TITLE: Mortal Solicitude
AUTHOR: KatyBlue
CLASSIFICATION: UST, MA
RATING: Rated R 
CONTENT WARNING:Lots of bad words!
SPOILERS: Season six, Tithonus 
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Archive this on any list but please let me know where it goes!
DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters.  The true creators 
are Chris Carter, 1013 productions and just as equally, David 
Duchovny and Gillian Anderson.  All feedback welcome at 
katy2blue@aol.com, kbxf@aol.com or katyblue2@hotmail.com. 
SUMMARY: The events at New York University Medical 
Center following Mulder's notification...
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: This piece would have never been 
posted without the help of my editor, Meredith, whose 
amazing talents I am truly 'lucky' to have.  Special thanks
to all those who sent feedback on my first story and gave 
me the courage to post again.

**************************************************************************
Part (1/3)

I should have been there.

No one had thought it important enough to come find me 
and let me know what had happened. Scully could have 
fought and died alone while I grabbed one last file in the 
archives about a man who was already dead.  The only 
reason I even knew that it had happened was because 
she was carrying one of those 'in case of an accident, 
please notify' cards.  She'd done that so that if something 
happened to her, I could be the one to tell her mother, 
rather than an impersonal stranger.  

The trip to New York was on my own.  It was worth every 
cent I spent to get there as fast as I did. I left without 
bothering to let anyone know.  Tit for tat.  Right after I 
stood in the hallway and numbly took the phone call from 
the hospital.

"This is New York University Medical Center.  Is this Mr. 
Fox Mulder?"  The voice had listened patiently for confirmation 
after each question.  Do you know a Ms. Dana Scully?"  Yes.  
"Are you aware that you're listed on Dana Scully's insurance 
form as who to notify in case of an accident?"  Yes.  The next 
part wasn't a question.  "Mr. Mulder, I'm calling to inform you 
that there's been an accident and Ms. Scully was just brought 
into the emergency room here.  We need to get some 
information from you..."

The impact of that phone call was indescribable.

When we were on the X-files, I would have been the first one 
informed.  I could have gotten Skinner to request a government 
helicopter to fly me there, pronto.  At the very least, he would 
have made sure that I got there almost as fast as the doctors.  
It would have been a big deal.  It would have been important.  
I wouldn't have had to sweat the details.

I would have been there.

It never would have happened.

Now, Scully and I were like forgotten soldiers behind enemy 
lines.  With only a signature on an insurance form and an 
impersonal request from the hospital that I might want to come 
as soon as possible and make sure that I could dot all the i's 
so that they'd get paid.  She was in no position to do so.

It seemed to take a lifetime to get from F.B.I. headquarters in 
D.C. to New York University Medical Center.

To give them credit, airlines do try to accommodate emergencies.  
But I think I had to beg and I know that I yelled.  Even then, it was 
a half hour delay.  

Scully could be dead by then, if she wasn't already.

I called the hospital while I waited.  Hunched over my phone and 
dreading what I might hear.  It was a critical gunshot wound to 
the abdomen and she'd sustained substantial blood loss.  They 
were prepping her for surgery and knew nothing more than that.  
By the time they'd finished telling me, I was almost doubled over 
the phone.  An older woman to my right asked me if everything 
was okay when she saw my face.

I pity the people who were on that flight from D.C. to New York 
with me.  It's not that I bothered anyone.  I couldn't even speak.  
I don't think that I said one word to anyone from the time I called 
the hospital until I made it there.  But I maintained a dangerously 
precarious silence.  I think that I bit through my lip holding the 
words back from being released like a nightmare onto some 
innocent bystander.  Once it was safe to use the phone, I 
called the hospital again and quietly but forcefully demanded 
an update from some poor nurse just trying to do her job.

Scully was in surgery.   I should get there as soon as I possibly 
could.  Translation; it doesn't look good.  My answer; I'm on a 
fucking plane, lady.  Maybe you could give me some idea as to 
how soon is soon?

When I hung up, an old woman sitting beside me patted my 
hand.  I almost pulled away.  "It'll be all right, dear," she said. 
Translation for this one; life will go on, no matter what happens. 
And someday, it'll end for you too.

Then again, what did she know?

I finally arrived, throwing money at the cabbie as I leapt 
onto the curb outside the medical center.  I sprinted into 
the emergency room and straight up to the desk, ignoring 
a crowd of people.  Oblivious, I hate to admit, if I might be 
elbowing critically injured geriatrics out of my way.  "Dana 
Scully..." I said tightly, out of breath for my efforts.

The nurse cast a scathing, arched eyebrow in my direction.  
I'd interrupted her checking in a patient.  I felt a pang because 
it reminded me of Scully.  "Dana Scully," I repeated as if she 
were deaf.  "She's an F.B.I. agent that was brought in here 
with a gunshot wound?  I'm her partner..."

She scowled at me now.  "Her partner's over there with those 
other officers," she said suspiciously.

I left her in the dust.  I could see Peyton Ritter standing 
nervously with some of New York City's finest and a few 
other plainclothes Agents and made my way over to them.  
A few of them were nervously sipping coffee and one had 
the gall to be watching the ballgame on a t.v. in the corner.
  
"Where's Scully?" I demanded as I drew even.  Peyton Ritter, 
directly across from me, blanched.  White as a ghost.  I should 
have been suspicious at that point, but I wasn't.  I was struck 
dumb by the sight of the blood on him.

One of the cops put a hand on my chest.  "Whoa, there, who 
are you?"

"This is Agent Mulder.  Dana's partner in D.C." Peyton said 
quickly.  His voice was shaking badly.

I turned my full attention on him.  Desperate to know how 
Scully was.  "What happened?" I demanded.

He moved back a step.  His mouth opened and closed like 
a fish.  I noticed the two guys on either side of him were 
throwing each other looks.  "What is it?" I knew that my 
voice was rising but it seemed to be the only volume control 
I had at that point.  Up.  Loud.  As if sheer volume would 
merit an answer. 

God, someone tell me something, I thought.

The cop on my right still had his hand on my chest.  I went 
to shove it off, confused at their response to me.  He clutched 
at my shirt when I tried.  "Slow down, son.  Agent Scully was 
accidentally caught in the line of fire..."

"Accidentally?" I spat the word back at him, as if I'd never 
heard it before or didn't know its meaning.  Comprehension 
still leagues away at this point.  "Caught in what line of fire?"  
He was trying to lead me away from the rest by his hold on 
my shirt and I was starting like hell to resent him.  "Get your 
hands off me!" I snarled.  "What the fuck do you mean, 
accidentally?"

I caught the plainclothes agents throwing looks around 
Peyton again.  And then I saw Peyton's Ritter's face.  For 
the first time.  Really noticed it.  I'm no psychic but I pride 
myself on being able to read people a bit by this point in 
my career.  I sure as hell could read Ritter.  He might as 
well have been wearing a flashing red neon sign on his 
forehead.  There was blood on his shirt.  Blood on his 
hands.  Scully's blood.  But worst of all, oh, worst of all, 
there was guilt lurking in his eyes.  Shame.  Shock.  Horror...

Peyton Ritter had shot his first living, breathing person.

And it was Scully. 

Jesus Christ God help him.  I sure as hell wasn't going to.  
I saw him taking another step back.  "YOU shot her?" I spat 
the question at him.

He was stammering.  "I...I..I didn't mean to.  She shouldn't...
shouldn't have been there..." 

"You fucking son of a bitch," I shouted.  "You stupid, wet 
behind the ears, trigger happy little FUCK!"  I was gaining 
an audience by this point, including but not restricted to the 
immediate circle of cops and agents.  I think they believed 
that I was going to spend most of my rage shouting at him 
and were settling in for the verbal dressing-down show.  
Though I'm also pretty sure I didn't exactly take anyone by 
surprise when I launched myself at the little prick.

I wanted to kill him.  I might have if they'd given me the 
chance.  It took at least three of them to pull me off him.  
I was bellowing like a bull, my voice loud and enraged in 
my ears.  I got a hold of him by his shirt, and started hitting.  
I have a pretty quick right and I wasn't worrying about my 
hand.  I was thinking about smashing his face to a bloody 
pulp and breaking all my fingers doing it.  That was when I 
fixed again on the blood staining his shirt as they struggled 
to get hold and pull me off him.  

I knew that it was Scully's.  And there was a lot of it. 

My breath caught in a sob as they yanked me backward.  
The beefy cop who'd first tried to stop me with an ineffectual 
hand put some effort into it and slammed me up against the 
nearest wall, aided by about fifty solid pounds of donuts 
around his midsection.  "Calm down or I'm cuffin' you!" He 
shouted in my face.  By then, my breath was catching in my 
throat and I was choking on my own rage.  When he saw my 
face, his hold loosened a bit, though he moved his body to 
block Peyton Ritter from my view.  "Your partner's in surgery," 
he said gruffly.  "This ain't helpin' her."

I thought about Scully being shot by another agent.  I 
imagined how it must have felt.  She must have been 
surprised.  She must have felt scared.  Alone.

I thought about having the man who shot her being the one 
trying to stop her from bleeding to death.  Holding her.

I was shaking so badly with the urge to kill him that I 
wrapped my arms around my stomach to try and hold 
myself back from the darkness driving me forward.  A 
dangerously sick need to wreak vengeance upon him.

I should have been there.

The cop kept me up against the wall until he thought 
it was safe to let me go, and then he didn't let me go 
far.  He clamped a hand around my wrist as I moved 
back in line of sight to the focus of my rage.  "Get him 
out of here!" I demanded, pointing an accusatory finger 
at Peyton.  "Get him the FUCK out of here!  He has 
NO business being here.  You should throw his sorry 
ass in a cell!" I yelled.

A nurse came over to the scene and spoke to the group 
in general.  "You're going to have to leave if you can't be 
quiet," she announced, her own voice shaking with anger. 
"This is a hospital.  There are sick patients here."  I'm 
sure she would have threatened calling the cops on us 
if we weren't already the cops.  There were two other guys 
in uniform besides the one restraining me.  They milled 
around me and looked like they didn't know what the hell 
to do.

I had eyes only for Peyton Ritter.  I stared at him like I 
could kill him with my eyes.  His nose was bloody.  It 
seemed a sacrilege somehow that this stupid idiot's blood 
should mix with hers.  I was getting ready to go over and 
rip the shirt off him when the two guys on either side of 
him decided that discretion was the better part of valor 
and started moving him out of there.  The cops held me 
back as they half led, half carried him toward the exit.  
I stared after him.  "You can call and see how she is 
from your fucking jail cell, you stupid SHIT!" I ranted.  
I wanted to go after him still.  "If she dies, Ritter, expect 
a visit!" I shouted this after his disappearing form, saying 
his name like a curse.  He was staring back at me as he 
was led out the door, nothing on the god damn little 
asshole's face but pure terror.

Okay, maybe a little sorrow showed up there.  If I could 
have proven it was worry for himself and what this would 
do to his career, I'd have gone after him and kicked his 
balls in.  He looked apologetic at the last moment.  As 
if that would help.  As if that would make a damn bit of 
difference to me or to Scully.

The entire emergency room staff and waiting patients had 
ceased all activity to watch the show.  Currently, they were 
all staring at me.  I felt a rush of blood through my body 
and dropped down into a crouch, putting my hands over 
my face and trying to gain some semblance of control.  
Fighting the black swirling behind my eyes.  Scully would 
have loved this one.  I was about to keel over backwards 
in the emergency room.  Scully.  I had to think about 
Scully.  I had to find out what had happened to Scully.  
Where was she?  How was she?

I opened my eyes, letting a hand slide down over my mouth 
and breathing around it, hoping I wasn't going to be sick.  I 
looked up.  The cop was standing over me, looking down.  
He put a hand on my shoulder tentatively.  "Okay?"

I nodded slowly and stood, my eyes sliding away from him 
and everyone else in the room.  "I just want to find out about 
my partner," I said.  My voice was pathetic.  Rough from my 
shouting.  I sounded like I might start crying and I fought the 
urge back, swallowing painfully.

"Come'on."  He led me over towards the nurse's station, half 
supporting me.  People moved out of my way, but fast.  By 
that point, I'm sure that no one wanted me in the room.  They 
probably would have preferred Ritter.  "We need an update," 
the cop said to one of the nurses, who glanced nervously at 
me as she scurried away.

I felt my tenuous grip on sanity loosening as I waited.  The 
room seemed to recede around me and I heard a rushing 
noise in my ears.  I put my elbows on the counter and my 
forehead into my hands, staring blankly down at the pale 
formica and trying to regain control of my breathing.  If 
Scully did lose her life to this bullet, my grip on sanity 
might finally snap like the fragile tether that it was and 
float away from me, up into the ether.  Fox Mulder, living 
proof of the delicate hold and transient nature of sound 
mental health.

"You okay?" the cop demanded.

"Fine," I snapped back.

"He should sit down," one of the nurses said.

"I want to know about my partner," I bit back without 
looking at her.

The first nurse came back.  I managed to raise my eyes.  
"The patient is in surgery," she announced.

"I already fucking know that."  The volume started low but 
was quickly heading up again.  "Tell me something I don't.  
I'm listed as her next of kin.  I want to know how she really 
is."

The nurse spoke quickly, as if she thought I'd do the same 
thing to her that I had to Ritter if she didn't comply.  The 
cop put his hand on my arm again and didn't let me shrug 
it off.  "She's listed right now in critical condition," she said 
firmly.  Her voice was icy.  Disapproving.  "She'll probably 
be in surgery for another hour.  When the doctors know 
anything, they'll come out and talk to you.  You'd do best 
to have a seat and wait for them, Mr...?"

"Mulder," I said tightly.  "It's Special Agent Mulder."

"Have a seat, Special Agent Mulder," she said, punching 
out my title as if it insulted her to have to use it.  "He'll 
have to behave or he needs to leave," she said resolutely 
to my escort.

The cop led me with a firm arm to a seat as far away from 
the rest of the crowd as we could get.  I followed stiffly, 
feeling a headache begin to pound at my temples.  My 
mouth was dry and I felt sick to my stomach, the acid 
churning in concentrated loops in my gut.

Overall, a miserable time was being had by all involved, 
I was sure.

But especially by me.  And possibly Scully, if she was 
feeling anything right now.

****************************************************************
End of Part (1/3)  Continued in Part (2/3)


please send me feedback at katy2blue@aol.com, kbxf@aol.com
or katyblue2@hotmail.com.  You're the reason I post...Let me
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******************************************************************
Part (2/3)

The big cop sat down beside me.  He looked like a guy 
who'd spent a lot of years on the force and had no 
problem handling my erratic behavior.  The other two 
were younger, and continued to pace around, waiting for 
me.  The most likely candidate to go postal and give them 
something to do.  I glanced at the cop beside me and then 
put my elbows on my knees and my head back into my 
hands.  I didn't want to see any of it.  And I wasn't going 
anywhere.  The strange paralysis had returned.  A numb 
lethargy that I knew was shock.  Scully would be able to 
explain the physiological mechanisms of it to me if she 
were here.  It was hard to catch my breath.  I felt cold.  
My legs were trembling.  We sat for a few minutes in 
silence.

"It's not a good idea to threaten someone's life in front 
of so many witnesses," the cop grunted, as if he were 
giving advice.

"Were you at the scene?" I finally asked into my hands.

"Yeah."

"How'd it happen?" I asked.

"Your agent Ritter arrived to arrest the perpetrator.  We 
got called in as backup.  He went in first.  Shot the perp.  
One Alfred Fellig, photographer.  Your partner was 
standing behind Fellig."

I looked up then, staring at him incredulously.  "And 
Ritter didn't see her?"

"I guess not.  It's like you said.  Young.  Green.  Maybe 
he didn't think the bullet would go through the guy.  But 
it did, and it hit your partner.  Perp's dead."

I clasped my hands together to stop their shaking.  
"Fellig...the photographer...was he armed?  Was he 
trying to harm her?"

The cop paused, pressing his lips together.  Gauging, 
I'm sure, how I was going to react to his next disclosure.  
He put a warning hand on my arm before he spoke.  "They 
were in some kind of darkroom.  But there was plenty of 
light when the kid pulled the curtain back.  The guy wasn't 
armed, he had a camera.  Just a camera.  Like he was 
gonna take a picture."  He shook his head, shrugging.  
Wondering like I was what they'd been doing.  "Looks like 
your partner was already there, waiting for Ritter to come 
make the arrest.  Fellig was handcuffed to a table in the 
room with your partner's cuffs.  I don't think he was trying 
to hurt her," he added.  "Maybe he was and that's why 
she cuffed him.  No one knows."  And then, like he thought 
this was odd, which it was, "He was holdin' her hand when 
I got in there.  Like he'd been tryin' to help her before he 
died."

Jesus Christ.  Scully had the situation under control.  
That stupid, fucking little shit.  Friendly fire, it was called.  
A happy little name for one of your own taking you out.  
The big oops.

I couldn't breathe at all for a second.

Scully was not going to die this way.  I wasn't going to 
let her.  Unfortunately, I was sitting in the waiting room, 
under guard, and couldn't let her know this.

I was fairly miserable after this little conversation.
  
I put my head back in my hands and closed my eyes, 
just trying to hold it together.  Regain some control over 
my racing heart.  My churning stomach.  My screaming 
emotions.  Scully would have been in control in a situation 
like this.  She'd probably have been taking the bullet out of 
me herself.   Cool and collected.  In this world of scalpels 
and medicines, Scully would not have had to sit helplessly 
in a waiting room, feeling like she was about to puke all 
over her shoes.

After a while, the two younger cops decided the show was 
over with me and started to get restless.  The big guy sent 
them on their way, saying that he'd stay here with me.  One 
of the two got us coffee before he left.  I let mine sit untouched, 
cooling on the table beside me.  We were down to a party of 
two, waiting for word.

Scully deserved more.

"She's your partner, huh?" said the big guy suddenly.  
Obviously getting bored himself and in the mood for 
conversation.

"Yup." I said shortly, still speaking into my hands.  
I wasn't in the same mood.

"How long?" he asked.

"Six years."

"Long time," he grunted.  "You must be close."

I didn't answer.  I didn't look at him either.  I stared at the 
wall ahead of me.  Blank and unchanging.  Unmoved 
by tears or angry recriminations.

"You must be real close."

Now, I was getting angry.  I turned on him.  "Are you 
going somewhere with this?" I lashed out.

"Hey, take it easy...Agent Mulder, isn't it?" He held his 
hands up.  "I'm not going anywhere.  I just know how it is, 
that's all.  I had a partner killed in the line of duty back in 
'82.  We'd been together three years.  It was tough."

"She's not dead yet," I said savagely.

"I know she ain't.  I'm just saying I know what you're 
going through.  If it's any consolation, I think she'll make 
it.  She was fightin' it at the scene."

"What do you mean?" I asked.  Not wanting but needing to 
know what he'd seen.  More details than what I had at this 
point that would help to make sense of my confusion.

"When we brought the medics in.  I won't lie to you, Agent 
Mulder.  She was in rough shape.  She wasn't breathing.  
The bullet went through her too.  She lost a lot of blood at 
the scene.  But she was fightin' it.  Hangin' on."

"I want a copy of the report," I stated, already thinking about 
nailing Peyton Ritter's balls to a wall over this.  Shooting an 
unarmed man and a fellow officer in one smooth move.  I'd 
see him go down for this.  He was done.

"I'll get it to you."

"What do you mean, fighting it?" I asked.  How could this 
man even evaluate whether she was fighting or not if she 
wasn't even breathing?  I couldn't imagine it.  God, I didn't 
want to imagine Scully not breathing.  I didn't really have to, 
I'd seen it.  But not like that.  Not with blood coming out of 
her, on the floor in some dingy apartment blackroom with 
a murder suspect clutching her hand.  Jesus. 

"Look, Agent Mulder..."

"Just Mulder, please," I muttered.  I squeezed my hands 
together to stop their shaking.

"Okay, Mulder..."  I noticed his hand was on my arm 
again.  "I'm sure you seen your share, but I see a lot of 
death here.  Most violent city in the country," he said, 
as if this was its sick selling point.  "You see people 
givin' up and you see people fightin'.  I'm tellin' you, 
your partner was a fighter.  That don't mean she's 
gonna win the fight, but she's got a shot at it."

Ironic choice of words, I thought, wondering if he'd 
noticed.  I don't know if it was a smile or a grimace 
that I directed at him.  Anyway, it was gone from my 
face before a second had passed.

"After your performance here tonight, I know you're a 
little more than just partners, too," he said.  It wasn't 
an accusation, just an observation.

"You don't know anything," I spat.

"Easiest thing in the world to happen.  She looks like 
a beautiful woman."

I wondered how he could tell if he'd only seen her 
stretched out on a floor, covered in blood and not 
even breathing.  But then I thought, Scully would 
look beautiful even then.  Her beauty transcended 
its surroundings.  I decided I should just keep my 
mouth shut at this point.

"I'll go check and see how she's comin' along.  You
just stay here."  The last part was an order.  He knew 
how fragile my grip was.  I nodded apathetically, letting 
him go.

I stared at my shoes.

I should have been there.

When he came back, he was moving his head up and down 
affirmatively. I sat up, knowing he had something.  My heart 
began to gallop in my chest, on its way to a race and 
leaving me behind.  "Yup, good news, she made it through.  
She's in recovery.  The docs should be out soon to let us 
know what's goin' on."

I could at last breathe for a bit.  There was some small 
hope.  When the doctors came out they tried to shoot 
it down by somberly telling me that the next twenty four 
hours were critical and she wasn't out of the woods.  
And a whole lot of medical jargon that I think I blanked 
out.  Usually Scully was there to translate for me.  At 
that point, nothing could suppress my relief that she 
was still alive.

"I need to see her," I announced, interrupting them.

I think they let me see her just to avoid another scene 
like the one that had played out earlier.  I had, in a very 
short time, become infamous in the New York University 
Medical Center's emergency waiting room.  They gave 
me two minutes with her after they'd moved her to ICU.  
Two precious minutes with a tubed, dressed and 
unconscious Scully.

I hadn't meant to but when I held her hand, cool and inert 
up against my face, I cried into it until it grew warm.  So 
relieved to see her alive that the tears came without my 
knowledge or consent.  I pressed my lips against her 
palm and told her if she didn't pull through, I'd shoot 
myself.  If she heard that, she'd be pissed enough to 
stick around.

The nurse stuck her head back in.  "Agent Mulder...time 
to go."

I glared at her.  Reluctantly, I stood.  Afraid if I left, that 
Scully would disappear.  Not that she'd die, but that the 
next time I looked, she'd just be gone from the bed.  
Vanished, as if she'd never been there at all.  I placed 
her hand back on the covers, squeezing it before I let go.

In the hallway, I gave them some bullshit story about 
needing a guard on her door.  A little white lie about a 
threat against her life.  I flashed my badge at a few 
angry doctors and nurses.  The cop was brought back 
to curb me but for some reason, went along with my 
little ploy, shaking his head but understanding.  He 
got me a chair outside her room and settled me in it.  
Before he left, he shook his finger in my face. 
 
"You just do what they ask, Mulder.  Don't get in their 
way.  You won't be helpin' her."  He handed me a card 
with his name, phone and badge number on it and 
clapped a rough, warning hand on my shoulder.  
"If you need anything..."

"Thanks," I managed.

********************************************************************

Scully's recovery went smoothly.  It went quickly.  It went 
quietly.  Too quietly.

Scully wasn't talking much.

I didn't push the issue.  We'd always been good at 
respecting each other's silences.  She seemed 
grateful that I was there when she woke up.  But not 
surprised.  She expected me to be there.  She'd 
probably expected me to be there at the scene too.

I should have been there. 

Scully had a high pain tolerance.  It was either that or 
she felt the pain but was too stoic to show it.  You would 
have thought that she was in there for a hangnail.  She 
didn't complain.  Didn't argue.  Didn't do much of anything.  
She was listless and way too quiet.  It bothered me.  It 
was more passivity than Scully usually showed.

I asked her probably a hundred times that first day of 
consciousness if everything was okay.  She tolerated it 
the first few times.  After that, the question earned me 
dark, annoyed scowls before she replied.  I got her stock 
answer every time.  "I'm fine."

She slept a lot those first five days.  If I was there when 
she woke up, more often than not she'd go right back to 
sleep.  I didn't know if she was reassured by my presence 
or trying to avoid me.  I suspected avoidance.  As if she 
didn't want to talk or think about it.  Almost as if she were 
ashamed that this was somehow her fault.  I was convinced 
it was mine.  I wasn't sure which one of us was right and 
whose fault it was.  Hers for going or mine for not being 
there.  Or Agent Ritter's for being such a dumbass.

The New York office sent down representatives to get 
Scully's statement.  They didn't appreciate me being 
there.  I told them exactly what I thought of their opinion.  
And of a certain agent, out of Scully's earshot, of course.  
They assured me that Agent Ritter was truly sorry and 
aware of the seriousness of his actions.  That he would 
be duly reprimanded.  That this would certainly go on his 
record.  I laughed in their faces.  Big deal.  Like that would 
make up for it.  I told them they should censure his sorry 
ass and then give it a good kick out the door.

Assistant Director Kersh called and told me to report back 
to my background check detail.  Like finding out whether 
John Q. Smith smoked pot in college was so important that 
I needed to get back immediately.  As if the future of the 
world was resting on whether a kid inhaling or not was 
appropriate F.B.I. material.  Right.  I told him I was taking 
a little vacation.  He tried to deny it.  I told him he could try 
putting the time somewhere else if he'd rather and hung the 
phone up.  Put that in a letter and file it, asshole.

Just my own little way of making friends.  I was good at it.

***********************************************************************
End of Part (2/3)  Continued in Part (3/3)


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********************************************************************
Part (3/3)

Agent Ritter wanted to see Scully.  I was violently opposed 
to the idea, though I didn't let on to Scully.  I hadn't let on 
about my emergency room performance either.  I let her 
make the decision on her own.  I held the plastic cup up to 
her lips so she could sip water through the short straw to 
soothe her parched throat and told her of the request.

She frowned.  "Why?"  Her voice was small.  Hoarse.

I put the cup down and unobtrusively slipped my hand under 
hers.  Why else, the bastard?  He felt guilty.  He wanted 
forgiveness.  He needed Scully to say, 'geez, it's okay 
that you almost killed me...don't worry about it Peyton.'  
I shrugged.  "He wanted to see how you're doing, I guess."

"He wants absolution," she muttered darkly, starting to 
cough.  I grabbed a tissue and handed it to her so she 
could hawk one in there if she needed to.

"You don't have to see him," I said quietly, starting to 
close my hand around hers.

She sighed and didn't say anything.  I clasped her hand 
with both of mine and put it up against my chest.  She 
looked at me funny and then closed her eyes.

"Do you want to see him?" I asked, playing with her 
fingers.  "If you don't, that's okay Scully.  I'll tell them 
you'd rather not.  You don't have to..."

"Mulder..." she said, warning me that I was pushing it.  
She let me keep her hand though, which was a good sign.  
"I'll see him."  Her voice was quiet again.  Tired.  She was 
going back to sleep.  I had an urge to keep her awake but 
it had only been six days.  She needed her rest.  So she 
could recover and get the hell out of Dodge.

I found out right before Ritter showed up to see her that 
he would not lose his job over the incident.  He would not 
receive censure or be relieved of any duties.  He would 
accumulate one official reprimand in his file.  I wondered 
if that one could measure up to the collective many that 
had been filed on Scully and myself.  It might someday 
keep him from being promoted.  It might hurt his career.  

Or it might not.

It incensed me that he might never have to pay the piper 
for what he'd done.  Just like that, justice is unfairly served.

He came in the afternoon of the next day.  When he saw 
me outside her room, he almost turned around and went 
back the other way.  His footsteps slowed.  He had two 
agents with him who were probably there solely because 
of me.  Bodyguards.  I stood in front of Scully's door until 
he reached it.  I stared directly at him, unmoving.

"Come'on, Agent Mulder.  Let him through," one of the 
agents said impatiently.

He looked petrified of me.  I stepped aside slowly.  "Say 
one word to upset her and you're exiting out the window," 
I said, pointing a finger in his face and fighting my urge 
to stop him from going into the room.  "I'll be watching 
you, Ritter."

"Cut him a break," the other agent said, putting an arm 
up across my chest and giving me a little shove backward 
so that Peyton, the little worm, could get through.  I 
shoved back and Peyton slipped around us into the room, 
shutting the door.  The two agents stared belligerently 
at me for a bit until I moved over to the window that 
looked into Scully's room.  Then they strolled a little 
ways down the hall so that they could talk about me in
private while keeping an eye on me, I'm sure.  Muttering 
stories to one another that had traveled the F.B.I. 
grapevine.

I stared through the window, watching the interaction.  
Lifting the blind with my finger and spying without remorse.  
Okay, I had a little twinge of guilt that Scully wouldn't 
approve.  It didn't make me stop.  Peyton Ritter stood 
at the foot of the bed with his back to the window, probably 
on purpose.  He knew I was out there.  I moved so that I 
could see Scully.  She seemed okay.  Tired.  Her eyes 
were watchful.  She wasn't giving him an inch.

He talked for a while.  I saw his shoulders moving.  He 
was probably trying to explain his actions.  Or promise 
that such a thing wouldn't happen again.  Maybe he was 
apologizing.  I didn't envy his position.  I saw Scully shrug.  
I could read the set of her mouth.  Her lips were pursed 
tightly.  The way she was looking at him I could tell that 
she thought he was as big a jackass as I did.  I'll bet she 
was wondering if Kersh had paired her up with such an 
incompetent on purpose.

She shrugged off his final apology, if that's what he was 
doing, turning her head away from him.  She didn't excuse 
his behavior.  She didn't absolve him or forgive him, of that 
I was certain.  Her brow had those little wrinkles she gets 
when she's angry or confused.  She also gets them when 
she's scared or concentrating.  She didn't look back at him.  
And when he turned away to leave, for a fraction of a second 
I was sure that she was focusing almost angrily at his final 
retreat.  But the look immediately faded to just tired.  Resigned.  
She swallowed hard. It worried me.  Enough that I didn't give a 
rat's ass about Ritter when he came out the door and into my 
face.  I stared at him one last time, hoping that I never saw his 
pathetic face again.

"You're a lucky man." I stated, dangerously quiet.  The final 
words that I would say to him.  A promise that I would have 
had much more to say, had things been different.

He stared at me, like a jackrabbit caught in the headlights.  
Probably expecting me to punch him again.  Almost inviting it.  
He blinked once.  Gave me a small nod and, looking down 
quickly, stepped past me.  He recognized his luck.  I restrained 
myself, wanting him gone.  Knowing that because of our own 
low status, he would not get in nearly enough trouble for what 
he had done.  Hell, they would most assuredly blame Scully.  
Or myself.

I opened the door and walked back into Scully's room, 
embarrassed for a second that she might have heard me 
harassing Ritter or seen me watching.  I looked up and 
saw the small smile of welcome, the relief that it was me.  
I raised my eyebrows and sent one back to her, a strange 
emotion rising up in my chest and filling it.  I hesitated, not 
wanting to tell her the news I'd found out right before Peyton's 
visit.  But I was just as sure his visit was a subject that I 
shouldn't touch just yet.

I picked up her hand and slipped mine around it.  She played 
along as I clasped hers and made a gentle attempt to pin her 
in thumb wrestling but it turned into more of a caress.  She 
seemed okay.  I cleared my throat to get rid of the tight feeling 
that was there. 

"Coroner's report came back on Fellig."  She sighed at my 
words.  "Says he died of a single gunshot wound."  I shrugged 
and shook my head, knowing that wouldn't be enough for her.  
But there were no great details.  "That's all it said."

She stared up at me, unresponsive to the news.  Her eyes 
were catching the light, pools of emptiness.  I felt my heart 
stutter and sat down on the bed beside her, trying to draw 
her back.  Maybe I should have started with the good news.  
"I...uh...talked to your doctor and he says you're doing great." 
I smiled.  "You're making the fastest recovery he's ever seen."  
I was certainly happy about it but Scully didn't seem to care.  
She didn't respond to this news either.  She dropped her eyes 
from mine.

I was trying to think of something else to say when she 
spoke.  "You know, Mulder, I don't even know how I entertained 
the thought."  Her eyes lost mine.  They drifted toward the 
window, staring out at the light.  I noticed often how beautiful 
Scully's eyes were but the sunlight from outside washed them 
out eerily, to an ethereal pale blue.  Her next words floated out, 
sad and lost.  "People don't live forever."

I wasn't even sure whose death she was referring to.  
Collectively, we'd seen so many.  It could even have been 
her own.  I spoke quickly, most frightened by the latter 
possibility, telling myself that she was only referring to Fellig.  
"No, I think he would have," I argued, nodding emphatically.  
She was staring at me.  Again, that blank look.  As if my words 
meant nothing to her.  As if I were talking in nonsense syllables.  
"I just think that death only looks for you..."  I stopped for a 
second, almost unable to breathe at the bleak look in her eyes.  
My heart jackhammered against my chest.  I glanced away for 
a second myself, searching for the words to finish what I was 
trying to say.  The words that would convince her.  They came 
out tentative and unsure.  "Once you seek its opposite..."  
My voice trailed away at the disbelief and doubt in her return 
gaze.  It pierced my soul.  I broke off.

Sometimes, Scully scared the shit out of me.  

The realization that she didn't believe what had happened 
to her was not a new one.  In fact, I should be used to it 
by now.  I used to believe that one day, Scully would see 
the light.  That she would finally see the proof with her very 
own eyes and believe as I do.

But she stared blankly back at me.  Unable to comprehend 
or share my own belief.  Her eyes moved back and forth, 
searching mine.

And then they slipped away from me.

I clutched her hand and tasted fear.  I had come to my own 
realizations recently.  Scully had seen proof with her own 
eyes now many times.  And each time she turned away 
from it.  Just like this.  In some ways, she was searching 
more fervently than myself.  But her search needed so 
much more than mine.  What she saw did not buoy her.  
Her own inner measure was not enough for her. Her fear 
held her back from believing in what she'd herself seen. 
She was unable to trust herself or believe her own eyes. 

She needed to see what she saw through other's eyes.  
Through how they saw her and their belief in her.  She 
needed to be measured outside herself.

I tried to show her herself through my eyes. I wanted 
her to see how I saw her.  Maybe what I witnessed at 
that moment was not exactly what she should be 
discovering about herself.  But there was more there.  
So much more.  I pulled both her hands up against my 
chest and leaned down so that our faces were almost 
touching.  Trying desperately to reach her.  

"Scully," I said urgently.  "You're right, no one lives 
forever."  I had her attention at least, though it was 
only because I was in her face and unavoidable.  And 
her eyes were still bleak.  "Who'd want to?  But we 
live for awhile.  And you're still here.  You chose to 
live."  I'd had her for a second but that phrase lost her.  
She stared out the window again.  "Scully," I pleaded 
desperately.  "Please, look at me."

She wouldn't.  "I didn't choose, Mulder," she whispered, 
ashamed.  "I just did what he told me to do.  He was the 
one who made the choice.  I was just doing what I was 
told."  She started to cry.  I gripped her hands hard.  I 
had rarely seen Scully really cry.  I counted the times.  
I'd seen it with the Pfaster case, when her fear at violent 
death had been apparent.  I'd seen it in the hospital in
Allentown, when her fear of the senseless wasting of 
cancer had gripped her.  This was another one of those 
times.  When she, once again, had little control over her 
life.  When death on the floor of a run down apartment at 
someone else's careless hand had been something she 
could not face.  When her own doubt could have killed 
her.  "I don't want to talk about this, Mulder."

"You have to talk about it," I said fiercely.  "We have to 
talk about it."

She choked on her sobs and I slipped my arms around 
her and pulled her up against me, feeling her warmth 
and life.  I couldn't imagine her gone.  I didn't want to 
believe that her existence was this painful.  How it was 
possible to struggle so hard, for belief in possibilities, 
for belief in life, was beyond my comprehension.  I wanted 
to make her believe in something magical.  Hell, I just 
wanted to make her believe that things would work out.  
I practically crushed her against me.  I'm sure it hurt her 
but my own fear overcame me for a moment.  She struggled 
a little and then gave up, curling up against my chest, head 
bowed in defeat.  Her sobs slowed and stopped.  Her fingers 
plucked restlessly at a button on my shirt.

I cradled her like a baby.  I slid my hand into her hair, 
cupping the back of her neck, her body light and almost 
insubstantial in my arms.  She looked up with those 
amazingly beautiful eyes.  And I lowered my head and 
started kissing her.  Her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, 
her cheek, I slid my lips around to her ear, and almost 
whispered, "I love you, Scully," but my heart pounded 
against my ribcage and I was afraid to do it.  I'd tried it 
once and gotten jack.  She just sighed and gave a final 
little hiccuping sob, still fiddling with the damn button 
on my shirt.  "We're gonna be okay, Scully," I promised 
instead.

She didn't answer.  But she stopped with the button and 
laid her hand on my chest, over my heart.  Listening with 
her fingers to its erratic beat.  "I want to believe that, 
Mulder," she whispered finally. 

"You did choose, Scully.  You lived."

"I didn't," she insisted quietly.  "He said 'Don't look.  
Close your eyes.'  So I did."

"Isn't that the same thing?" I demanded.  I caught her face 
and made her look at me.  We searched one another's 
eyes, both looking for something I don't know if either 
of us found.  "Isn't it?  So you had a little help.  But 
ultimately you made the choice for what you did."

She shook her head.  "I don't believe there was any 
choice.  I don't believe death took him instead of me.  
I don't believe any of it, Mulder..."

I was beginning to get frustrated.  "Then you believe in 
the paper trail on Fellig.  At least give me that, Scully."

She stopped talking.  Her eyelids closed slowly before 
they opened again.  "I'm tired, Mulder."

"Don't turn away from it, Scully," I pleaded.

"Let me go," she said, squirming out of my grasp.  I let 
her back down on the bed before she hurt herself.  "I 
don't want to talk about it anymore," she said when she 
saw my face.

I closed my eyes, fighting for strength.  I wanted her to 
see only acceptance in my eyes.  But when I thought I'd 
finally won my own inner struggle and opened them, hers 
were closed.  "Scully," I said gently, touching her cheek.

She was asleep.

*********************************************************************

They released her a few days later.  I was waiting to take 
her back to D.C.  She moved slowly around the room, 
getting dressed while I refused to leave and covered my 
eyes for her instead.  It made her laugh a little.

"Peyton called this morning," she said, reminded of him 
as she tossed the bouquet he'd sent into the trash can 
with a sigh.

"What'd he want?" I asked, trying to keep my voice 
neutral.

"Forget it, Mulder.  I know your dirty little secret.  The 
nurses around here are all over you, he-man.  I heard 
in great detail about your lack of control in the waiting 
room.  You're lucky the bureau's not bringing you up 
on charges."

"That would be ripe, wouldn't it?" I answered.  "That 
would be something they'd do.  You get shot by him 
and I get censured."  But I was distracted from my 
train of thought as I watched her.  She tossed the 
gunman's bouquet and moved to mine.  Her fingers 
played over one of the flowers, caressing a petal.  
She left the arrangement where it was and turned to 
smile, coming over to sit down on the bed beside me.  
She made a little grunting noise as she settled and 
sat up straighter like it had hurt.  Reaching out, she 
took my hand between hers. We sat like that for a 
minute, and I didn't trust myself to speak, not sure 
that I wouldn't say something I'd regret.

"I'm afraid of dying, Mulder," she announced.  "I feel 
like I grow more afraid of it every day that I'm alive 
and I don't know why."

I stopped breathing.  

"I need more proof than you do.  I know that.  But I 
can't change that.  I've tried.  I just can't change myself."

"I'm not asking you to, Scully."  Change needed to 
come from within.  It couldn't come from someone else 
wanting it to be there.  And maybe she thought that she 
didn't have enough strength to believe in herself.  To 
believe in the possibilities that she'd seen.  To believe 
in life.  But I knew that she did.  

I could wait.

She sighed and threaded her fingers through mine, looking 
down for a minute at the way our hands intertwined.  
"What's happening to us?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know," I lied.  But I did.

She did too.  She looked over at me out of the corner of 
her eyes.  She gave me a mysterious little smile and I 
answered with one of my own.  Reaching up, she rested 
her fingers against my cheek and then traced them down 
it to my lips.  I closed my eyes and fought back a shiver.  
I felt her lean up and touch her lips to mine.  When she 
stopped, I opened my eyes.  She was sitting quietly and 
studying me.

"I like how you see me, Mulder," she announced.  I 
couldn't even speak after that zinger.  She stood up, 
making that little grunt again, holding carefully to her 
side.  "Are you ready to go home, partner?"

"You bet."

I was there. 

**************************************************************************
THE END


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******************************************************
If the sea could dream, and if the sea
were dreaming now, the dream
would be the usual one: Of the Flesh.
The letter written in the dream would go
something like:  Forgive me - love, Blue.

		-From 'Cortege' by Carl Phillips-
******************************************************

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