I'd pull out my gun to euthanize us both. You wanna stop us, copper? Take a fucking number and get in line. Suddenly, I just had a brief flash of empathy for *Mr.* Crump and how he must have felt with the state police on his ass, knowing if he stopped his wife's life would end. Shit. I press the pedal a little harder into the floorboards for good measure, and I nearly laugh when I think I'm actually grateful for once for that psychotic defensive driving instructor at Quantico. Bet that jerk-off didn't have this in mind when he droned on about the many practical applications of his course. Endangering pedestrian life in the hopes of reaching the hospital was definitely not on the exam. By the time we reach the emergency entrance of the hospital, BarneyfuckingFyfe behind us is seeing red, white and blue because I refused to respect his authority and pull over. He's got to be pissed, because it hasn't seemed to register with him yet where we are and that I might, just might, have had a good fucking reason for not stopping. I don't bother to park properly or shut of the engine, I just slam it into park and leap out of the car, scurrying around to start trying to get Scully out of the backseat, and before I know it the prick has his hand on my shoulder. He's pulling at me and barking out something about reckless operation. Can we say *huge* mistake, boys and girls? I practically sneer at the opportunity to misdirect my emotional turmoil on the unsuspecting bastard. I jerk out of the car and have him pinned against the rear quarter panel before he knows what's hit him. His nose is now buried in my badge, and I'm not the slightest bit sorry that my other hand managed to grab some skin along with his collar. "Federal Agent, asshole. Now back the *fuck* off or make yourself useful because I have an agent in need of immediate medical attention inside my car," I spit the words at him with pure venom and the poor bastard's eyes are crossed on my badge. I don't think I've ever seen someone turn so pale so fast, but to give him credit, he's helping me with Scully's limp form as soon as I release him. I guess he figures he can worry about his shorts later. As soon as we have her out of the car I shrug him off and focus on finding help for Scully, and I'm barely through the doors before Deputy Fyfe has sputtered out a make shift explanation and doctors and nurses and who the hell knows who else are all over us, taking Scully from my arms and throwing about a hundred rapid-fire questions about her condition at me. I think I must have answered them, because before I know what's what they're through with me, and someone is given the unlucky job of trying to usher me out of the trauma room and away from my Scully. Well of course I go ballistic. It's pretty much expected of me by now, I think, which is probably why the big guy has the job of pushing me out of the way. I'm railing against the guy until he says the magic words about calling security, and suddenly I'm taking notice of the full waiting room staring at the scene the psychotic man is making. I'm also coming to understand that if I want to see Scully when they're done, I'm going to have to make nice and stop shouting. I struggle internally and suck in a deep breath and stare at the guy. I don't recognize my voice anymore when I open my mouth to speak. "Just tell me where they're taking her. Please." Then he tells me to do the impossible. He tells me to sit down and wait calmly and he'll go and find out for me. Fuck. I try to take his advice, but it isn't a full thirty seconds before I'm pacing like a caged animal. If I sit down for very long, I just might collapse, and I can't do that. Not until I know Scully is going to be OK. Oh, Jesus, let her be OK. I cannot do this without her. I can't. I won't. Why the hell won't somebody tell me what's going on? My whole life is in there on that table, and I'm out here caught in purgatory, waiting for judgment to be delivered. Oh, shit. Not that again. I do not need to be out here thinking the worst. I do not need to be out here alone with my morbidity and despair. Even as I'm trying to talk myself out of it, I feel my soul slipping into that dark place where all my private little monsters play. Horrid images start a full frontal assault on the fertile grounds of my imagination, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight against them and grab the wall for support. I have no idea how long I stood there like that, but the next think I know Monkey-Man the orderly is trying to get my attention. I guess it's judgment day. Continued in Part two. Date: Wed, 24 Feb 1999 16:11:49 -0500 TITLE: Almost 2: Again 2/2 AUTHOR: Laine EMAIL: loislane@bright.net My whole life is in there on that table, and I'm out here caught in purgatory, waiting for judgment to be delivered. Oh, shit. Not that again. I do not need to be out here thinking the worst. I do not need to be out here alone with my morbidity and despair. Even as I'm trying to talk myself out of it, I feel my soul slipping into that dark place where all my private little monsters play. Horrid images start a full frontal assault on the fertile grounds of my imagination, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight against them and grab the wall for support. I have no idea how long I stood there like that, but the next think I know Monkey-Man the orderly is trying to get my attention. I guess it's judgment day. I pin him to the wall with my eyes and begin dissecting him for fun in my brain as he tells me in a fucking clinical voice that my Scully is being taken to emergency surgery for some sort of fucking abscess and resultant infection and would I please go wait in the proper waiting room on the fourth floor. Sure. And would you please stand real still while I shoot you, you heartless bastard? By the time I make it to the *proper* waiting area, my insides have turned to liquid. All I can think, all I can picture, is Scully laying white and drawn on a cold, impersonal operating table while some butcher hacks into her fresh scars and pokes his fat, stubby fucking fingers around her precious internal organs. I now know beyond the shadow of a doubt what a death row inmate feels like in the hours before his execution. The waiting is surely hell on earth, so much so that the end must be a blessed relief because you finally *know* that the governor is not going to call. It's finally over, and the blackness can claim you, and the hope that eats at your soul with gnashing, gnarled teeth is finally snuffed out along with everything else. Hell could be no worse than the hours of waiting, so there would be no fear just before they throw the switch, only relief. I cannot breathe properly on my own. Scully's breath is out of my range of hearing, so my own feeble gasps are out of sync and not nearly deep enough. My lungs feel tight and swallowing around the lump in my throat is painful. Not that there is any moisture left in my mouth to swallow. I've gone over and over the last week in my head, and other than the occasional slow movement, which is to be expected, Scully never gave any indication she was hurting. I remember her taking Tylenol once or twice, but since she should have been on demerol at the time, I didn't think much about it. Because I'm a worthless piece of shit who didn't pay enough attention, apparently. I do not doubt my fault in this matter. I do not doubt that I should have done something, anything, to prevent this. I should have noticed something, I'm a trained investigator for chrissake. And I *know* Scully. Well, not in the Biblical sense, unfortunately, but I do know Scully. And if something was going wrong with her, I should have seen it. Unfortunately, I was too fucking busy worrying about how everything affected *me* to be doing my job properly. My job is to watch my partner's back, and once again, I have failed miserably in that regard. Fox Mulder, failure extraordinaire. I'm at the point now where I truly believe things can't get much worse, and suddenly the elevator dings and I hear feet, more than one pair, scuttling down the hall toward me. I know without question that one pair belongs to Scully's mom, because I hear her voice, a little breathless, explaining what sounds vaguely like rules of procedure to someone. I can't make myself look toward the door of the waiting area, because I'm trying to put off the inevitable just a bit longer. I'm trying to put off looking into Mrs. Scully's eyes, eyes that will be full of worry and concern and free of the accusations that should be there, when she looks at me. "Fox? Do you know anything more yet?" Shit. Now I have to face her and I'm not ready yet. I haven't done enough bruising to my own psyche yet to be in the proper frame of mind to speak with her. I still have more than a few demons to slay before we talk about my latest transgressions, for which I know she will offer absolution that I don't deserve. I slowly lift my head, prepared for the full brunt of a gaze so like my Scully's it will shake my soul, when I am met with one of the most unwelcome sights I can think of right now. For the first time in a long, long time, I'm thinking there just might be a God, and He just might have one hell of a warped sense of humor. Or justice. Because Mrs. Scully is flanked by BillfuckingScullyJr. and I *really* can't believe this shit. I didn't even know he was in town. It doesn't make sense when you consider Scully was planning to spend the evening with me and not with her family. Our gazes lock instantly, and for a second I think we're going to just drop any pretenses and start swinging when the doctor walks in the room and heads straight for me as I jump up on shaky legs and tear my eyes away from the devil incarnate long enough to hear about Scully. Ha. Fuck you Billyboy. Doc here knows who's important and who's not. The doctor alternates looking from me to Bill for a few seconds, and I can tell she's wondering when we're going to whip 'em out to establish once and for all who the dominant male in this pack is, but then she shakes her head slightly and redirects her attention to me. "Mr. Mulder, the surgery went well, relatively speaking. It was a pretty standard procedure, really. "Ms. Scully apparently had some post-operative bleeding that was not absorbed by the surrounding tissue. Because it was not absorbed properly, the blood sat on top of the tissue and formed an abscess, which in turn caused a severe infection, the symptoms of which are fever and discomfort, not unlike the flu, until the fever spiked and the infection grew out of control." She pauses here for a minute, cutting a quick glance over at the room's only other two occupants. "Are you family?" Taking the quick nods of affirmation and not waiting for an explanation of relative status, the doctor continued, picking up where she left off but now including all three of us in the conversation. I want to shake her and scream at her to get to the fucking point and just tell me if I still have a reason not to eat my gun, but I settle for biting down on my lower lip hard enough to draw blood and holding my breath. "We reopened the wound and removed the abscess and washed the area with saline, after which the remaining fluids were suctioned out. Unfortunately, we can't rinse the infection out of the bloodstream as efficiently. We are administering intravenous antibiotics in an aggressive attempt to cleanse her system, and at this point, I can't tell you much more. I can, however, assure you that your quick response, Mr. Mulder, undoubtedly saved her life." I think that was supposed to make me feel better, but until I see Scully, 'everyone else can go fuck themselves' is pretty much still my attitude. "I need to see her." For once, I ignore the fact that her family is here and should probably be admitted first. Fuck that, and fuck being proper, mannerly or nice. Nice my ass. I wanna see Scully. And no, I don't care that I'm whining to myself like a petulant four-year-old. With a quick glance toward the official family, Dr. Whatserface takes me by the arm and leads me down the hall. I give a questioning glance toward the family and decide not to press my luck when the doctor tells me although it isn't standard procedure, prior to the surgery, Scully kept saying my name. I must look more pathetic than I thought. Or else, the doctor figures "partner" means something other than what it really does mean. Whatever. I don't give a shit. Just take me to my leader. A cinder block takes up immediate residence somewhere between my ribcage and my stomach when I slip through the door to her room. Scully is pale and small and fragile in a bed that seems too large for her and I all but collapse in the solitary chair beside her bed that is destined to become my new home for awhile. I carefully take her hand and idly begin stroking the back of it. My racing heartbeat eventually settles into rhythm with the gentle electronic blip that indicates the rate at which her precious blood is being pumped through her veins, and my breathing gradually takes up the cadence of the rise and fall of her chest. This is an all-too familiar and somewhat hypnotic pattern for me. I am so fucking sick and tired of keeping vigil at Scully's bedside that I feel the bile rising in the back of my throat, but I don't move. I just stare at her pale, motionless face for an eternity before I lift my free hand to her hairline and use the tips of my fingers to start the cascade of hair away from her face in my practiced motion. This time, thank God, it doesn't stick. I don't flinch, I don't even look up sometime later when Scully's mother and brother enter the room. I don't move. I just sit and continue to watch her face for signs of life so that I can start breathing on my own again. I'm aware of their presence in the room, I'm aware of Mrs. Scully patting my shoulder hours later when she and Billyboy take their leave, and I know that at least one of them will be back in the morning. But my entire being is focused on Scully's eyelids, waiting to see the blue that redeems my soul and makes me human. Nothing will be OK again until that happens, so the nurses and Dr. Whatserface can just continue to work around me. It'll take more than they've got to move me from this chair. Besides, I'm armed. For fun, I pass the time thinking of all the gory things I'd like to do to Peyton for his part in this mess, but invariably I come back to lay the blame on myself, where it belongs. Nothing in this world or any other can convince me that if I hadn't been so damned busy worrying about what I didn't do in New York and what *almost* happened to Scully there that I would've been able to see what *was* happening right in front of my face. Hours tick away around me and by the time I see a tiny movement on Scully's eyelids, I'm pretty sure I'm hallucinating, but I hold my breath just the same. And then she grips my hand. Just a slight pressure, but it feels like a vice grip on my heart, just the same, and I risk saying her name softly to see what will happen. My breath leaves me in a rush when her eyes open and I'm met with the unbelievably welcome weight of her clear, soft eyes on mine. She doesn't say anything, just stares at me, and for a minute I swear to Christ I can't speak. I just can't. And when I finally remember how, all I can manage is a pathetic "Hey" that sounds like it was dragged over sandpaper instead of my vocal cords. Scully swallows twice before she half whispers back at me. "Hey. Yourself." I am so fucking grateful to whatever powers that be that she might as well have declared her undying love for me and asked me to take her to bed. Those two words sound that good to my Scully-starved psyche. She looks around the room then, and takes note of all the machinery she's hooked up to before locking me in her gaze again. "Not the flu, huh?" I actually manage a half-assed smile at her this time, even though it makes my face feel like it's cracking in two. "No. Not the flu, Scully." I let the words come out gently, hoping they won't catch in my throat. But they're too thick and Scully sees through me anyway. She lets go of my hand and I swear I can feel our skin cells separating. I know she's a doctor, so I know she's probably already figured out what's going on with her by now, anesthetic and pain meds be damned. I don' t have much time to analyze the wonders of her mind, though, because she's motioning with her newly-freed hand for me to come closer, which I do, despite the protests from my body that has spent far too long growing roots in this plastic chair. "Want to tell. Me about it?" I inch my face a little closer than necessary, just to be nearer to her, and shake my head. "Nothing to tell, really. You owe me a movie, though." I try for flippancy and it goes over about as well as a convicted child molester at a daycare center. A frown creases her alabaster skin, and I know I'm sunk. I knew that a long time ago, really. "Owe you so much more than that, Mulder." The way my name sounds coming from her lips is water after a seven hour trek through the Sahara. I shake my head at her, even as my heart implodes. One last ditch-effort here to lighten the mood, but of course, I don't pick the right topic for that. If I actually did do something right, I think the world might end. "I'm pretty sure we've had this conversation before, Scully, and I've told you. You owe me nothing." As soon as the words are out, the blood freezes in my veins. Shit. That was definitely out loud, and this is now the closest we've ever come to talking about *that* day. The day. The day in my hallway when I finally 'fessed up. Now I am really in trouble. Not to mention the fact that my timing invariably sucks. Bigtime. What better time to delve into this topic than when she's recovering from surgery and therefore vulnerable and doped up on who knows what? I could not be more of a prick, and I know it. I know it with a vengeance. But Scully, my Scully, has a mind that cannot be slowed by any amount of pain or medication. And she has a calm that centers both of us when it counts, like now. She raises her hand to my stubble covered face and rests it heavily there, and it takes every ounce of strength I posses in my miserable being not to lean into her smooth palm. Then, although it is weak, she does it. She gives me that almost smile thing again, and I'm thinking of poetry before I can stop myself. I am so far gone for this woman that no amount of reason or denial will ever bring me back from the edge. Couple that with the relief running like a narcotic through my system at the fact that I'm actually having a conversation with her at all after everything that's happened in recent hours, and you have a powerful scenario playing out in my brain, don't doubt that for a second. Her eyes are on mine, locked on them like a heat-seeking missile, really, and I know I cannot prevent her from reading what she does there. I watch hers soften and swirl for a minute before she becomes serious. So serious that I think my heart just stopped. With her next words, she proves just how well she knows my battered soul. "Thank you. For being there. For being here now." I feel my eyes start to sting but resolutely refuse to cry when there is so much to rejoice about right now. I start to speak, to thwart what she has said to me, but she moves her hand around to my lips and looks at me in a way that tells me she loves me and to shut up and don't dare argue with her or she will become a medical miracle, again, and get out of that bed and kick my ass. So instead, I kiss her palm and then clutch it to my chest before I bend in even closer and reverently touch my lips to her forehead. I linger just above her for a minute before pulling back and replacing her hand gently at her side, marveling all the while that this creature exists in the fucked up world that is my life. I don't deserve her, and I know it. I don't deserve someone who can always know exactly what I'm feeling and how to take the pain away, even as she lies in such a precarious state herself. But I have her, and I'm not going to let her go. Not now, not ever. And that's just the way it is. I watch her drift back off to sleep before I move to go and find the doctor and report her stint of consciousness and lucidity like a good little soldier. Before I leave the room, I hesitate at the door, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest again as she sleeps, and I before I can help myself I whisper the words aloud, sans Demerol. "I love you, Scully. I don't deserve you, but I love you." I freeze like a deer caught in headlights when my *sleeping* partner turns and pins me against the door with those incredible eyes again. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh no. Oh shit. But she just does that almost smile thing again and says "I know." And once again, for the billionth time, she saves me, redeems me and tells me she loves me with one blink of her eye. And I leave to find the doctor and become a medical miracle in my own right. Because I'm walking the halls of the hospital without my heart. It's still in the room with Scully. 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