Letting the Demons Go: Salvation
 Date: Thu, 16 Apr 1998 

***** 

Summary: Demons aftermath as told by Scully
Spoilers: Demons, fourth season up to it casually mentioned
Surgeon General Warning: I had to use the cancer arc--I'm guilty,
 I admit it. I've arranged for my fifty lashes with a wet noodle.
Rating: PG-13
Category: S, Mythology, A, UST
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. But I play nicely and I don't make
 money from this.
Archives: Please put everywhere you want, just leave my name
 attached.
Comments: please, pretty please vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com
Thanks to my editor, Susan 

Letting the Demons Go--Salvation
by Vickie Moseley
 vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

Mulder Summer Home, Rhode Island
 April 14, 9:45pm 

"Mulder, put down the gun." 

God in heaven, how many times would I have to say those words?
 How many times were we going to play this perverted form of
 Russian Roulette? What would it take to end it? My death? His
 death? 

He was not listening. Or at least, not to me. I could see by the
 closed eyes, the way he's caressing his cheek with the barrel of the
 gun, like it was a lover's hand, a touch of silk. My stomach recoiled
 at the thought. Autoerotic asphyxiation. Why did those words
 invade my mind at that moment? 

He mumbled something about how everything is clearer and the
 cold of the room had nothing to do with the chills running relays up
 and down my spine. I held my breath, wished my heart would stop
 the incessant pounding in my chest. It's just Mulder, for God's
 sakes, I wanted to scream at my reflexes. Just Mulder with another
 fucking gun to his head. So what else was new? 

A dead policeman and two dead senior citizens, all recent recipients
 of the same 'treatment' my partner had just undergone. All dead by
 their own hands or the hand of a loved one. That was new enough
 for me. That changed the whole game plan. 

I don't know when I became so monumentally stupid, but I think at
 some point, I just gave up being scared. I started actually thinking I
 could talk him down from this ledge he was teetering on. "Are you
 going to shoot me, Mulder. Is it that important to you?" 

There it was, the question of our lives together. Who's more
 important to you, Mulder? A sister you haven't seen in 23 years, or
 the woman who has stood beside you for the last five? A woman
 who has given up everything, even her life, maybe, for you and your
 search. I promised myself once that I would never make him
 choose between us. Some promises are just made to be broken. 

My question still hung in the air. "yes," came the whispered reply
 and I wasn't really that surprised that I didn't feel anything in the
 answer. Not hurt. Not betrayed. Not frightened. Just numb. A
 cut too deep to feel. I would bleed to death before I would realize
 I had been mortally injured. 

But then, just when I thought to myself that it would probably hurt
 less to die from a gunshot wound to the chest than a tumor in my
 brain, Mulder changed all the odds. He swung his body around and
 started firing at the wall. The first shot made me jump. By shot
 number six, I was wondering how many rounds were left in the clip. 

He folded in on himself. Crumpled before my eyes. Curled into a
 tight ball on himself, the gun a forgotten mistress on the floor by his
 feet. 

I stood there, for a second, telling myself it was over. Instinct
 overcame me and I lowered down around him, covering him as best
 as I could. I laid my head on his back and heard his sobs through
 his ribcage. I added my own tears to the sweat the ran down his
 back. 

There was movement behind me and I gathered the presence of
 mind to give an 'all clear'. The SWAT team entered, glancing
 around the small room as if expecting an armed militia. Nope,
 guys, just one slightly mental FBI agent and his faithful sidekick,
 the cancer-riddled pathologist. Geez, we make a sick pair. 

Mulder was starting to shiver and I realized that the men in flak
 jackets sure couldn't help him, so I calmly forced my emotions back
 in their file cabinet and pulled out all my medical training. Any first
 year med student could see he was in shock. What might have been
 missed was the unmistakable 'aura' that I'd picked up on with the
 seizures. 

Mulder grabbed his head with both hands, his face contorted from
 intense pain and I knew, God help me, I knew in my heart that the
 seizures I'd seen in the last two days were nothing more than the
 warm up for the one I was about to witness. It wasn't medical
 school that had trained me how to respond to what happened next.
 It was brute hard life experience. 

He was holding his head, rocking, but suddenly, his whole body
 snapped taut, his arms snapped to his sides and his head was
 thrown back with the force of the muscles reactions to the strong
 impulses from his brain. And then, in less than a split second, he
 started to convulse. 

It scared me the first time I saw it happen. I was just a kid, first
 year in the dorms. Never had a beer in my life. We were out for a
 night, just a few of us. Fake ID's and a pocket full of refunds from
 books we had sold back to the college bookstore. Nancy forgot to
 tell us that she had epilepsy. I'd never seen a grand mal seizure
 before in my life, and I vowed that the next time I would know
 what to do. Watching your best friend almost bite off her tongue
 was not the kind of 'great college story' you want to hand down to
 your grandkids. 

I grabbed Mulder's head with my left hand, his jaw, with my right.
 I held his jaw shut against the bronco ride his body was taking, but
 made no attempt to hold him down. Nothing I could have done
 would have worked at that point, anyway. I wished I'd had the
 time to look at my watch, time the damn thing. The doctors at the
 ER would want to know how long the first one lasted. A baseline
 to determine if the next one was of longer duration. I had already
 determined that this would not be an isolated incident. 

As his body shuddered to a halt, his eyes rolled farther back in his
 head and I knew he'd lost consciousness without even checking. I
 gently lowered him the rest of the way to the ground and stood up.
 Five faces, pasty white, stared through me. Obviously, no one had
 called the paramedics yet. 

Then, I heard the sirens. At least someone on the outside didn't
 have their head up their ass. But the team was starting to worry me
 a little. "It's all right. He had a seizure. Remember, I said he was
 in need of medical attention," I reminded the assembled masses. I
 noticed that a few of them started breathing again. I looked at the
 one most likely to be lucid and motioned to the door. "Show the
 EMT's how to get back here," I directed. He was more than happy
 to comply. 

"I need blankets," I said and the others started to move, like 6 foot
 wind up dolls. Mulder had the good fortune to go berserk in the
 bedroom, so it wasn't long before I had enough blankets to keep
 him warm in the dead of winter. I tucked the blankets around him
 and then moved aside as the gurney was carried into the room. 

I was advising the EMT's of the most recent seizure when I noticed
 the blood on my left hand. Instinctively, I touched my upper lip,
 and then realized that the blood was from Mulder's forehead.
 Another little present from the now incarcerated Dr. Goldstein.
 "Better tell base that he's going to need a PET scan, stat," I told
 the nearest burly guy in powder blue. 

"Is that a gunshot wound?" burly asked and I shook my head no.
 "Dentist's drill," I informed him. He blanched, but went back to
 work. 

I wandered to the side of the room and tried to make myself look
 anywhere else but at my partner. My hands itched to start the IV
 myself, adjust the O2 so the edge of the mask wouldn't chafe the
 bridge of his nose. I wanted to go tell them to start antibiotics, to
 give him cortisteroids to reduce the swelling of the brain. In
 essence, make myself a nuisance to the people who were trying to
 help him more than I could at that moment. Luckily, Det. Curtis
 arrived and pushed his way through the men standing around,
 guarding Mulder from the as yet unseen intruder. 

"Agent Scully, is he--" 

I stopped him before he finished that statement. "I got here in time,
 Det. Curtis. He's alive." 

Curtis looked doubtfully at the gurney. "He's still bleeding?" A
 small trickle of blood was marring the white starched surface of the
 gurney's pillow. 

"Yes," I said. "Did Dr. Goldstein say anything more?" I really
 didn't want to dwell on the blood, or what it might mean.
 Permanent damage to the dura matter of the brain was not
 something I could fix with a cup of soup or a kind word. 

Curtis looked disgusted. "Man, the old bastard must rake it in.
 Called the best defense attorney in three states. He's not talkin'.
 Claiming 'doctor/patient' confidentiality prohibits him from giving
 us the details of the treatment, or some shit. It makes you wish for
 the days of bright lights and rubber hoses," he concluded, then
 looked at me, slightly embarrassed. "I didn't mean that--" 

"I was thinking of bamboo shoots under the nails, actually,
 detective," I told him and after he swallowed, he graced me with a
 smile. 

The burly EMT, who I noticed was named 'Stevens' according to
 the label on his shirt, touched my arm to get my attention. "We're
 ready to roll here. Do you want to follow?" 

"I'd like to ride along," I said, wondering if I would need to use my
 badge, my gun or both to get my way. "I'm a doctor," I offered. 

He considered that a minute, then nodded. I turned to Curtis and
 shook his hand. "How can I thank you? Without your help--" 

"Not a problem, Agent Scully. Just, uh, well, get him back to DC
 as soon as he's able to travel, if it's not too much bother." 

I snorted at that. Yeah, I'm sure Mulder was one Fed Det. Curtis
 would not miss. "I'll make sure he's out of your hair for the
 remainder of our stay," I assured him. 

The ride wasn't that long, maybe twenty minutes. Mulder was still
 unconscious, and he didn't seize again in the ambulance. I wasn't
 so far gone that I thought it meant that was over, I was just grateful
 that they weren't right on top of each other. Maybe, just maybe, he
 would be able to survive his own terminal stupidity. One more
 time. 

We arrived at the ER, and the lights always cause me to squint. I
 caught the stare the triage nurse was giving me and again touched
 my hand to my lip. Sure enough, I was having a nosebleed. I
 excused myself and found a bathroom, cursed that damned cancer
 that didn't have more sense than to leave me alone when Mulder
 was the one in need of a doctor. I can only deal with one medical
 emergency at a time, God damn it! Thankfully, the nosebleed was
 just an annoyance and stopped rather quickly. I was able to leave
 the restroom only to be escorted to a functional cubicle in admitting
 to give the hospital all the necessary information to ensure their
 payment for services rendered. 

I did get one chuckle out of the evening. When the nice looking
 admitting clerk, still not looking up at me, but only at his computer
 screen asked me 'how did Mr. Mulder become injured?' I calmly
 told him that he had some guy drill a hole in his head. The look on
 his face was priceless. 

Fun and games over, I went in search of my partner. He wasn't too
 hard to find, the whole ER was whispering about him. He'd seized
 again as they were moving him to the ER gurney. I glanced at my
 watch, it was after 11 pm. Roughly, I guessed that he was having
 them about an hour apart, but was probably miles off course. He
 might have two in a row and then he might not have another for the
 rest of his life. 

No, we'd never get that lucky, I told myself. 

As I was turning the corner, I ran right smack into a tall, middle
 aged doctor, with an interesting handlebar mustache. He took in
 my appearance and stuck out his hand. "You must be Dr. Scully.
 I'm Dr. Nate Highland, I'm treating your partner." 

I shook his hand and followed him into the exam room. Mulder
 was now sporting more than just sterile water above his head. I
 recognized IV antibiotics. 

"While you were busy, we did a lumbar puncture. The fluid was
 clear, no sign of blood. Mr. Mulder's blood pressure is 135 over
 100, I suspect that's high," he said, stopping only for my answering
 nod. "He's running a temp of 101. I ran some lab tests, they aren't
 back yet, but judging from the placement of the wound and the
 history of the last couple of days that you gave Larry in the
 ambulance, I'm not ready to rule out an infection, possibly a form
 of encephalitis. Either way, I've started him on antibiotics." 

Told you so, Mulder. 

"I understand he had another seizure," I said. "Have you done the
 PET?" 

Highland winced. "I'm getting him in as soon as possible. We had
 a big crack up on the interstate--lots of head injuries. But believe
 me, your partner is toward the top of the list. I expect to get him in
 within the next half hour." Highland looked very uncomfortable all
 of a sudden. "Could you explain to me how he got the injury?" 

What, the good doctor didn't believe that a full grown man, an FBI
 agent, would willing sit in a chair and have some joker take a
 Makita (tm) power drill to his head? I didn't have time for this shit,
 but then again, I had all the time in the world until we could get that
 intercranial imaging accomplished. 

"Agent Mulder was receiving highly suspect treatments for a loss of
 memory that occurred during his childhood. He received the first
 treatment some time after Friday night. I found him Sunday
 morning. He received a second treatment tonight, late this evening.
 The treatment incurred receiving an unknown dose of the drug
 Ketamine and then having the patient sit with a strobe light attached
 to a visor over his eyes. The last stage of 'treatment' was to drill a
 small hole in the frontal lobe, right at the hairline. It was thought to
 induce the hallucinations that would lead to the return of the lost
 memory." I found myself looking intently at the floor during my
 recitation. It was hard to even think about it, much less say it out
 loud. 

"Well, I can understand the seizures a little better, now," Highland
 said with a decided frown on his face. "And I'm sure it produced
 some vivid hallucinations." He then scowled at me directly. "Why
 didn't you stop him from taking a second treatment?" 

Gee, doc, I didn't know the gun was loaded. What the hell could I
 say? I didn't think for a minute that leaving him alone with his
 mother, of all people, would result in him running off without me
 and doing the same damned thing again. Especially when he knew
 how dangerous the procedure was. But then, knowing Mulder as I
 do, that should have been my first thought. 

Highland was still staring at me. "I tried to stop him. He took off
 without me," I said and it sounded pretty damned lame to my ears. 

Highland shrugged and obviously thought considerably less of the
 federal government after our encounter, but there wasn't much I
 could do. 

God, occasionally, you do look out for me. The orderlies arrived to
 take Mulder to the X Ray department. I looked over at Highland,
 certain he would bar my admittance, but he jerked his head toward
 the gurney and I followed after them. 

*****

We were just getting to the X Ray room when Mulder started to
 come around. He gets so scared in the hospital. I don't know what
 happened to him before I got on the scene, but he wakes up hard
 and usually panics unless he sees me in the first few seconds. I
 pushed around an orderly to get into his line of sight. 

He was just getting his mouth to work. "Scully?" 

"Right here, partner," I assured him. My gut wanted to scream at
 him, pound a few holes in his head myself, but I knew it would be
 wasted effort. Much better to reserve that kind of display for when
 he was lucid and well enough to receive the blows. Now, I just had
 to be the caring friend and next of kin. I could do that. I didn't
 even mind that much. We do these things for each other. 

"Head hurts," he whimpered. I would hope so, but I didn't say
 that. They weren't even close to giving him pain killers, not till
 they knew if there was internal bleeding that might require surgery. 

"I know. I'm sorry. Just hang on a little longer, then I'll make 'em
 give you the good drugs," I said, trying to keep my voice light. 

It was as if a light went off in his head. He struggled to sit up,
 looked around frantically. "Where are we?" he demanded, and the
 orderlies were holding him down while I tried to get him to listen to
 me. 

"Mulder, you're in the hospital in Providence. They need to do a
 PET scan. You remember those. You don't like them because
 they stabilize your head and you aren't supposed to move, but it
 can't be avoided." 

"No, Scully. I wanta go home," he pleaded, but it wasn't taking
 that much to hold him down. The seizures had taken all the fight
 out of him and the fever was knocking him down a bit as well. 

"No, Mulder. Not yet. I told you this before. You have to be
 monitored. Mulder, you've gone past the headache variety
 episodes. You had a grand mal seizure back there, and one since
 you got here," I reasoned. 

He looked at me like I'd grown two heads. "No, I didn't." 

"Yes, you did," I said, as reasonably as I could under the
 circumstances. I was the one holding your mouth closed, stupid, I
 wanted to say, but the orderlies might think that was a bit harsh.
 "Mulder, now is not the time. You had that idiot quack drill a hole
 in your head," I hissed in his ear and again got the shocked look in
 return. Oh shit. He didn't remember. It was time to regroup. 

"Mulder, relax, OK?" I begged. "Just let them get you in for the
 test and I'll explain everything later." 

He wasn't that happy with the abbreviated explanation, but he
 accepted it. He nodded and took a deep breath, then closed his
 eyes. 

They pushed Mulder's gurney through one door, I was ushered
 through the one next to it. Inside, it was like every observation
 room I'd ever had the pleasure to visit. Mulder was carefully
 loaded on the movable table, eyes still clenched shut. He wasn't in
 pain, I knew that. Mulder hates having his head examined. I've
 reminded him of that every time he's put himself in a position that
 requires medical intervention. His photographic memory always
 manages to take a walk during those discussions. 

Since we'd been this road a couple of times, I knew my part well. I
 gestured to the microphone that was connected with the procedure
 room. The technician shrugged and flipped a switch, I was on the
 air. "Mulder. I'm right here. It's all right. Just relax." 

"I'm not gonna open my eyes," he responded. Gee, no change in
 dialogue so far. 

"That's OK, but with your face all scrunched up, you're going to
 scare the nurses," I told him. Variation on a theme. Last time it
 was 'scare the doctor' but that was when he'd pulled a really cute
 female resident. 

I know I heard him chuckle under his breath and his face did visibly
 relax a little. The tech made a few corrections on the computer and
 hit a button. The machine whirred to life and Mulder entered it's
 maw slowly. 

It takes time to map the brain, but the area of concern was easy to
 spot. Sure enough, the good Dr. Goldstein had nicked a small
 artery. There was bleeding within the cranium, but fortunately not
 enough to cause undue pressure. The question would be one of
 time. Given a few hours of rest, the bleeding would more than
 likely stop on it's own, and we could avoid surgery. If there
 appeared to be pressure building, we'd have no choice. 

Dr. Highland seemed to relax beside me. Good, he wasn't one for
 cracking open skulls without good reason, I figured. I relaxed a
 little. Mulder could safely be given some pain killers to help him
 sleep and we'd see what would happen during the next 24. At least
 it was looking good. 

I was about to discuss options with Highland, having turned away
 from the computer screen, when the tech let out a low whistle.
 "Ahh, I think we have a problem." 

The amazing thing about a PET scan, as opposed to the older MRI,
 is that you can actually see the brain working in color. And as I
 turned back to the computer screen, I could plainly see the flashes
 of color appearing in the frontal lobe. Electrical activity in glorious
 Technicolor. Massive, chaotic, almost hypnotizing in its
 beauty--but dangerous and unwanted like a nearby lightning strike. 

"Get him out of there," Highland was yelling, and I knew he was
 afraid Mulder was about to grand mal again. But this one was like
 the others, the ones from the last two days, and I held Highland off. 

"He'll be all right. It's one of the hallucinations," I tried to explain.
 I could hear Mulder moaning, like he had in the summer house. A
 low keening moan--not of agony, but of understanding. "Give him
 a minute," I pleaded with Highland, who was on step away from
 calling for a large syringe of dilantin--extra strength. 

"Why? Why her? Mom, why the hell did they take her? How
 could you let him take your baby girl?" Mulder's voice was more
 pleading than mine, speaking to a woman who was not only miles,
 but years away from us. The mother of an eleven year old boy and
 a seven year old girl. 

"Not him. No, no, no, no, no--please Mom, not him," my partner
 was crying and all the while I could see the storm move across the
 lobes of his brain, raining down memories, fears and anguish as they
 raged on. 

"Mulder," I called out. I couldn't leave him all alone with this, it
 was too much for him. "Mulder, I'm here. It's OK. It's going to
 be OK." 

"No, Scully--it's not. It won't ever be OK. Not ever, not ever," he
 cried all the harder but I could see on the screen that the storm was
 starting to wan. I think that's the only reason he was able to
 acknowledge my voice, because the synapses of his brain were
 finally firing down. "Not ever. Not ever." 

Highland was staring at me when I had a moment to notice. "I'm
 ordering dilantin," he said as if he was expecting me to object. 

I shrugged. "He might do better with tegretol. He hates feeling
 fuzzy," I offered. 

"Dilantin is a little faster in the bloodstream. We can talk about the
 longterm in a few days." 

That certainly made my blood run cold. Longterm. Highland was
 talking chronic epilepsy treatment. Cerebral damage, permanent.
 Restricted duty, desk and office only. No more trips to the field,
 Agent Mulder. 

"We don't know--" 

"You're right, we don't know. But we have to treat this as if it will
 be a permanent condition, Dr. Scully," Highland said in
 authoritative tones. I think I pissed him off when I wouldn't let
 them pull Mulder out of the machine at the first sign of trouble. I
 didn't really had any room to argue, I was just the 'concerned
 partner' and Highland was being more than fair by letting me in the
 observation room. 

"Whatever you think is best," I said, hoping I had appeased him
 somewhat. It's not a good idea to alienate the man treating your
 best friend. I wasn't about to let him do something stupid,
 however. "But I think it might be best to consider these seizures in
 the scope of the head injury, at least for the moment," I added.
 Drill a hole in anybody's head and they were likely to have
 seizures--for a while. But if there was no permanent damage, the
 seizures would eventually subside and not return. I had my toes
 crossed hoping for just that set of circumstances. 

"I'll keep him here for 48 hours, at the inside. We'll do an EEG
 and another PET day after tomorrow and see what we're dealing
 with," he offered to me, like it was the best offer I was likely to get.
 I nodded gratefully and let my heart start beating again. 

In the room beyond the glass wall, they hoisted Mulder back on the
 gurney. He was already starting to drift off. I noticed that the
 episodes were no longer leaving him 'feeling really good', but were
 wearing him out. He was groggy as hell when I got out to the
 hallway to join him. 

"Where are we goin'?" he asked, but he didn't bother to open his
 eyes to find out for himself. 

"Up to a room. No 'roach motel' for you tonight," I told him
 lightly. 

"So tired, Scully. So sleepy," he yawned. 

"Then go to sleep," I whispered, and reached up to stroke his hair
 as we walked. "I'll take the first watch," I said as I watched his
 breaths grow shallow and even, watched as he finally slept. 

Once Mulder was settled in a bed, I realized a promise I'd
 reluctantly made and picked up the phone in his room. A scrap of
 paper, hastily scrawled upon, provided the numbers that I would
 never have known otherwise. The phone rang three times and a
 sleep laden voice answered. 

"Mrs. Mulder? This is Dana Scully." I said. 

"Oh dear. Have you found him? Is he--" 

I didn't let the question hang in the air too long. I knew the woman
 was probably on pins and needles. "He's alive. We've taken him to
 the hospital in Providence." 

"Where had he gone?" she asked, and I knew she was still trying to
 figure out exactly what had gone on over the past three days. A
 tiny part of me wanted to tell her everything, lay it all out at her feet
 and let her take part of the blame--hell, all of the blame. But
 Mulder would never forgive me for that. Judging from the voices
 I'd heard raised through the French doors of her little house, he felt
 that was his responsibility. 

"Mrs. Mulder, it's not that important where he went. I need to
 know something. Has Fox ever experienced seizures? Probably
 febrile seizures, when he was little. I know he has fevers, and I
 know he was hospitalized after Sam--" 

"I thought he'd outgrown them," I heard with a heavy sigh. Strike
 two against us. This was not good. 

"Outgrew what?" I heard myself asking. 

"The convulsions. The seizures. He had them from the time he
 was two or three until . . . He had a couple of them when he was in
 the hospital." 

My mind was reeling. Mulder said he was catatonic at that time.
 Catatonic and seizing? I didn't understand. "Mrs. Mulder, are you
 saying your son had epilepsy as a child?" 

"Yes. He did. It wasn't that severe. He had several smaller
 episodes, but he only had one really bad one. Right after he woke
 up in the hospital, after we asked him what had happened the night
 Samantha--" 

Strike three. You're out. When the Bureau found out that he'd
 been epileptic as a child, his gun would be taken, he'd never get out
 of the office again. He'd be lucky if they didn't give him disability. 

"How is he? Is he all right? Why are you at the hospital?"
 Question after question and I was the only one with answers. 

"He's, uh, he's having seizures. But that's not the major concern.
 There has been a small hole drilled--" 

"His forehead, yes, he was bleeding. Remember I told you he was
 bleeding," she said anxiously. Oh, yes, I remember quite well
 standing at the bottom of the stairs, trying to figure out exactly how
 I was going to go after my partner when he took off with my car.
 Then having his mother reappear and all but accuse me of putting
 him up to the fight they'd just had. But after tempers flared, they
 settled and we got down to contacting Det. Curtis and getting me a
 ride. 

"That's the problem, as I said. There is bleeding beneath the skull.
 It's minimal at the moment, but the doctor wants to keep a close
 eye on it for the next two days." 

"Is he awake?" she asked, her voice calm and even. It never ceased
 to amaze me how detached the woman could appear at times like
 this. No wonder Mulder wanted me to be the person contacted in
 emergencies, to act as his next of kin. 

"He was awake for a few moments, but he was pretty out of it. He
 can't remember very much. The seizures have been severe and
 they've tired him out. He's sleeping now." 

"Then he hasn't made any more . . . accusations," she said tersely. 

"No, he hasn't said anything except to tell me his head hurts and to
 ask where we are," I returned in kind. She was seriously starting to
 piss me off. "I'm sure he'd like it if you could come up to--" 

"I don't think that would be a very good idea right now, Ms.
 Scully. Fox is obviously very confused right now and my being
 there would only upset him." 

Yeah, just what I was thinking. Your son is lying in a hospital,
 seizing every couple of hours, in pain when he's not convulsing and
 has no idea what's been going on for the last three days, but seeing
 his mother would upset him. Sure, fine, whatever. Deja vu all over
 again. Why should this time be any different? 

"Whatever you think is best," was what I said to her. Maybe my
 mom would be able to come up if I called her. I hung up the phone
 before I told the woman what I really thought of her and her
 so-called concern. 

But after the phone call, there was way too much time to sit and
 think. 

*****

I should have called Skinner, but it was going on one in the
 morning and I just didn't have the strength to deal with a complete
 report at that time, so I decided it could wait for morning. I could
 have asked one of the nurses to bring me a pillow and blanket, I
 could have caught a few winks. Mulder was so out of it, I could
 have slept for a while at least. If he had another seizure, I would
 know immediately. I wasn't going to leave him alone. But I just
 couldn't manage to get my eyes to close. I had too much on my
 mind. 

Everytime I've done this 'sitting at his bedside' thing, I go through
 the same steps. It's sort of a ritual now. My first thoughts are
 purely righteous indignation. How dare the son of a bitch--a title
 they have both earned--lie there and put me through this kind of
 anxiety? How does this selfish bastard manage to get me, much
 less himself, in these predicaments? I've always made a list, it
 makes me feel better. Start at the top--Ellens Air Base, skimming
 over the next several examples so I can linger over Arecibo, and
 Dead Horse and on and on. Each time, wondering if he'd come
 back, if he'd be in the office ever again, making my life miserable
 with his crazy theories and lecherous comments. Wondering if he'd
 finally left me for good. 

I like it dark during those times. I don't want the nurses coming in
 and seeing the tears streaming down my face, see the sobs when my
 shoulders shake so hard I'm afraid I'll break something. My heart.
 That night was no exception. 

But then other memories invaded my tearful thoughts, just like
 always. A reassuring hand at my back, a touch of my shoulder, my
 cheek. I can't shove back the memory of a voice in the darkness,
 telling me of my own strengths, my own beliefs. The sadness of
 that voice, the longing, the hope, acting as a beacon to bring me
 home. 

Other times, too numerous to mention always flood me then.
 Feelings. Senses. Hearing his voice through the dark, assuring me
 that he's there. Pounding on the door of an abandoned trailer
 while a broken mind quotes German and tabloid psychology at me.
 His arms around me in a hospital hallway outside a dying patient's
 room. Mulder to the rescue. How many times? It's been too many
 to count. 

As I said before, we do this for each other. I stopped crying. I was
 as exhausted as my partner and in minutes, I fell asleep. 

I awoke a long time later to my partner thrashing in the bed. At
 first, I was certain it was another seizure, but as I reached for the
 call button to notify the nurse, I heard him speaking, soft and
 hurriedly. It wasn't a seizure, just a nice, normal nightmare. 

He has them. Hell, I have them. We have some that are common
 to both of us and some that are distinctly our own. I've told him
 some of mine, I know some of his. But what he was saying was
 new to me, he'd never spoken of it. 

"Where is it? Where is the cure, goddamn you black lunged
 bastard," Mulder growled in his sleep. 

I stopped, sat down. Waited for the next words. 

"I want the cure. She won't die--not because of what you've done.
 I won't let you kill her. Give me the cure!" 

My stomach was knotted as I sat there, listening to my partner
 arguing for my life with a man who had no name and definitely no
 soul. 

"I know what you did. I remember now. You are responsible for
 Samantha. You took her. You son of a bitch. I know that now. I
 won't let you take Scully, too. I'll kill you first, I swear to God this
 time I'll do it and I'll do it right." 

Ice water was pouring down my back, I realized I was close to
 hyperventilating. Was this what he'd been doing when he
 underwent those treatments--trying to find information to exchange
 for a cure? 

He rolled over and quieted again, dropping back into a deep sleep.
 I sat there for a long time, too stunned to think, too devastated to
 go back to sleep. 

It was so much easier when I could blame his behavior on 'the
 quest'. It was something familiar, something I was used to dealing
 with. Mulder would do anything to find his sister--anything, even
 to the point of his own death. But to think that he'd undergo an
 experiment so dangerous in an effort not to find his sister, but to
 find a cure for my illness--that was terrifying. I never asked for
 that, never wanted that. 

It really made sense, in a Mulder sort of way. I once told him that
 not everything was about _him_, and at the time, I was feeling that
 everything was about me. In the end, I realized that Mulder is
 terribly myopic and self-centered, but not in a way that makes him
 the center of the universe. To Mulder, he is the center of the storm,
 the center of a black hole, the center of hell. People don't revolve
 around him, tragedy does. So it would make sense for him to tie
 his lost sister to his dying partner--maybe even exchange one for
 the other. 

I couldn't ask him to do that. But the harder question was, should
 I let him? And if I decided I couldn't live with that knowledge, live
 with the guilt of this trade--how could I stop him? 

I didn't sleep anymore that night. I sat there and wiped the tears
 from my eyes. 

A new shift, a new doctor. David Anderson, MD. A resident,
 fairly recently promoted from intern from the look of him. He
 greeted me with a nod and an extended hand, mistakenly addressed
 me as 'Mrs. Mulder' a couple of times before I could correct him.
 He came in bearing gifts--lab results. 

"The good news is, Fox doesn't have encephalitis or meningitis,"
 Dr. Anderson said, and I nodded, relieved. Mulder's a medical
 magnet, and I would not have been surprised if he'd picked up
 either one, regardless of their rarity. There was more good news.
 "And it looks like the severity of seizures has decreased," Anderson
 offered. 

I had pretty much come to that conclusion. There hadn't been
 another tonic clonic seizure since the middle of the night and
 although he'd had a couple of the partials, they seemed to be
 shorter in duration. It was my guess that the swelling in his brain
 was going down and the bleeding had stopped sometime before
 morning. Dr. Anderson concurred with my unspoken assessment. 

"His blood pressure is down this morning. Temp is still up but only
 100.5, so not really much to worry about. He's been without a
 major seizure for over 7 hours--considering how closely they were
 coming last night, that's good news. I've consulted with Dr.
 Highland, and we feel that he should stay for a couple of days. The
 intercranial swelling he experienced is going down, but given the
 injury and the onset of fever and the seizures, it's better to be safe
 than sorry. We feel bed rest and continued antibiotics following
 discharge will be the best course of treatment." 

Bet he learned all that in senior seminar. But it was no time to be
 catty. I was grateful. "Thank you," I told him, and meant it. It
 appeared that no complications were forthcoming, and if I could
 nail him to his couch for a week, Mulder would recover fully. 

My partner graced me with his consciousness somewhere around
 lunch time. 

"I'm gonna throw up," he said, no greeting as a prelude. 

"Right now?" I asked, but I was already moving the curved bowl
 toward him. He glared at it, silently communicating that I was out
 of _my_ mind if I thought that small bowl would be enough. I
 rolled my eyes and grabbed the dishpan that all the tissues, cup,
 pitcher and other assorted crap came in. He grabbed it out of my
 hands and vomited mostly bile, then had dry heaves for a few
 minutes. Finally, he leaned back and closed his eyes. 

"I feel like shit." 

"What happened to 'I feel _really_ good'?" I asked as sweetly as I
 could. 

"Don't be mean, Scully," he pleaded and slowly opened his eyes,
 but squinted immediately. "My head hurts--bad." 

I would have loved to bitch at him at that moment, but he looked
 too miserable. Mulder does the best 'miserable' I've ever seen. I
 decided to cut him some slack. OK, so that's 'co-dependent' of
 me--find a lawyer to take the suit. 

I walked over to the window and closed the blinds, then turned off
 all the lights save the small light in the bathroom. The room was
 plunged into relative darkness. 

"Better?" I asked. 

"Umm mmm," he said with a slight nod. He opened his eyes and
 looked at me. "OK, let me have it." 

What? No blindfold? No last meal of sunflower seeds? My, my,
 Mulder was feeling a tad guilty that morning. 

"How much do you remember?" I asked him. I wasn't being mean,
 I really needed to know. 

"Most of it, I think. I remember going to Goldstein's and I
 remember the summer house. I know it was stupid, Scully, but . . .
 but I had my reasons." He clamped his mouth shut and studied the
 IV shunt on the back of his hand. He had no intention of telling me
 what those reasons were. Of course, he didn't know that his little
 nightmare had already filled in those blanks for me. 

Maybe I should have jumped on that. Maybe I should have said,
 Mulder, I know what you were doing. I know that you think if you
 get enough dirt on what happened to Samantha, you can trade that
 knowledge for a cure for me. OK, I should have said all that. But I
 didn't. 

Instead, I sought a promise. "Mulder, don't ever do anything like
 this again. Please. It was more than stupid. It was suicidal. And I
 won't sit by and let you do that. Understood?" 

He nodded, not speaking. 

"No deals with the devil, Mulder. None. Got it?" 

His head shot up and he looked me in the eye. He knew that I
 knew. But would that be enough to stop him? 

No. I knew better. I could tell by the look in his eyes that nothing
 would stop him if he thought he could find the cure. The thought
 chilled me to the bone. 

And left me with more hope than I'd had in weeks, months. My
 slightly manic Archangel Michael, with his battered wings and
 broken halo. My salvation. 

We do that for each other. 

the end.
Vickie 

"Your ability to juggle many tasks will take you far." 

My fortune cookie, Feb. 28, 1998