Open Sea
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley (vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com)
In Tandem with Summer

Dana Scully's Personal Log

Friday, January 3

Mom and Ahab came for dinner tonight. Of course, Ahab
had to give me grief about the Christmas tree. Asked me if I
intended to keep it up all year. I told him yes, to make up for
all the years that we had to take the tree down the day after
Christmas.

Things are still a little strained. It's been almost three years,
my God, is the man ever going to let up? I mean, it was a little
better for a while. He seemed to have accepted that I was not
going to become the next Jonas Salk or C. Everett Koop. He
had even started coming by Quantico and taking me to lunch.
All that came to a screeching halt when I started working with
Mulder.

I've never introduced Mulder to Daddy and Mom. I don't
know why, exactly. I guess I'm a little afraid of the reaction. I
mean, Mulder can be a bit intense and if he were to start on one
of his little 'pet theories' in front of Ahab, I'm sure it would result
in a 'let me tell *you* something, young man' lecture and I'm not
sure if either party would come out unscathed. Best to filter
them a little while longer. Ease Ahab into it. Ease Mulder into
it. There's no rush, after all. I'm not married to the guy, I
just work with him.

But, at dinner tonight, I did mention him a couple of times.
Just in passing. Like his ties. I wonder if he has to order them
from some hideous tie catalog store. I have never seen the likes
of them anywhere... But getting back to dinner. Every time I
mentioned him, Ahab would get this look-- I'd never seen it on his
face before. No, wait, I have seen it. The night Johnny
Wannamaker came to pick me up for the Freshman mixer at UM.
Ahab was at the door as always and made sure he couldn't
detect any liquor on Johnny's breath and then, as I was kissing
Ahab goodnight, I saw him give Johnny this look-- kind of like
alarm and worry and maybe a tiny bit of resignation. That was
the look I kept getting every time I mentioned Mulder.

Mom, for her part, had to rag on me again for calling him by
his last name. (I don't dare tell her that he calls me by my last
name--she would hit the ceiling.) She said it's inhuman and
besides, his parents probably spent as much time picking out that
name for him as she did picking out our names for us. Yeah,
right, Mom. I'm sure you stayed up for *nights* coming up with
William Andrew Scully, *Jr*.! And then Melissa Marie, now
where did you ever get that one? Couldn't possibly be from Aunt
Melissa, your sister, and Grandma *Marie* could it? And my
name, Dana, from Daddy's Aunt Dana and Katherine, gee, Mom,
what is your middle name? Would it be--Catherine?!? Well, at
least you changed the first letter. I will admit, I have no idea
where you came up with Charlie's name, although I do remember
eating an awful lot of tuna when you were pregnant with him--
Charlie the Tuna? But Mom, please! The Mulders named the
guy *FOX* for God's sake! I wouldn't want to go through life
with a name like that, either. Give the guy a little dignity,
please.

Anyway, before they shoved off, Ahab did ask me about
work. I told him it was good. What am I supposed to say?
Gee, Daddy, we had this great case last week where a computer
took over a building and killed a couple of guys. Or better yet:
Daddy, I got to see Ellens Air Base a couple of months ago. Of
course, I didn't spend a lot of time sightseeing, since I was busy
with hostage negotiations to get my partner back, glassy-eyed
and drugged out of his mind. He lost part of his memories,
Daddy. Isn't that weird? --I mean, I'm not sure *I* can believe
all the things I've seen. How can I expect Ahab to believe them?

But I love my work. Yeah, I admit it, I really enjoy walking
into that basement. I have never been so challenged in my life. I
have never had the feeling that the person I worked with
depended on me as much as Mulder does. It's a good feeling.
I'm happy. I think when Ahab gives it a little thought, he will
realize that is just what he wants for me, regardless of what I'm
doing.

Saturday, January 4th

Ahab died last night.

I can't think, I can't feel, I just--

I'm numb.

The boys are coming home tomorrow. He's being cremated
and the ashes will be spread out over the sea in Annapolis Harbor
on Monday.

I can't do this.

I don't want my Daddy to die.

I want him to come over and hold me and tell me that I'm his
Starbuck and read me Moby Dick again. I want him to tell me
that he's glad I'm doing something I enjoy. I want him to tell me
that he's proud of me like he's proud of Bill and Charlie.

I want to go home.

Sunday, January 5th

Picked Billy up at National. He and Karen and the guys. The
boys have gotten so big since last summer. Charlie's ship isn't set
to sail for another three weeks, so he took the train down from
New Jersey. Missy isn't coming, but I did talk to her on the
phone. I think she might have been crying. She said it was too
late to do anything now, and she didn't want to take the time off
work.

Mom is holding up really well. We're having a Requiem Mass
before the service at the harbor. I helped her pick out songs this
morning. She wanted to have 'Hosea'--I hope it doesn't tear her
up tomorrow when she hears it. And 'Beyond the Sea', their
song, will be playing at the harbor. Not the Navy Hymn, Ahab.
But I don't think you'll mind.

Something happened Friday night and I've not really wanted
to think on it till now. After they left, I wrote in my log and then
went to sleep watching TV. I woke up and there was Ahab,
sitting in the chair across from me. He was speaking, but I
couldn't make out what he was saying. Then the phone rang and
when I looked back at him, he was gone. The phone call was
Mom, telling me he had died of a heart attack.

It's funny, but the first person I thought of to tell was Mulder.
I did call him today. I needed to tell him that I won't be in
tomorrow for the funeral. He was so sympathetic. He told me
to take all the time I need. He'll cover for me, tell Blevins where
I am and all. He was very sweet. I almost told him about the --
whatever it was. But I just couldn't take him turning it into an X
File. It's not an X-File. It's my life. So I didn't say anything.

Monday, January 6th

We had the Requeim Mass at Blessed Sacrement at 9:00. It
was one hour of pure torture for my part. I couldn't help but
look for him. Every other time I've sat in those pews, I've just
looked over and there would be Ahab, on the aisle. Ready to
sneak his hand around and absently smack one of the boys for
cutting up. Turning a stern glare at Missy or me when we
fiddled with the Mass booklet too much. Leaning over to give
Mom a quick kiss during the 'handshake of peace'. I never
considered Daddy to be that religious. It was just a part of him.
The Church was a part of him. And it hurt me to be there and
not have him there, too.

I couldn't stay away from the office. I need to be someplace
that had no memories. So I went to the basement.

Mulder was very sweet. He was surprised I was there and
almost shooed me back home, but I told him I needed to work.
He seemed to understand. I mean, the man is a psychologist,
after all. And a fairly good one, at that.

We have a new case. It's sort of mixed with an old case,
really. A couple of nights ago, two college kids, Liz Hawley and
Jim Sommers, were kidnapped in Raleigh, North Carolina.
There were not `abducted by aliens'--even Mulder admits that.
They were taken by someone, but no one knows who or where.

There is a man on death row at the prison who claims that he
can `channel'. He claims he has information about the kids. That
the spirits are talking to him and telling them about the
kidnapping.

Here's the weird part (funny, to most people, the REST of
that would have been weird enough--I guess my 'weird' standard
has risen since the X-Files). The man on death row, Luther Lee
Boggs, wants to talk to Mulder. Only Mulder. He claims that
Mulder understands him, since it was Mulder's profile in VC that
put Boggs on death row.

Mulder really hates this guy. I could tell it in the way he
spoke about him. I have never seen Mulder talk about someone
with such disgust in his eyes. According to Mulder, Boggs killed
people because he enjoyed it. And the whole idea that Boggs
might have connections with the spirit world is a farce. I almost
couldn't believe my ears. Mulder, Fox Mulder, Mr. *I Want to
Believe* was sitting there behind his desk and telling me this guy
is a fake. It was almost too much for me after the weekend I've
had. Even so, Mulder thinks Boggs may be in on the kidnapping.
So we are heading for Raleigh, NC.

I stood next to Mom as the ashes were scattered at noon.
She wasn't real happy that I left before the reception, but I
promised Mulder I would be at the airport by 2:00. I hope she
understands. The boys are with her. She'll be fine. I hope I
will be.

We spent several hours at the prison. Boggs is a piece of
work, I must give him that. He put on quite a show. The most
amazing aspect of which was at the end. Sort of a Grand Finale,
as it were.

As the guard was taking Boggs back to his cell for supper, he
started singing 'Beyond the Sea'. How could he have known?
He couldn't have. It was a coincidence. I'm sure of it. The
idea that he could know anything about me or my father is
*impossible*. But it shook me.

I know what's happening. Classical reaction to grief. I see
Ahab in every new face. That's it. When I turned and looked at
Boggs, I almost thought I saw Ahab there instead. It frightened
me at first and I had to get out of there. So I ran.

Mulder was concerned, but I explained it was just grief. Or
that's what I tried to explain. I don't even remember what I said
to him. He told me to go back to the hotel, that he wanted to
question Boggs some more. I think he was enjoying the show
too much at that point to leave.

All I could think of was getting back to the room and just
forgetting the whole scene. But then, on the way back to the
hotel, I saw some landmarks that were exactly like ones Boggs
had mentioned in his 'trance'. So I pulled over and took a look
around. I knew I broke about 100 rules in proper procedure by
going in there alone. Not to mention that Mulder would have
killed me if he knew I what I was thinking, but I had to see. It's
my job, after all: take nothing for granted, take nothing at face
value. I was just checking out a lead.

I found Liz Hawley's bracelet. In a warehouse, abandoned for
years from the looks of it. And blood. And a wire coathanger,
just like Boggs had said. There were candles there, and it looked
like whoever had been there had only left a short time before I
got there. I called the police from my cell phone and told them
I'd seen some suspicious activity. I left not long after they
arrived.

I lied on my police report. There was no suspicious activity
around that warehouse. There was no activity of any kind. It
was an abandoned warehouse in a city filled with them. But
there had been by a waterfall that wasn't made of water (the neon
sign of an old hotel) and there was angel of stone (Guardian
Angel Church is right across the road). I knew I would find
something because Boggs had told me where to look.

Mulder came back from the prison ranting about Boggs
channelling. I told him that I had lied on the police report. Sort
of my personal version of confession. `Bless me Mulder for I
have sinned.' I actually thought he would be happy that I had
accepted the extreme possibility that Boggs was right. Well, I
was wrong. And he was hurt. Said telling the police that Boggs
had led me there would have been expected from 'Spooky'
Mulder, but not from Dana Scully. I hate it when he calls himself
that. It's a form of self-hatred and I don't like it one bit. We
talked for a while. He told me that he thinks I should step away.
That maybe I'm feeling guilty about my father and my job and I
will get sloppy. That I might get hurt. I think he was actually
more frightened by the thought that I might have been injured in
that warehouse than I was. I really hadn't given it a second
thought at the time.

I told him that I thought he would be happy that I had finally
opened myself up to the extreme possiblity. He told me to only
believe in the extreme possibilities when they are the truth. That
went for Boggs and my father. I'm not sure what he meant, but I
think he might suspect that something is going on. I just wish I
knew what to do. I can't talk to him about it. I don't want this
to be the excuse to send me home.

I wish I didn't have to think about this at all.

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

The Journals of Fox Mulder

* Fri. 3 January

I hate Christmas.

Okay, not _really_. But it's terribly satisfying
to write the words out, anyway.

I didn't want to deal with the inevitable comments
at "HQ" if I went in over the holidays-- there are so few
agents around during the Xmas break that the remaining
skeleton crew thinks they own the place. Last year I
couldn't walk down the halls on December 24th without
some joker tossing holly berries at me. Left little red
pockmarks all over my suit. Asshole.

The creme de la creme of national law enforcement.
Ooooooooh yeah. You can't turn around without tripping
over some guy who clerked for the army, got a whiff of
those government benefits and that fat pension and voila,
suddenly he's a top cop. Runs across a case that's just
a little out of the ordinary and shrugs-- must be some
kind of "unexplained phenomenon"! Toss it in the basement
and never look at it again!

Yeah, so I'm cranky.

I've done all my casework at home for a
week. I'm starting to really hate my apartment.

Shall I itemize my Xmas gifts? Byers sent me
a first edition copy of _Chariots of the Gods_ by Van
Danikan. Langley sent a note: next year's subscription
to The Lone Gunman is on him. Frohicke also sent a
note. One of my other subscriptions for next year is
on him. I can't remember now if it was Playboy or
Celebrity Skin. Bless his black little heart.

My mom sent a card... non-denominational, I
note, and making no mention of the origin of the
holiday. Just a card with a snowscape, pine trees
and a full moon. Looks kinda spooky.

Damn it.

She also sent a package. A Sony Discman. Hm.

It's nice.

Sort of an all-purpose, anonymous gift on
the surface, but she knows I like to go running, so
I suppose that was the inspiration.

I called to thank her. We had five minutes of
small talk. As always, she asked if I've spoken to
Dad. Mm-hm. Sure. I called Dad over Xmas. Then I
gave myself a nice paper cut and poured lemon juice
in it. Right, Mom. Absolutely.

Scully mentioned the holiday about a month
ago. I told her I don't celebrate it. She seemed
surprised, then asked if I celebrate Hannukah. Nope.
She cast a pointed look at my "I Want to Believe"
poster. I let it slide.

Well, I hope she knows that I honestly don't
go in for Xmas. I wasn't just weaselling out of
exchanging gifts. Though I have to admit, it'd
really be tough to choose a present for Scully.
Of course, she'd have no trouble choosing for me.
She could always add to my tie collection, and that
would be personal, but not too personal. Women have
no tie equivalent. I think many misunderstandings
between the sexes could probably be attributed to
this crucial fact.

Okay, no, but when I think about it, what
_would_ I get her? Scully's so important, but
the way she thinks is totally (ahem) alien to me.
She likes sports... mostly football... but tickets
to a game seem a little, well, I'd want to go with
her and that seems presumptuous. Jewelry is OUT.
Likewise anything appearance-related, or perfume,
or anything like that. It ought to be something
that I knew she wanted, but wasn't likely to get
for herself. Or something she doesn't know she
wants, but would be thrilled to recieve.

...It's a good thing I _don't_ celebrate
Xmas. I'd really be lost.

* Sat. 4 January

Vacations always make me think of death.

Christmas in particular always brings
mortality to mind. I always run into the Alastair
Sim version of _A Christmas Carol_, and I always
watch it. And the scene with the Ghost of Christmas
Future always makes me imagine what would happen
if I were to die suddenly. I don't have a will or
anything. Figured all I've got is books and some
money in the bank; it'll all revert back to my
family, I suppose.

But I really ought to leave some kind of
indication as to my wishes.

I don't want to be kept alive on life
support. I want to be an organ donor. Cremate
the rest.

Byers, Langley, and Frohicke can fight it
out over all my books and paranormal paraphernilia.
Frohicke gets the video collection in the black
cabinet, though. And the magazines stored in white
pasteboard longboxes on the closet shelf. The
computer goes to The Lone Gunman magazine... all
three of them can use it. Langley gets my futon,
answering machine, and cellphone-- sort of amusing
considering what a nomadic Luddite he is. Byers gets
my tie collection (he'd never wear them, but maybe
they could set up a memorial display at the magazine
offices) and all the minutiae in the mahogany valet
on my dresser-- the cuff links and tie tacks and
other miscellany that I never use.

The one heirloom I have, the pocket watch
from Mom's father... goes back to Mom. I don't carry
it now, Mom, but I treasure it. Best of all possible
graduation gifts. I always had it with me in college.

I couldn't come up with any ideas for what
to get Scully for a Christmas present, so I'm really
stuck on thinking what to leave her if I died. I mean,
honestly, if I could I'd just leave her everything,
but I don't think anyone would understand that. And
she'd probably be offended if I left her the money.
But I don't really have anything else.

How 'bout it, Scully, want the lease on a
prime Virginia apartment?

Scully gets the "I Want to Believe" poster.
She'll appreciate that. All the antiques. The globe,
the microscope, the framed lithographs, and believe
it or not, Scully, I have a crucifix and a Star of
David. So those go to my partner, too. My old Magic
8-Ball. And the fish tank. I'd leave her the fish,
too, but the last three gave up the ghost just after
Thanksgiving. I thought those three might make it;
named them Rocky, Rambo and Sly in the hopes that
macho names would encourage them to survive. But,
like Stallone's film career, the fish are dead.

What else? Hell, Scully, take whatever. There
isn't much. Take it all.

* Sun. 5 January

The only holiday music I could stand to
listen to all week has been John Lennon's "So This
Is Xmas". Today I dragged out a couple of his albums
and listened to "Imagine" about a million times.

Scully called. Her father passed away.

I wanted to drive over to see her, make
sure she's all right. See if there's anything I
can do. But I know there isn't.

It must be so hard for her. She's mentioned
her father now and then, and I know they're close.
I hate to admit that I have this twinge of jealousy
when she talks about him. I'm not sure if I envy
Scully for her obvious and uncomplicated feelings
of filial devotion, or if I envy her father for
earning her unconditional love and respect.

From things she's said, though, her father
never wholly approved of her decision to work for
the FBI. I can imagine. When I first met her, I
thought she was desperately overqualified to be
wasting her time teaching fledgling FBI agents
how to derive forensic evidence. At any rate, she
seemed a little wistful about his doubts. And now
he's gone.

Imagine all the people, living for today...

I was starting to put a little too much
stock in that song, so I switched over to Elvis
Costello for a while. "Was it a millionaire who
said imagine no possessions?" Really, I shouldn't
lionize Lennon. I've got my doubts. He wrote a
song for his son Sean that never fails to get to
me, "Beautiful Boy". But I always wondered what
John Lennon's first son, Julian, thought of that
song. Julian, Lennon's son by his first wife--
he never got a lullaby from John Lennon. He got
"Hey, Jude" as scant consolation for John and
Cynthia's divorce, and John didn't even write
it; Paul McCartney did.

That sketchy will I made out yesterday
doesn't seem nearly so amusing now. I went back
to it and considered it more carefully, made a
more appropriate version and printed it out. I'm
not sure what to do with it. It's not official...
I'm a _little_ young yet to really draft a legal
will, considering that I don't have much of
anything to leave. So, I just folded it up small
and stuck it behind my driver's license in my
wallet; a little white tongue of paper shows,
so now every time I go into my wallet, I'll see
it. And think of dying. This is sounding less
and less like a bright idea. I'll find a better
place for it eventually.

I'd like to at least call Scully. But
she probably wants to be left alone.

* Mon. 6 January

Scully just left to go to the wake. I
was surprised to see her at the office in the
first place. She's trying so hard to be so strong.
But no one should be that strong.

I couldn't help it. I had to reach out
to her. She seemed surprised when I called her
Dana and asked how she was feeling.

I can't help it. I care about her. I do.
It makes our partnership complicated sometimes.
I know she still thinks I'm a nutcase. A nutcase
who's occasionally right. And she's so reserved;
I'm not sure where I stand with her, really.

I just tried to let her know that I'm
here for her if she needs me. She wanted to work,
so I told her about this case. I've tried not to
think about it.

Luther Lee Boggs.

His wasn't the most wrenching profile I
ever compiled for Behavioral Sciences, but it was
one of the worst. I could discern no deep-rooted
trauma to which I could attribute his manifest
cruelty. Pure sociopath. No redemption.

Now he claims to be psychic, and wants _me_
to come draw meaning from his vague visions. Somehow
he must have learned that I've become involved with
the X-Files; he's playing on my interest in the
paranormal. Boggs read my profile on him... why do
they let them do that? I know why. Research purposes.
But the idea makes my skin crawl-- Boggs, reading
the portrait of him that it cost me so much to
create, and finding it pleasing and correct. I
didn't want to be right about him.

The two missing teenagers... Jim Sommers
and Liz Hawley... this case makes me wish I still
had the whatever-it-was that let me work serial
murder cases for three years. Three years of sinking
hip-deep in madness, tracking, hunting, catching
psychotics. And people wonder why I'm antisocial.

Those kids were kidnapped by another killer,
an accomplice. I'm positive Boggs is orchestrating
this whole mess from the inside. He's just devious
enough to come up with this kind of hideous tableau.
The gas chamber looms just a week away. I marked
my calendar. Bogg's execution is scheduled for
January 13th. The timing for this kind of scheme
couldn't be more calibrated. He's worked it all out.
He'll provide just enough `psychic vibrations' to
save those teenagers, and then he'll coast on a life
sentence and a lucrative book deal for the rest of
his sorry existence.

We'll see about that.

Boggs, I am satisfied to report, is a
charlatan. A total fake.

I hit upon an idea to gauge whether he
was lying... give him a piece of "evidence" from
a plastic bag and let him "see" what he could
about the crime scene. My New York Knicks T-shirt
was destined for the realm of the sleeveless anyway,
so I tore the arms off and put a scrap of fabric
in an evidence bag.

Revenge is sweet. Scully and I went in
and listened to him ramble a bit. I told Luther
that I wanted to believe him, and gave him the
cloth. He put on a virtuoso performance, heaving
and wailing, throwing back that headful of greasy
curls and rattling the chains of his handcuffs.

It was downright spooky.

Bastard. Supremely rewarding to be able to
inform him that the cloth had NOTHING to do with
the crime.

Scully looked down at the meticulous notes
she had just taken from his monologue and looked
at me, surprised. This case does have one sole
positive aspect. Maybe Scully will see that I'm
not totally credulous, as she seems to think.

I don't want to belabor the point, though.
I think her delayed reaction to her father's death
hit her as we left the room. Actually, it seemed as
though Boggs must have said something to set her off.
She was fine until I ducked out to confirm to the
South Carolina SAC that Boggs was full of it. Why
in hell, knowing what I know about this sick fuck,
did I leave her alone with him? He was singing when
they took him back to his cell; Scully looked like
she'd been struck. She denied he said anything to
her, but I know Boggs. Unfortunately. I'm sure it
was him. Nearly jumped down his throat about it
when I got another crack at him on my own, later.
He went into that weird Church Lady voice and
told me that temperance is the key to wisdom.

I told him I didn't want the key to wisdom,
I wanted the name of his fucking accomplice. Told
him exactly what I knew was going on here, laid it
down the line. I _know_ Boggs had a partner for the
last five crimes he committed. I know he's in contact
with that accomplice now, plotting these murders from
the inside to try to save himself.

And he gravely nodded. "Maybe so. But what
you gonna do about it, if I am?"

Capital punishment.

I just wanted to see the words.

I like the looks of them.

She believes him! She risked her life out
there, charging blindly into the condemned warehouse
Boggs described... for _him_. For a mass murderer--
sure, she'll believe _him_. She won't listen to _me_,
but Luther Lee Boggs gets the benefit of the doubt.

Not that she admitted to it officially, of
course. Scully called the cops to the warehouse-- the
kids and the killer had been there just minutes before
she arrived, it seems-- and reported that she'd seen
suspicious activity. Then admitted to me that it was
Boggs' "channeled" directions that caught her attention
and prompted her investigation. I'm sorry to admit that
I got pissed... gee, Scully, pick a real winner to
suddenly invest your faith in, and then don't tell
anyone important what you really think. Leave all that
stupid integrity crap to Spooky Mulder; preserve that
reputable, even-headed persona you've worked so hard
to cultivate.

That's not fair. Scully's hurting right now.
She denies it has anything to do with her father but
it's so clear on her face. I told her that if working
now reminds her of his disapproval, if it makes her
uneasy, she needs to back off. She could get hurt.
That screwup earlier, leaving her alone with Boggs--
I couldn't stand it if something happened to her. I
should've insisted she stay in Washington.

She said, "I love this job."

And I said, "You love your father." I was
trying to say that the two don't have to be mutually
exclusive, but she got shaky and turned away and
god, the last thing I wanted to do was make her cry.
I told her to keep an open mind toward the possibilities
only when they're true.

I've always wanted to see a glimmer of belief
in Scully; I've been rewarded now and then by a flicker
of acceptance. Watching her gather her strength and
cast off her assumptions has been inspiring. A mind
like a steel trap, and it functions so goddamn well
when it's _open_.

But I never wanted it to be like this. Not
some kind of belief born out of grief. I know that
my own faith can function as a crutch and keep me
going, but I wanted something better than that for
Scully.

I still do.

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

Tuesday, January 9

We're still without any real leads. Boggs' execution is set
for six days from today. The last time a pair of kids were
kidnapped in this area, and it seemed to be the same kidnapper,
they were found murdered. The anniversary of that murder is in
five days.

I've had a chance to consider things a bit. Boggs appears
sincere. Mulder would kill me for saying this, but it's pretty
unreal that he could have known all those things about the
warehouse last night. How could he have warned the kidnapper
to get out of the warehouse before I got there? He didn't have
contact with anyone outside of the prison--he's in solitary
confinement so he didn't even have access to the prison
population. We could take this to Mulder's level of paranoia and
wonder if one of the guards might be in on it too, but the guards
are not allowed to make phone calls during their shifts, and the
shift didn't change from the time of Boggs 'trance' to the time I
found the bracelet. I've been giving myself a headache sitting
here thinking the whole thing through.

Mulder just brought in a paper. The _Carolinian_ printed up
a 'special'--just for us. It says the kids have been found. Mulder
thinks we will smoke Boggs out with it. The guard is dropping it
off at his cell (he gets a paper every day, apparently) and then we
are going to watch him make his weekly phone call at 2:00 this
afternoon from an observation room. We arranged to have the line
tapped. If Boggs contacts his accomplice, we can trace the call
and hopefully get the kids back sometime tonight.

It sounds like a good plan to me. It's amazing how Mulder
has followed procedure through this whole case. It's like I'm
watching a complete stranger, almost. I think I'm seeing a bit of
what they saw of him when they first recruited him for the
Bureau. I know he's brilliant, but I also know how much he
flaunts his more 'extreme' positions. To watch him work on this
case is poetry in motion. It's textbook, classic. I see before me
someone who should be on the fast track, straight to the top.
This man should be an ASAC by now. He's given ten years to
the Bureau. But he's thrown it all away for an obsession. No
matter how noble that obsession is. If only things were different.

It's a quarter to two in the afternoon. We're heading up to the
observation room now. Tonight should prove to be interesting,
to say the least. I just hope it's productive, as well.

I'm sitting in the waiting room of Univ. of NC Medical Center
waiting for word on Mulder. When we got him to the hospital,
he'd already lost so much blood . . .

My God, I'm still reeling from what happened tonight. But I
need to sort through it, get it down on paper. Besides, it keeps
my mind off why it's taking them so long to give me an update on
his condition.

The phone call was the first surprise. Instead of calling his
accomplice, Boggs placed his call to Mulder's cell phone. It's not
listed, there is no way a man on death row should have access to
that number. I know the Bureau would not give it out. Under
any circumstances. They would take a number and call Mulder
with the message. But, Boggs had the number. And then, just
when I was recovering from that, Boggs told Mulder that *I*
believed him!

I couldn't help myself, I was shocked! I denied it, of course,
and so did Mulder. But we both realized at that moment that we
were running out of time and if we didn't play along a little while
longer, the kids would be dead. So Mulder decided to
interrogate Boggs one more time.

Boggs' demands are relatively simple. He doesn't want to die.
Big Surprise. But, he said he would give us some more
information and he did. The docks. He described a warehouse
on the docks. Told us the exact location, in a way similar to last
night, landmarks mostly, then finally the name of the place. Of
course, he still wouldn't give us a name or a description of the
kidnapper.

Oh God oh God oh God, I'm still shaking from what
happened next. As we were leaving, Boggs called to Mulder.
He said "Don't go near the white cross! We see you down, and
your blood spills on the white cross." It gave me chills. But it
was the ravings of a man desparate not to die. He would have
said anything at that moment. That's what I told myself all the
way back to the hotel.

I think it scared Mulder a little, too. For once, he didn't argue
against wearing a chest protector. He laughingly told me that it
was cold out there on those docks and they were the hottest
thing he could think of to wear. I think he was trying to make
me feel better. Or maybe make himself feel better. Either way, it
didn't really matter.

When we arrived on the docks, we had plenty of back up.
Actually we had more FBI agents and Federal Marshals than
boats in the harbor. And we found Liz immediately, tied up and
badly battered. She was terrified. Since I was once again, the
only one there with any medical training, I stayed with Liz while
everyone else swept the docks. The kidnapper had taken Jim and
fled the scene.

I could hear the men calling to each other out there. From
the voices I had a pretty good idea which way Mulder was going
in the search. All of a sudden I heard shots fired in that
direction.

I knew it was Mulder. I knew he was hurt. I could feel
it in my chest, my arms, my head. Before I knew what was
happening I had run out on the dock to find him.

He was lying on his back. In the dark, it was hard to say
where he had been shot. I prayed all the way over to him that
maybe he had been hit in the chest and that the force had just
knocked the wind out of him. That would have been easy to fix;
the vest would have stopped the bullet. I would just help him up,
dust him off and we'd be on the trail again. But as I got closer, I
knew that wasn't the case. That's when I stopped breathing.

From the way he was moving his head, his face distorted, I
knew he was in pain. As I got down beside him, I could see the
blood and the bullet hole in his pants leg. Then I did something I
will never forget. I looked up, mostly out of impulse-- the same
thing that makes people chase after ambulances to see car
wrecks. I looked at the pilings on the dock. Sure enough, in the
light of a half moon, the pilings were white. And one was in the
form of a cross, with a rusted brace holding the cross bar in
place. It was just a few feet from where Mulder was lying.
There was a splattering of bright red sliding down the white
piling. It was blood. Mulder's blood.

I think I screamed for an ambulance. We had already ordered
two to be on call for the kids. I thank God there were two,
because Mulder couldn't have waited and Liz needed to be taken
to safety as quickly as possible, too. The bullet hit the Femoral
Artery. Sometimes, having a medical background is good. It's
my job and I love it. But sometimes I wish I had no idea what
was going on at all. This was one of those times.

Of all the veins and arteries of the body, there are two you
don't want compromised. The first one, the carotid, everybody
knows about. It's why they train police officers to check for a
pulse at the neck. Sometimes the extremities can be hard to find,
but the pulse at the neck is strong because it is the main way
blood flows. No pulse there means dead, 99 percent of the time.
But the other major artery is hidden deep in your leg. Near the
femur. That's why it's called that--the Femoral Artery and it's
actually a bundle of veins and arteries with one artery more
prominent than the others.

How do you kill a person quickly? One very common
method is to slice the throat--cutting the Carotid Artery and
causing massive blood loss. Simple, quick, effective. Another
way, equally effective, would be to compromise the Femoral
Artery Bundle. Blood loss is so fast that even applying pressure
doesn't always ensure results. It may not be as fast as the
Carotid, but the difference is assessed in mere minutes, not
hours.

So I know all this. Fucking lot of good it did me tonight.
I now understand fully why they spend so much time telling us not
ever treat someone that is close to us personally. It is too hard
to remain detached. I was all right as I forced my mind to do the
easy stuff; Mulder slipped into shock almost immediately and it
was so cold on that dock. I covered him jackets, applied
pressure to the wound (gently, because it was obvious that the
bone was compromised as well), did everything listed in our
'when one of you gets shot' course at the Academy. And then
my mind just shut down.

Thank God the paramedics got there quickly. Before I knew
it there were at my elbow, shouldering me out of the way so they
could work on him. But by this time, Mulder had regained
consciousness, a little, and he had grabbed my hand.

At that point I don't know that he even knew whose hand he
grabbed. He was in a lot of pain. His leg hurt, sure, but as he
lost more blood, his chest hurt, too. He was having a hard time
getting a breath. And he hates needles. I remember how he was
when we got back from our little sojourn to Ellens Air Base.
When he came back looking like he'd spent the night in a
Singapore Opium Den, I made him get a blood test, to find out
what they had done to him. The test came back negative--they
found nothing unusual. But I have never seen anyone be such a
baby about having blood drawn. He whined all the way there
and all the way back. So, even as out of it as he was tonight, he
was not a happy camper when they tried to start the IV's. He
needed blood substitutes and he needed them immediately, but
this time he couldn't whine. He squeezed instead. I think he
might have cracked one of my metacarpels squeezing my hand.
It hurts to type, but I really don't care right now.

I think the paramedics figured that I would end up without a
hand if they tried to separate us, so they let me ride with them.
Once they got the oxygen flowing and the blood substitutes got
his pressure up a bit, Mulder seemed a little calmer. But that's
when he started talking to me and I really almost wish he had just
passed out and been quiet.

First words out of his mouth were "Don't call my parents." I
tried to reason with him, they might be needed to sign something,
he'd require surgery and pretty extensive treatment and he wasn't
competent at that moment to sign off for himself. The hospital
would require 'next of kin' for most of that.

Somehow, from under that O2 mask, he got his shit-eating
grin on his face and said "No problem. *You're* my next of
kin."

I remembered it. He had asked me to be his next of kin. Told
me his mother was horrible in emergency situations--she had
fallen to pieces when Sam had disappeared. He had been sick at
the time too. It must have been a horrible time for his mother
and more than likely the reason that the woman could no longer
handle stressful events well. So he didn't want to scare her.
"Not unless there's no alternative." I knew that meant in case he
died. (No, God, not that. Not now-- not ever. Please please
please please please)

Mulder and his father are 'estranged', as he puts it. They don't
talk, and haven't really seen each other for years. I saw a picture
once of his college graduation and the only other person in the
picture was his mom. I can't even imagine that, not having a dad
to talk to, to lean on . . .

Ahab.

Shit, fuck, damn it all to hell.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. So I remembered that I'm his next
of kin. Suddenly I got a really sick feeling in my stomach and I
really wanted to throw up right there in the ambulance. When I
had said yes to him, that I would do this, it had been a quiet day
in the office. We were doing paperwork, for God's sakes! He
just slid it on my desk and I signed the damn form and that was
it. I never thought about it at the time. It wasn't a marriage
license, it was a stupid personnel form. I could have been
witnessing his W-4 form for the IRS for all the thought I gave it.

I consider Mulder my friend. I know he's my partner and we
work closely together but there is a whole lot more to it than
that. He's woken me up in the middle of the night more times
than I can count with one hare-brained theory or another, he has
pulled his share of jokes on me and even though we didn't
exchange Christmas gifts this year (I have his in my desk drawer,
but I'm saving it for April Fool's Day now), he's the best friend I
have. But to decide what to do in a situation when he is helpless,
that is more responsiblity than I'm ready for. Or so I thought
until tonight.

Right about that time, one of the paramedics turned around
and said "If you're the next of kin, I really need some
information."

So now, to the world, I am Fox Mulder's next of kin. And I
didn't even get a ring out of the deal. Hell, I didn't even get
dinner!

Mulder sort of phased out on us, and the paramedic working
on him was increasing the O2 and checking the blood substitutes
flow and the IV flow and so I gave all the information I could
remember just to keep from looking at Mulder's face. It was
getting pretty gray at that point and I didn't want my mind
kicking into hyperdrive to tell me what that meant.

Most of the stuff they wanted was easy. Stuff I knew.
Mulder's blood type is AB neg. Found that out after Ellens AB.
And he has some allergies, but not to any medicines. He doesn't
take OTC meds. The only surgery he's ever had was
tonsilectomy at the age of 11, that's in his medical records. And
he had one period of extreme shock, following his sister's
disappearance. He was comatose for 6 days, hospitalized for 2
weeks. Probably why he hates needles. I'm sure that in 1973
they tested him to hell and back to find out why he couldn't
remember what had happened.

He's never been shot before. That is hitting me hard. He's
been an agent for 8 years and he's never been shot before. First
time. On my watch. I should have been there. I should have
been backing him up. He was all alone out on that dock and he's
got a nice hole, a chipped femur and about 20 percent less blood
in his body to prove it.

We finally got to the hospital and got him in the ER. He still
wasn't getting enough O2 and I couldn't even get close enough to
hold his hand by that point. They ordered whole blood, and an
OR set up and before I could even tell him I'd be waiting, they
whisked him out of the room and a nurse directed me where to
sign the forms and where to go to wait. On the way there, she
asked if he wanted to be an organ donor.

I know that it's a standard question. God, as a resident, I had
to ask that one myself once or twice. But having someone else
ask me that about someone I care about--I really almost lost it.
And for the life of me, I couldn't remember. I didn't remember
seeing it in his medical file. We have never discussed it. I just
plain out and out didn't know.

I must have looked like hell, because she sat me down, got me
some coffee and told me that she would bring me his wallet. It
would probably be on the back of his license. Then she left me
alone.

I called the office. Great procedure we have, a special
number for emergencies. The operator was very helpful, said
they would notify Blevins and personnel and not to worry, it
would all be handled. Said if there was any change to call back.
I sort of assumed they meant change for the worse and not the
better. Still, when I get word, I'll call back and let them know.
'Don't box up his stuff, yet. He pulled through.' Something like
that.

As soon as I got off the phone, the same nurse came back
with his wallet and his gun and badge. His clothes will get put in
a locker in his room, when he gets one. She sort of hemmed and
hawed a little and then reminded me about the donor bit. She
said one of the surgical nurses had requested the information.

Again, I KNOW THIS IS STANDARD PROCEDURE! If
something goes wrong, it is much easier to comply with the
patient's wishes while in the operating room than later, once the
body has been sent to the morgue. Plus, the organ's viability
increases a hundred fold if harvested quickly and you may lose
one life, but save two or three others. I'm a stanch advocate for
organ donations.

But not when I'm talking about Mulder. Not when I'm scared
to death that he might die.

That poor nurse must have wondered what the hell was going
on between us. Here we are, we aren't married, we just 'work
together', I'm his next of kin, I'm a doctor working for the FBI
and I'm babbling like a baby going through his wallet to answer a
simple question that I know they have to ask.

Well, I found the answer to the question. Yes, he's an organ
donor. Attaboy, Mulder.

And I found his will.

OK, neither of us are lawyers. And, as most law enforcement
types tend to be, we have a fairly high degree of disregard for the
legal profession. I believe in the justice system. I just wish we
didn't have people screwing it up all the time. But even I know
that you shouldn't keep you last will and testament on a piece of
paper in your wallet, for God's sakes!

What the hell was he doing with his will in his wallet?! I took
one look at it, just the top line, and shoved the fucking thing
back in his wallet and shoved it all in my pocket where I will
never NEVER look at it again!

It's 2:08 in the morning. I am tired, I am scared and I want
answers. I want to know why the hell it is taking so long for
them to bring me word on Mulder. I want to know how he is,
that he will make it through. I want to go talk to Luther Lee
Boggs. I want to go down and talk to Liz Hawley. Somewhere
out there is a 19 year old boy still in danger and a bastard with a
gun who just shot my partner. But I can't leave until I know
about Mulder.

The doctor just came out to talk to me. Funny, I kept
thinking 'this is all private stuff, why are you telling me this?'--I'm
still not quite used to my new 'role'. Still, at least it answered a
few of my questions. And raised a whole lot of doubts.

Well, I've still got my hand in triage. It was nice to know that
I called it right, the FAB was compromised. Shit, it was torn to
shreds. That's what took so long. Piecing arteries back together
takes time.

He made it through surgery. No complications to worry
about-- yet. A few thousand that could crop up in the next
couple of hours, including pneumonia, all the complications
associated with rapid blood loss, he could start bleeding again,
but the doctor appeared optimistic and pointed out that Mulder is
in good health, generally and young.

Then he asked about his state of mind.

OK, let's just take a stroll through that little minefield, why
don't we?

I know he's been sort of crabby for weeks. I chalked it up to
the season. Christmas is considered one of the most stressful
times of the year.

He worked at home all week last week, while I took the time
off to be with the family. The only time we really talked was
when I called him to tell him about Ahab. And it wasn't the most
joyful conversation we've ever had.

The highest number of suicides happen between mid
December and early January.

Ho Ho Ho

And for all the hope in my heart that Mulder was just feeling
kinda blue this month and that it was nothing to worry about, I
couldn't get past the fact that he had suddenly typed up his will
and stuck it in his wallet.

He dated the damn thing. At the top. It was probably the
only part I really read before I realized what it was.

He wrote it on Sunday.

We aren't so great in the 'state of mind' department, I guess.

Now they're taking him up to ICU. Not out of the woods,
even more so if he's decided to 'check out early' as it were.
They'll watch him closely. I want to watch him closer. The
doctor said I could sit with him, but only for 10 minutes every
hour. Stupid rules. They have no idea what they're dealing with!

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

The Journals of Fox Mulder

* Tues. 9 January

The South Carolina Special Agent in Charge
is quite the prodigy. I think the Special in his
case may stand for Special Education.

That's ugly, but I did have to take an
hour to explain to him an extremely simple plan,
so I reserve the right to ridicule him now.

I was thinking about it last night. Boggs
has an accomplice outside. How do we find the
accomplice? Through Boggs. What would prompt Boggs
to contact the other guy? Something going wrong.
The kids getting found too soon, before Luther Lee
has the chance to psychically "save" them. I wanted
to confront him with it myself, but I wasn't sure
I could act well enough to pull it off. Scully says
I'm a terrible liar.

So, I called on the SAC today and, bowing
and scraping to all the vagaries of PROCEDURE (lo
thou holiest of holies), secured his permission to
contact the Carolinan and ask them to print a
special edition of the newspaper with a false story
about the kids being discovered. Wrote the thing
myself (or it would have taken a week to get it
done) and juggled all the calls myself (ditto).
Of course, I could have relied on Scully for all
this and she would've gotten the job done. And
she wouldn't have made instant enemies of half
a dozen agents in the process, as I did. Nice to
see I still have a way with people.

But I wanted her to read Boggs' case file
this morning. I want her to know what kind of...
monster this man really is. To see why, in this
case, I simply can't believe the claims of psychic
power or paranormal activity.

That was one of the profiles I did in DC
during my confined-to-quarters stage in BS-ISU.
It was a lot like when one of the characters on
Star Trek screws up and Picard has them confined
to their rooms. Suddenly, the work came to me and
I had to idiot-savant come up with the profiles
without going out to the sites. I had to bitch
for weeks to get out on the road again. It was
because of the John Burnett trial. I was in Behavioral
by then, but the case had finally come to grand jury
and I was called in off a vicious case to testify.
I lost it at the trial, started yelling at Burnett.
And ended up confined to quarters.

There were a few murmurs about taking time
off, but Patterson squelched that in a hurry. At
the time, he thought I was the only disciple who
could track them with anything close to his facility.
True, he was processing scores of cases. More than
me. But he saved the headbangers for me, I know it.
Not because he didn't want them. To test me. Find
my breaking point. Boggs wasn't my breaking point,
but he was close.

He'd already been arraigned when Patterson
thumped the file in front of me, but I didn't know
they'd caught the guy. I made a working profile,
constructed from the ground up. Starting with
white male 28-34 and ticking through the behavioral
indicators to come up with a portrait of senseless,
unreasoning destruction.

The danger of profiling is that you start
to understand the killer's compulsion. If you sink
deep enough into the case, the compulsions begin
to make sense. It has to be that way. It has to
make sense to you before you can fit yourself into
that frame of reasoning and extrapolate what happens
next. But it's a delicate balance. You get too far
into it and your sympathies start to tip to the
killer rather than the victim. The victim can become
almost irrelevant. Which is how most killers see
it-- dissociation. But if you start to dissociate
along with them... that's when the problems crop up.

Boggs, though. Boggs never made sense to
me. I was stumped. Finally I wrote that this killer
was organized, methodical, remorseless, and most
frightening... totally without an overriding motive
or compulsion. It wasn't the elegant triphammer
mechanism of so many killer's clockwork minds. This
was pure contempt, pure malice. Pure evil. No method
to this madness. Just death.

And god help me, I was right.

Now he faces me and bargains for his life.
If those kids weren't in such overwhelming danger
I think I'd really enjoy this. And that scares me
most of all.

Even though part of me wishes I could
pack Scully back to Washington to deal with her
pain... I'm glad she's here. Even torn and confused,
she provides that crucial element of steady sanity
that keeps me running on an even keel. I just wish
I could do more to help her through this.

At any rate, I showed her the false paper
and she was fooled, so I know it's convincing. Now
we get to wait for Boggs' telephone privelige. The
authorization to tap the line is a nightmare to
requisition. I had Scully help me garner that one.
She hasn't said anything more about last night.
Maybe she's thought it over and reconsidered.

I hope so.


./..I think the word i'm looking for here
is "ouch".

Acutally i think the word i'm looking for
is "AhhHAHAAHAHKSHKSHHWEHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAUEERRRRH!"

but "ouch" will do in a pinch.

Feeling kind of dopey but I'm so bored. i
hae, hate, ahte, hate has. FUCK. Hospitals.

i got shot.

I think I always knew i'd get shot eventually.
Scully freakedo ut when Boggs tol d us where to find
the kids and then gave me that "avoid the white cross"
crap. not literally fraeked out but insisted I wear
the bulletprof vest. well, a lot of good taht did me.

bullet in the laeg, lost blood. I'm tryingnot
to think abotua how much it hurts. it's liike being hit
and being cut, simultaneuosly and constantly. it's
like... i used to wonder what it'd be like to be shot.
now i know. It's like being shot. no comparison.

ouch isn't cutting it anymroe. i think the
word is defintely going'to have to be aaahahhhahaaha
ajhauaouou... hell wiht it.

so we're on the ddocks righ thwhere our
psychic friend mr. Boggs told us to be and there's
liz Hawley, hurt but alive. Scully ducks in to help
her and we all fan out ofer the docks. I see the
movement on one of hte boats, a head bumping upagainst
teh tarp and yell just liek i'm supposed to and
boom. i'm laid out flat on the baords and hear her
scream mulder! it'd be nice to say i'm over here,
i think i'm dying, help me. but that whol being
shot vibe cramps my style. see her hair burning
like a brand in the night air and hear her call
for the ambulance. reach out for her hand.

And she's there.

She was there the whole time, i think.
Told me I'd be okay. Hang on, Mulder, help is on
the way, you're going tobe fine. I believed her
even though the bags of stuff they'r hanging
over my head didn't look too friendly and the
number of needles punched into my arm adds up
fast. Ambulance people screaming but SCully
is right there, so it's okay. It's okay.

saw them fiddling tiwh, wiht, weh fuck.
with the oxygen mask so i told her before thye
could muzzel me with it, don't call my parents.
don't tell them, dodn't try to talk to them. Mom
will lose it and dad won't care. she said something
abotu next of kin and the smartest thign i ever
did was get her to sign atht little form. Scully's
my nextof kin.

saddles her wth some hassles, for which
im sorry, but saves her some heartache too. The
last thing she needs right now, bereaved as she
is, is to have to deal with MY family.

peopel in white keep coinmig in here and
stealing blood. bastarsd. come back here with that.
I think I might need it.

And shooting me full of toher stufff. plamsa
and saline. dread having to face hospital-ity for
however long. and jell-o. Uuuurururrrgh. I think
jello was invented jsut to compel peolpe to hurry
up and get well and get out of sthe damn hospitl.
i don't need any semi-solid encourgementt to get
otu ofe here, thanks. I want to leave jstu as soon
as I can.

what is this shit they've got me on. next
time that nurse comes in here i'll tell her to get
me off this dope or i'll chew through the IV. can't
stand sedation. mom was on valium and crap like that
for months, years maybe. i've run into meds now and
then and I dont like them one bit. take a pill,
that's a great way to sovle your problems. this
crap they're driping into me makes me foggy and
i couldn't hurt more than this. well, i could.
I have before. but I don't care. Scully will
listen. when she gets back i'll tell her, she'll
make them stop.

hey , i like thiat. Scully will save me.

imagine that.

imagine there's no heaven, easy if you
try. no hell below us.. was it a milionaire who
said, imagine no posesionS? close your eyes. have
no fear. the monster's gone, on the run, and your
daddy's hear. across the ocean over the waves. i
can hardly wait to see you come of age. but I geuss
we both sjut have toe b patient. it's a long way
to go.

but in the meantime. take my hand. something
about being beusy makig othrer plans.

across the ocean. over the waves. somewhere,
beyond the shore. we'll kiss just as before.. i
guess we both just have to be patient.

it's a long way to go

..';',


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


Dana Scully's Personal Log

Wednesday Jan. 10, 3:15 am

They let me sit with him for ten minutes. It was cool in the
ICU and I kept wondering if Mulder was warm enough.
Hospitals are notorious for being either too hot or too cold
and this one is freezing. Or maybe it's just me. I couldn't stop
shivering. I couldn't get warm.

He's totally `plugged in' as Jessie used to say. That was her
way of saying there wasn't any place else they could stick a
monitor lead or a tube. Fluids, O2, whole blood, the full nine
yards. Nothing but the best for our boy here. I can hear
Jessie's voice, she'd get a kick out of me sitting there like that,
all worried. Jessie, God, I wonder what she's doing now. She
was such a good roomie while I was in med school. Could
never figure out why I liked working on dead bodies more
than live ones. Sitting there, seeing all the monitors detailing
every nanosecond of Fox Mulder's existence, I remembered
why pathology enticed me in the first place.

I can't stand to see people suffer.

I hate pain.

When he wakes up he will be in a *world* of pain,
chemicals notwithstanding. If he's lucky, they'll dope him up
enough to keep him asleep for a couple of days. If the way he
acted the last time I saw him with a sinus infection is any
indication, we will all be lining up to coldcock him about three
hours after he comes to.

Mulder is *not* a `cooperative patient'.

To be real honest, the word `patient' becomes an oxymoron
when used in the same sentence as Fox Mulder, from what I've
seen so far in our partnership.

And right now, I would welcome a few of his well-placed
jibes and sarcastic comments. Welcome? Hell, I'd even
encourage the lout and laugh at his jokes.

If he'd just wake up.

Wed. 4:15 am

You know my least favorite words in the English language?

"He's holding his own."

Now, really, what the hell is that supposed to mean? What
possible information does that sentence convey? Absolutely
fucking nothing! He's holding his own. His own WHAT?
Thoughts, breath, . . . urine? What does it mean?

Heart rate steady, but a little fast. Tachycardia is not
unexpected when the heart has not enough blood to push
around. It works harder with the little that it has. OK, he's
getting more of the good stuff, creme of the crop. Not mine,
unfortunately. I'm good ole American O positive and he
would spit that right back at me. No, Mulder is into vintage
years. AB neg. Doesn't exactly grow on trees. Used to bring
a higher price back in the days when we still sold our blood
rather than just gave it away. An AB neg wino could have a
pretty nice existence on the streets thanks to those payments.
And after a bloodletting, it didn't take more than half a bottle
to get him all nice and fuzzy for the night.

Shit, it really must be 4 in the morning for me to be
thinking along those lines. Where was I?

Oh, yeah, back to my good buddy lying in the bed. Mulder.
Shit, Mulder. It's four in the morning! Why aren't you on
your cell phone calling me up and trying to convince me that
the moon really is made of green cheese and that's why Neil
Armstrong opened a gourmet pizza parlor when he got back
from the moon walk?

Now there's an extreme possiblity for you.

So heart rate is a little fast. And pressure is low, but hey,
we all feel a little low at four in the morning, so I'm not going
to bitch at the guy for that. Respiration is about what we
could expect. Shock does some nasty shit to the body.
Surgery isn't exactly a picnic, either. Here, lie real still while
we pump you full of this stuff that *almost* kills you, then we
keep you there, all cozy and balanced on the edge of the
dagger while we chop around on you, try to blanket stitch
some little straws the size of a coffee stirrer back together
again and then, if you're good, we'll let you wake up and hurt
for a while.

Why the hell didn't I stay in physics. I had a real aptitude
for it. I enjoyed it. I could be working for some big think tank
right now. No, then I'd be asleep. I'd work for them in the
morning when it's daylight outside.

It's gonna be daylight soon.

Come on, Mulder. When are you gonna wake up?

Wed. 5:15 am

No change.

Wed. 6:09 am

They threw me out early. I had only been sitting there for
four minutes. I was holding his hand and it was still pretty
clammy, a little cold (I told the nurse to bring him another
blanket TWO HOURS AGO!). Then, all of a sudden, his
pressure started to drop. The bells went off, the nurse was on
me and I was shoved in the hall and that's where I am now.

All sorts of things might have caused it. I could go into
them now if I really wanted to torture myself. This is the scary
part. The part I really hate. This is where I have nothing I can
do but . . .

Funny, I was going to say pray.

A great idea, if I wasn't still pissed at you, God.

You took my Daddy away from me, don't go expecting me
to want to talk to you right now.

But let me tell you something. If you take Mulder away
from me too, that's it. We're through. History. No more shit.
Got that.

And this time I mean it!

Just don't even think about it. Don't push me. I'm not a
fucking Job, OK? I don't play that game. Homey don't play
that. So don't even try.

Just don't.

Please.

It's been over twenty minutes and they still haven't come
out to tell me anything. I haven't heard any codes, so I guess
that's good. It means that at least the heart is still beating.

I really didn't want to read the will.

I stood up too fast when I thought I heard something and
Mulder's wallet fell out of my pocket. It landed on the floor,
open, and the paper was sticking out.

Is it illegal to read someone's will before they die? I mean,
I don't really think there are criminal penalties to worry about
here, but is it wrong? Probably some great sin that I've
forgotten. Can't seem to place it in the Ten Commandments,
but I'm certain it's there. Thou shalt not invade thy partner's
privacy.

But it was addressed to me.

So I guess that means I'm supposed to read it.

Just not yet.

He doesn't have a lot of stuff in it. I'm a little miffed that
he's leaving that bitch Greene anything, but it's only the
lithographs from Oxford and they don't really mean that much
to me.

Oh My God! How callous that sounds. Still, I hate the
fact that she hurt him *twice* and yet he still has the capacity
to forgive. I wouldn't. That's for damn sure. But he does and
that's what makes him . . . Mulder, I guess.

There's a pocket watch that goes to his mom. And his
extensive 'alternative' library goes to some cryptic group that I
will contact through the net. I don't even want to speculate on
that one. Better yet, I don't want to be anyhwhere near them
when they show up to collect the stuff. But I sure don't want
it!

I get everything else. Everything. The poster in the office,
the fish tank (which is now empty, I noted last week), the
couch--

His couch. Doesn't every psychologist have one? Sort of
an occupational necessity, as it were. Except Mulder reserves
it for himself. I know he sleeps there. Probably all the time.
The phone is there and why else would he have an alarm clock
on the desk in his living room and not in the bedroom?

He got real flaky when he started talking about money. He
wants to set up a trust, now get this, this is how he put it:

"I'd like to put that money in trust to
you, Scully; maybe donate it to the Skeptical
Inquirer or use it to set up some kind of fund
to make sure someone keeps asking all the wrong
questions."

He said he didn't expect it to be me. I think he has some
perverted notion that I'm just hanging around with him until I
get a better offer. Maybe, at one time, I was. I don't know
and quite frankly I don't care at this point. I've seen enough to
know that I don't want anything else. I want what I have. I
want Mulder as a partner and that stuffy, messy, sunflower
seed infested office in the basement with all those dusty,
neglected files.

And then he said something that really hit me hard. He
said:

"Just so I don't leave with any regrets,
I want to say it here. Dana Scully, I value your
trust and your respect above all. Our partnership
is simply the best thing that's ever happened to
me. I hope you knew that before you read it here."

For a long time, I've sort of seen my role as 'tagalong'.
I was there to file the reports, occasionally act as a sounding
board and generally keep him from nailing his thumb to the
board, so to speak. I had no idea what that meant to him. I
sort figured he tolerated me, and basically let me hang around
because it would have been more of a pain to try and get rid of
me. Like he tried on the first case.

I had no idea that he valued what we had.

...I'm already thinking of him in the past tense.

His final statement scares me the most. It probably means
nothing, just Mulder being Mulder. I mean, this is a will, you
sort of try to tie all loose ends. He said:

"Now if you'll excuse me, I suppose I'm
finally going `out there'. Someone's got a lot
of explaining to do. I know you don't believe
in this sort of thing, but if I can... I'll
keep in touch."

But I'm not ready to say goodbye.

OK God, one more chance. Let him come out of this all
right and You and I are square, we're even. Ahab had a long
and full life and I know he would accept your decision on this
matter. But Mulder hasn't. Mulder is still searching. And he
hasn't found Samantha. He would be leaving so much behind,
so many issues.

I really don't want him wandering the earth for eternity.
He'd make a lousy ghost. That is something I really CAN
believe.

The doctor came out finally and told me what happened.
Mulder isn't allergic to anything, but apparently his system was
compromised enough to cause some problems. They were
giving him Demerol-- standard procedure for pain following
surgery. That caused his pressure to drop. It happens.

They have switched him to morphine. He seems to be
responding better. His pressure is up, even more than before
this last scare. He's still unconscious.

It drives home just how precarious his hold on life is right
now. He has to want to come back. I'm going to go in there
to remind him of all the things he has left to accomplish.

Then I have a kidnapper to catch.

Thurs. Jan. 11

Liz Hawley identified her kidnapper.

Lucas Jackson Henry. 28 years old. Agent Morgan from
the local office told me that his mother and girlfriend died
seven years ago. They were decapitated in an car accident.
The anniversary of their death is in two days. He's reliving it.

But there is more. Apparently, the Raleigh police have
suspected that on the last five of his murders, Luther Lee
Boggs had an accomplice. They couldn't prove it, but they
believed that person to be Lucas Henry. They've worked
together in the past.

They are in on it together now.

I'm going out to interrogate that fucking son of a bitch
now. The ICU nurses have my cell phone number, and it
won't take me long.

Hopefully I won't be detained if I really lose control and kill
the bastard while I'm out there.

10 a.m.

I just stood in the shower for 15 minutes. A new record.
My usual shower only takes 8 minutes tops.

I needed to feel clean.

How the fuck did he do that? How did Boggs do that to
me? He may not be psychic, but he sure as hell knows how to
freak the shit out of me. And he was in rare form this
morning.

I wasn't exactly in the best state of mind. As I left the
hospital, the doctor told me that Mulder's white count was up.
That is usually an indication that there is an infection brewing
somewhere. They started him on antibiotics after surgery, but
they are upping the dosage now. They'll be doing bloodwork
throughout the day to keep tabs on it. Just what I needed to
hear.

So I lit right into Boggs when I got to the prison. I
accused him of orchestrating the kidnappings to get back at
Mulder for putting him on death row. I also told him that if
Mulder--if anything happens to Mulder I will gladly gas him,
Luther Lee Boggs, to oblivion and no one will stop me from
seeing him dead.

I was tired. I haven't slept that well since Friday night and
that was, what, 5 nights ago. And really, I didn't sleep at all
last night. So I'm not that surprised that I might have
hallucinated a bit.

First it was Boggs sitting there.

And then it was Mulder! In the same prison uniform. It
scared me but when he opened his mouth and spoke he
*sounded* just like Mulder too. He said I was the one to
believe him.

I DO NOT BELIEVE HIM!! He's a FAKE!! He was in
on this kidnapping and probably sent us to the docks with the
express purpose of luring Mulder out by that damn crossbeam
and then giving Henry the perfect opportunity to kill him. But
Henry fired low and only hit him in the leg. Must have been
the waves rocking the boat or something.

I don't believe that this bastard actually thinks I'm going
to believe that he can talk to the dead. That he could talk to
anyone save the devil himself.

But Boggs wouldn't let up. He told me that I believe. I
denied it. Then he sort of tranced out and suddenly he was
talking. This time, it sounded like me.

I haven't played with my hair in years. It was a bad habit I
picked up in eighth grade because Mom let Missy get a really
cute cut but wouldn't let me. And I was 13 and it just wasn't
fair that she always got to do stuff that I didn't.

I had forgotten all about the cigarettes. I never liked the
fact that my parents smoked and that was why I asked them to
quit. I told them if would be my graduation present from
undergrad if they did. I was so happy when they said they
would try. Mom succeeded. Ahab didn't but at least he never
smoked in front of me.

Boggs was still in his `trance' and he was talking and
playing with his hair, just like I used to, and then he told me
about the night that I snuck out and smoked one of Mom's
cigarettes out on the porch.

I don't want to believe him, but how did he know?!? I tried
to cover, I told him that could have happened to any kid. But
he persisted. He knew he was right. He described every
minute of that night, the fear, the excitement, down to the fact
that I thought it was gross (and I still do). I was so tired. I
still am. I couldn't help myself. At that moment, I believed
him.

He told me I wanted something from him. And I couldn't
help myself. I told him I wanted to talk to Ahab. I have to
know, was he proud of me? I mean, I disappointed him so
badly when I joined the FBI, but that was my decision and I'm
willing to live with it. I just want to know if he ever forgave
me, if he was proud of me even if I'm not what he wanted me
to be.

What was he trying to tell me Friday night, the night he
died? Not when he and Mom were at the apartment for
dinner, but later, when he was actually at the hosptial, dying.
What was Ahab trying to say?!?

Boggs called me Starbuck.

Not even Mulder knows that Ahab called me his Starbuck.
There is no way Boggs could have found that out. How the
hell did he know?

But Boggs wouldn't let me talk to him! He stopped it,
just when Ahab--

I DON'T WANT TO BELIEVE HIM!

But God help me, I do.

Boggs told me about how much he doesn't want to go back
to the gas chamber. He's terrified of it. If I get him a deal, he
will gladly help me find Jim Sommers.

Even if he's telling the truth, or if he's lying and working
with Lucas Henry, the results are the same.

He knows where they are and he can tell me if I give him a
reason.

He told me that death is a cold, dark place and that Mulder
is looking in on it right now. My blood froze, but I told that
son of a bitch that it wouldn't be cold and dark for Mulder, or
for my father.

He told me that it will be, for Jim Sommers.

I have no choice.

I have to get Boggs a deal.


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


The Journals of Fox Mulder

* Today

Persnal reminder: dont ever get shot again.

it really sucks.

They wont let me work. Sure, it'd take so
much effort to open a file and read it, or call
Scully. I know they're just trying to stave off the
possiblity of complications or infection. But
it's so damnmed frstrating. I can't lie here an
watch TV and wait like a good litle patient. It's
driving me up the wall.

Scully came in earlier. Just for ten minutes.
They woud't let her stay. stupid doctors. I know
she's been in and out since it happened. Sort of
remember her telling them to get me a blanket a
couple of times, and telling me she'd be back to
check on me in an hour. Ten minutes every hour..
this morning i ckind of recall they pulled her
away really fast. so fasxt she barely had time
to let go of my hand, and when she did, my hand
dropped like i was inanimate. i couldn't even
lift one hand. When she came abck i tried to
talk and couldn'tk, i could barely blink. but
i was awake, i was concious. like some terrible
Hitchcock film, paralyzed and screaming but no
one hears.

She heard. she leaned in close and talked,
said i had to try harder, I couldn't just wait, I
had to make the effort and come back. That i had
to wake up. and I want to say, but I am awake,
god, can't you tell, i'm in here, i'm alive.

And then she said, "Damn it, Mulder,
I know you can hear me. You've got to pull
through this. Understand? You've got to try."

She started saying, fast, low, intense,
that I couldn't leave with all this unfinished
business left to take care of, all these unanswered
questions. and she was right. I think for the
rest of my life I"m going to hear that voice
when thigns get bad... Scully telling me that
I have to try.

Last time she came in things were better.
I was stil pretty out of it then, but I could sort
of speak. She looked worn out. This is the worst
possibel tieming for this to happen and there's no
one here to comfort her and tell her it will be
okay, and she cna't call her father for support
and I wish she could lean on me but right now,
even i can't lean on me.

Asked her to make them stop giving me drugs
that turned everything into a blur. she informed me
that if i knew how much pain i'd be in without the
morphine, I wouldn't even consider that. I told her
i'd risk it. Scully said something about getting
the dosage reduced if it meant that much to me..
Sure enugh, one of the IV bags vanished soon after.
My teeth are now permnantly clenched together an
I'd dearly love to saw my leg off. But I can think
a lotm ore clearly than befofre. Things are still
warped but I feel clearer.

Actally, it's interesting. It feels as
though my leg _has_ been cuto ff. It terminates
in pain, then there 's no sensation from th shot
wound down. Im trying to intellectuaulize it so
i can deal with it. The nursesa re giving me
strang looks because the shot wound doesn't
bother me asm uch as the needels. Every time
those vampires come in here I just wanna crawl
under the covrs and hide. I guess it shows.

And theyve got this football player so-
called nurse coming in here, this guy i'm sure
i saw play against the green Bay packers last
year. at the moment there's a catheter doing
the dirty work but that guy checked it and
told me i'd probably be able to get rid of it
tonight. imagine my delight. he also said they
might let me eat something tonight or tomorrow
morning. i feeel a little seasick so i'm not
anticipating that too much either.

I have to hidse my writing when htey
come in here cause i thikn they'd mkae me stop.
But if I had to get shot i'm at least oging to
record the experience for posterity.

I'm so tired. A million tubes are shunting
stuff in a nd out of me but it feels like all my
energry is devoted towards keeping my heart beating.

But I could still make a phoen call if
they'd let me. or read something. stupid. so
useless. i don't want to be here.

my sense of time is all screwed upl. I
know it's night... i hear people talkng as they
walk by, deciding where to go for dinner. Lucky
bastards. when i get better i'm taking Scully
out toe hte nicest restaurant in DC to celebrate
being able to eat again. eat? they wont even let
me drink anything. so fucking thristy and the
nurse comes inhere and igigves me ice chips.
like, three of htem. i know they're... wait
taht's spelled wrong. shit. i know there are
all kinds of liquids being piped into me right
now but my mouth is dry and i'm totally parched.
three little slivers of ice doesn't help.

And the stitches itch. the sheets itch.
Everything itches. I'd probably rip off my whole
skin if i had the energy to scratch. You know,
anyplace is a lousy place to get shot, but i'm
thinking the upper thigh is a more uncomfortable
placd than most. if onoly because you keep trying
to work out how many inches up and to the left
it couldve been. ooooouch. just the thought is
worse then the actual gunshot. no it isn't. no,
the actual gunshot is just about as bad as it
gets.

I can feel my pulse beatinng against the
stitches. The bullet chiped teh bone and tore up
the femoral artry bundle. Three differnt doctors
have told me how lucky I was that the ambulance
was nearby. They keep sayng I could have bled
to death.

Okay, yeah, that's not an appetizng
prospect, but that was yesterday. I'm not bleeding
now, and making phone calls won't rip the stitches
out, I guarantee it. at least I should be able to
call Scully and make sure sh'es doing okay.

wonder how long it'll take before i can
go back to work. will I have to get recertified?
pass a physical again? Next time Scully comes in
here i wanna warn her, don't let them use this as
an excuse to shut us down. as soon as i recuperate
i want back into that basement office. period.

i won't let myself think about it. i'm
going to walk out of here. The nurses have been
prodding at my feet and lookeing worried. should
i have some kind of senseation in my foot by now?
it's just a chipd bone. it's really not that bad.
penetrated an important artery, but thbat last
doctor said i'm doing fine under the circumstances...
what circumstances? if he had to qualify teh statement
maybe Im' not doing so fine. think crutches. thikn
recovery. think marathons. don't think wheelchairs.
steer clear. please. i don't want to be an inspiring
story. I don't wanto be ironsides solving crimes
from a chair. i want to run out into the field and
watch the lights zoom overhead. I want to be the
first at the crime scene. I've just gott o assume
that i'll be up and walking again in a few weeks.
maybe even days. I will. I'll be fine.

besides, it was worth ti. we got Liz Hawley
back. got an ID on hte kidnapper. Scully will catch
the guy. I don't have hte slightest doubt of it. i
know she will.

...lower dose of morphine, but still hits
pretty hard. think i just got another dose. I know
they gave me something amitneujk. a minute ago.
now iknow what it's liek to take drugs. lousy!

feels like HAL at the end of 2001.

daaisy, daaana, giveme yoyur answer dooo.
I'm haaaalf craazzy, all forteh looove of youuuuuuuu

I learned that song a different way.

sailing, sailing, ooover the oocean blue...

saaaailling, sailing. sailing.

12 things which disprovve the notion of a
benevlolent omnipotent being:

catheters

process of remving a catheter

hospital gowns whihch are invaribly too short

bedpans (yuuuuuuch)

mean nurses

bullets

1234567, needles

8, icu machines that go beepbeepbeep forever

9, ice chipls as a subsitute for water

10, sponge bath

11, murder

12, luther lee boggs and his amazing kreskin act

amended 12: the fact that bogg's psychic powers
act is playing on Scully's grief and she almost believes him.

I could go on but I think those twleve make the
argument pretty convinsingly.

most of it is self-explanatory but mean nurses:
i have my own personal nurse cratchett now. she's this
littttle thin woman with brwon hair in a tight bun and
she came in here while i was kinda spaced out and picked
up my arm and starts prepping the vein without bothering
to check see if i'm breathing or concious or anythign.

just as i am about to lodge a polite protest
she sticks me w'the damn needle, hard. like, punching
through the skin. now maybe i've had to grow a thick
skin to put up with all the `spooky' crap i get from
vicap, but i'm not made out of tin, it doesn't take
that much to make a hole in me. as i recently learned
to my everlasting dismay.

it's a lot easier to write this if i don't
worry about capitals.

i think i said something real reasonable,
like, `hey!' nurse c. just gave me a blank look, like
i don't quite register on her scanners, and she drew
a galon of blood and packed off with it.

same woman came back a little later and
woke me up to give me a sleeping pill. i thought
they made that up for the peter principle, but
it really happens.

and again to see if the nerves in my right
leg were messd up. so how does she test itt? why,
with pain, of course. lil needles. feel this? OW!
how bout this? and so on.

on some level i realize this woman is just
doing her job. still it'd be nice to be spoken to
like a human being 9or at least a fairly cognizant
dog) rather than shoved around like bread dough.

mr. former football player turns out to
be named doug foutz. he got the unenviable job
of taking out the catheter. now i understand why
Scully chose to dissect dead people instead of
messing with us live folks. this is gruesome work.
anyway before he got down to business he told me
his name, asked if i needed anything, and said
`look, i know you're an fbi agnet, but i hope
you're not going to give me any of this tough
guy crap and tell me you donn't need any help
with teh bedpan or baths or whatever. you've
been shot. there's no way you can do this stuff
for yourself right now. okay?'

i told him i'd do my best to restrain my
macho posturing.

of course, since he awas so civil to me,
i'd feel like a total jerk if i now told him (liek
i wish i coudl) that i can handel this stuff myself.
i'ts not tough guy stuff, it's simple fucking human
dignity. i've already got tubes crammed into every
square inch of acreage and have been draped with
a gown the size and consistency of a paper napkin.
a little privacy would be nice right about now.

not to be. i get the impression that the
football player will probably snitch to Scully if
i balk. he asked a lot of questions about her (guys
tend to. i'm used to it by now) but a few of them
went beyond Do you know if she likes flowers; he
asked what kind of dcotor she is, and why she let
me talk her into getting hte omrphine dosage lowered.
yep, i am definitely under the watchful eye of
a nurse who knows where the bodies are buried.
he told me nurse cratchett will alrayd probably
compalin to Scully. according to nurse c., when
she took that blood i said more than just Hey,
and she was upset about it... one of the others
got mad because i stuffed a tissue against one
of the things going bepbeepbeep to muffle it...
i have been branded a `bad patient'.

moi?

what i wanna know is where are all the
elly mae clampett nurses, dumb as a bottle of
rocks but a lot more fun to watch.? sure, i'd
like to think i'm past the phase where those
kind of women appeal to me, but face it, those
women appeal to every man at every phase. if i'm
going to be immobilized here i'd at least like
a pleasant view. i know such nurses exist. i
have dated my fair share of them. they were all
nursing students then. they would all be nurses
by now.

no, what they are now is doctors' wives.

but truly, i think my current definition
of paradise is... lying on my side. i really, really
wish more than anything on the planet that i could
turn and lie on my side. i am tired of lying on my
back and staring at the ceiling. i just want to
move. and i can't.

so make taht thirteen things which disprove
the notion of a beneficient omnipotent being. and
call it a night.

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

Dana Scully's Personal Log

Thurs. Jan 11

Well, I think I can safely say that the Warden of the North
Carolina Central Correctional Center is the rudest, most rigid,
impatient man I've ever had the pleasure to meet.

This is totally nuts.

Let's just ignore the fact that I have no business playing
Luther Lee Boggs' defense attorney and pleading his case
before the warden. I mean, I'm an FBI agent, for God's sake!
I should be out at the boathouse on the dock, fingerprinting
everything to hell and back.

But we have a score of people doing that and really, what
good would it do? We know *who* we are looking for now. Lucas
Henry. We even have a picture. We've put out an ABP so big
that I'm sure the First Lady is looking for him on her way to
her next luncheon, but so far, nothing!

And time is running out.

I took a shower, laid down for about 20 minutes (just to
see if the bags under my eyes might go away--they didn't), got
dressed and headed out to the prison.

On the way out there, I called the hospital on my cell phone
to check on Mulder. Finally got a nurse whose vocabulary
extented beyond the words `He's holding his own'. His vitals
were better than they had been, but the white count was still
up. In his condition, an infection is not what `the doctor
ordered.' The nurse did tell me that he'd awakened briefly and
asked where I was. I would have gone directly to the hospital,
but somebody needs to be working on this case. And it looked
like the likely candidate was me. Besides, Mulder is supposed
to be resting. Yeah, that'll be the day!

I sort of threw a little weight around to get in to see the
Warden and that might have been what caused him to be so
abrasive. I don't blame him for not wanting DC breathing
down his neck everytime there's a big case or trial. I mean, my
God, by the time he gets these bastards, we should be out of
the picture. But this was different and I tried to explain that.

He wasn't listening.

He just wants Boggs dead so that all the publicity will go
away and hopefully he can avoid a lock down.

So, my only hope of a deal was shot down right off the bat.

It was getting close to lunch time and I hadn't been by to
see Mulder since 7 this morning, so I went over to the
hospital. I needed to talk to him, get his thoughts. I knew I
was being selfish, I mean, good God, the man was in surgery
only 12 hours before, but I couldn't do this alone.

Thank God he was awake when I got there.

Too bad he was circling Pluto. OK, that's not fair. He was
trying to be lucid. How do you *try* to be lucid when you're
on morphine? It ain't gonna happen. But he was trying.

He looked bad. Too pale, sweaty, his eyes were lower than
half-mast and I could tell that he hasn't been resting since he
opened his eyes about 8 this morning. Nor has he been
charming and disarming the nursing staff, either. The head
nurse accosted me the minute I got off the elevator and
demanded to know who brought Agent Mulder the laptop
computer and did I know that this was Intensive Care and that
meant no outside electronics, yatta, yatta, yatta.

I wanted to laugh, but I couldn't, not to her face at least.
There was no way I was going to tell her that it was my fault.
Agent Morgan brought it with him this morning when he came
to have Liz ID the mug shots. I put it in the drawer of the
cabinet next to Mulder's bed and forgot about it. He must
have bribed some orderly to set it up for him. He's got to be
typing lying down, because they won't let him raise the head of
the bed yet. Bet whatever he's typing will be pure gibberish.

I just said I would check on it. I'm not about to tell Mulder
that he can't have that computer. That would be like telling
him that he can't have sunflower seeds and he's going to figure
that one out soon anyway.

He looked absolutely exhausted, he hasn't been asleep all
morning and they want him asleep. The body needs sleep to
heal. That's why we all zonk out when we're sick. And when
you're in pain, it's damn hard to sleep.

The man is a genius with the common sense of an allen
wrench. He's bored, he said. (Bored?!? He almost bled to
death last night and this morning he's BORED?!) And he
wants the morphine cut back, so he can `think clearer'.

Only Mulder would consider pain a preferable alternative
to muddy thought processes.

He can be so stubborn at times and apparently, altitude
does nothing for his compliance. When he's `8 miles high',
forget it, he's a brick wall. So, since there was nothing I could
do about it, I told him that I would ask them to cut back on
the drugs--a little. Not much, just enough so that he'll know
that the morphine is not just to inconvenience him. He'll figure
it out fast enough when the real pain hits and will be begging
to have it raised again.

I felt like I was really being mean to do that to him, but I
wasn't really happy with him right then. I was trying to get his
thoughts. We are running out of time. If we don't find Jim
Sommers by tonight, chances are we will only find a dead
body. I told him that I thought we should deal with Boggs,
get all the information out of him we could. He managed to
cut through the goofiness long enough to point out that Boggs
would love to get to me, since he hadn't managed to kill
Mulder. There I sat, proposing the other possiblity, that
Boggs really is psychic and there he sat, telling me not to run
headlong into a trap. Felt really weird, role reversal and all.

But it also made me wonder a bit. I thought about the will
in his wallet and I almost told him that I'd read it. But I didn't.
I know Mulder doesn't want me to get hurt, God knows I
would go back and undo last night if I could keep him safe,
but I can't. Still, I wondered what would happen to him if
anything did happen to me? How would he take it? What
would he do? Would he go on after a while, like nothing had
happened? Interesting thought.

On my way out, I stopped and talked to his doctor. I asked
that the morphine be cut back and the doctor informed me that
the nursing staff were all requesting that it be doubled, in the
hopes that he would be knocked out sufficiently to quit
complaining.

Being nasty to the nurses is not exactly what most people
consider a reason to live, but in Mulder's case, I shouldn't have
expected anything else. And to be real honest, I'd rather have
him complaining.

The doctor and I agreed that the pain killers would be cut
back for his next dose. But if he hasn't fallen asleep by late
afternoon, the dose after this one, it goes back up again. He
has to rest if he's going to get well. And besides, if he's asleep,
he can't bitch about feeling groggy, right?

I still had a meeting with a certain inmate to attend to,
so I left for the prison again.

Ahab taught me to play poker. It came in handy in med
school when I wanted some spending money. The trick is to
make yourself believe that you really *are* holding the best
hand, and the rest is easy. So that's how I went in to see
Boggs.

I was holding *all* the cards.

I told him that we had a deal. I didn't want to spend a lot
of time looking at him. I really did sort of feel like a heel. I
mean, this is life and death here. But it's Jim Sommers' life and
death, too. But when I glanced up, I think Boggs was crying.

Strange reaction.

Anyway, he went into his trance again. I watched him very
carefully. I waited. I listened. The Blue Devil Brewery out in
Morrisonville. And Henry was getting ready to kill Jim. We
had to move quickly if we were going to get there in time.

As Boggs came out of his trance, I couldn't help myself. I
looked at him and started to tell him what I'd done. I said
'Luther, if you were psychic . . .'

He stopped me before I could finish. He finished the
sentence for me. He said simply `I'd a knowed you lied. But I
knowed you tried.' I got up and started out the interrogation
room and he stopped me, just like he had stopped Mulder
yesterday afternoon.

He said `Don't folla Henry to the Devil. Leave that to me.'
I have no idea what he was talking about. I don't have time to
divine it either. I have a team to get together and a hostage to
save.

Fri. Jan. 12

I'll be fine as soon as I stop shaking.

OK, I'll be fine as soon as I stop shaking *and* quit crying.

Why am I crying now? It's over. All over. Everything's
finished. It's done. Jim Sommers is in a private room, across
the hall from Liz Hawley, two floors above the ICU. He's
safe, Liz is safe, Mulder's safe. I'm safe. Oh God. I'm safe.

It took no time to get the team together. Five agents and
myself. Morgan handpicked them and I'm glad he did. They
were professionals all the way.

I led the charge. So strange, not nine months ago I was so
green I squeaked (as Mulder was more than happy to remind
me on some early cases) and now all of a sudden, I'm put in
charge. But I had all the information. Of course, none of the
others knew that I received that information from a death row
inmate scheduled to die in 24 hours who claims to be psychic.
I think they might not have followed me so blindly in that case.
I know I would have had a few doubts.

As we pulled up to the brewery, we could hear Henry's
screams. The words `maniacal laughter' will never mean the
same to me. I have heard `maniacal laughter' now and it scared
the living shit out of me. But we checked out weapons and
headed in there.

It was like something out of an old Saturday afternoon
matinee. Jim Sommers, bound and gagged, lying on a table of
some kind, terrified, eyes clenched, expecting the inevitable.
Lucas Henry, eyes dark and crazed, a hatchet raised above his
head with both arms, set to bring it down across Jim's neck;
with the height advantage and the force of the swing, I had no
doubt it would sever the neck in one blow.

And me and 5 FBI agents screaming at him to stop in the
name of the law.

It took him by surprise. He did stop. For about 30
seconds. And then, he reared back and I knew that we had to
do something NOW or it would all be over-- the wrong way.
So I fired.

I aimed for the right shoulder. I wanted him disabled, not
dead. I hit the target, no problem.

The bastard was stunned, but then took off running toward
the back of the brewery. I motioned for two of the men to
take care of Jim and the rest of us took off after Henry.

I saw him run up a short flight of stairs. I'm not a track
star, that's definitely Mulder's department. The other three
agents were ahead of me at this point. Not a lucky spot,
unfortunately. Henry was waiting at the top and belted the
first agent with an old paint bucket. The poor guy had the
wind knocked out of him, but he's fine. One of the remaining
two stayed back to make sure.

Now I was in the lead again. We were running through the
warehouse section, toward the vats in the rear of the building.
I look up and saw Henry on a wooden catwalk above the now
empty vats. Right behind him, on the wall was a huge mural
of a giant blue devil with red glowing eyes.

Boggs' words echoed in my head and I stopped short. Just
in time to see the floor boards collapse and Lucas Jackson
Henry fall to his death, some three floors below us. The other
three agents showed up about then and one of them radioed
for a couple of ambulances. Henry was pronounced dead on
the scene.

Two hours of paperwork and Morgan finally let me go. I
came straight here, to the hospital.

As I was making my way to the elevators downstairs, Mr.
Hawley saw me. He and Mr. and Mrs. Sommers had been
waiting while Jim was being taken to his room. Mrs. Sommers
ran over to me after Mr. Hawley whispered something in her
ear and hugged the life out of me. Mr. Sommers wouldn't let
go of my hand for the longest time. I finally pulled away,
telling them that I really needed to go up and see Mulder.

At that, Mr. Hawley nodded and asked about Mulder. He
told me that he and his wife had been praying for my partner's
recovery. They couldn't thank either of us enough for bringing
their daughter home to them.

I couldn't say anything. I just nodded and ran for the
elevators before I started bawling my eyes out in front of
them.

I managed to wait until I got up here to do that.

Well, they finally got you to sleep, didn't they, hot shot?
According to the nurses, you flaked out about the same time I
was finishing up at the scene. I think you were waiting for me.
So drugged you forgot about the paperwork, huh?

Really, I'm just as glad that you're asleep right now. I need
to be with you, but I need the time alone to think, too. This
way, I have it both ways. So I really can have my cake and eat
it too.

You're looking better. The nurses say the reason you fell
asleep is that they embarrassed you into exhaustion. Not one
for sponge baths, apparently. Such modesty. I neglected to
tell them about your video and publication tastes. Can't ruin
this Puritan image they have of you here. I don't think they'd
believe me even if I did tell on you.

So, if all the bad guys are either in prison or the morgue,
and all the damsels and beaus are safe in the bosoms of their
families, and the doctor is telling me that you've dodged the
infection and are on the road to recovery, *why* am I such a
mess!?!

Mulder, I really needed you there tonight. I was scared and
I wasn't sure I could do it and I really would have felt a whole
lot better if I could have seen your stupid grin just before I
walked into that building.

And when it was over, if would have been everything I
could ask for to hear you sigh in exasperation at the multitude
of forms and questions that I had to wade through. Had a
wonderful time, wish you had been there.

I figured out something interesting tonight. I don't want
to do this alone.

I read the will again. Dumb thing keeps popping up at the
weirdest times. I can't seem to keep my eyes off it. I'll be
more than happy to give you back your wallet and pretend that
it doesn't exist. I don't want to be the executor of your will,
Mulder. Because I don't want to do anything without you.

But something occurred to me this time, reading it through.
When I first walked into the basement, and you accused me of
being a spy, my only thought was to prove you wrong.

Not that your opinion of me mattered one bit in my mind.
I just wanted to wipe that shitty look off your face. With the
floor, if need be, but any way I could.

Then, sometime between then and now, I decided that I
really wanted your approval. Your trust. `You've got to trust
me, Mulder.' Remember that statement? I didn't really expect
the big T trust; I figured that was something you didn't know
how to part with. But the little t trust was fine with me.

When I read the will again, I think I realized that I now
have your trust. Big T. TRUST, All Caps. And that sort of
shook me up and made me smile and scared me and made me
giddy all at once.

It's an awesome responsibility and I really really want to
live up to it.

See, at one time, Ahab was really proud of me. I was the
straight A student. I got a degree in physics. I was accepted
into medical school and I did very well. I was his Starbuck,
everything he could have wanted.

And then I chucked it all and joined the FBI.

You would have thought I had just become the moll for a
Mafia hitman.

We fought. We screamed. He told me not to ever come to
him and tell him that I wanted out. I was making a mistake
and I would have to live with it for the rest of my life.

And he told me that he was disappointed in me.

Mulder, when I read that will and especially the one
paragraph, all I could think of was that I never, ever want to
lose that trust you have in me.

I never want to disappoint you.

I couldn't take that, twice in one lifetime.

I just want to live you to your expectations. And his. I
just hope I can. I hope I did.

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

The Journals of Fox Mulder

* Today

Scully camein to see me and asked if
Boggs could be for real. no. no, no ,no.

she still believes him and she won't
say why. It's not jsut her father's death. I
know it's hit her hard, but that wouldn't throw
her this far off course. how is he convincing
her?

I had a hard time getting thoughts into
words, but i managed to tell her that Boggs is
playing mind games with her. that he managed to
put me in this hospital bed. And he'd be happy
to claim Scully as his last victim. Don't deal
with him. i said it over and over again, in my
mind. I think it came out right one of those times.

morphine or not it's so hard to keep
my mind aimed at anything six inches past my
nose. i keep focussing on my own petty comforts
and discomfrots. Forgetting that Scully has a
deadline, that she has to find this kid soon.

She'll be all rightw ithout me, right?
Scully hasn't gota lot of field expereinece but
i've seen her on hte firing range, she's a better
shot than i am. She's good at this, damn it. She
wouldn't idioticall y stand out in the open and
yell `federal agent!' here i am! shoot me!

so i shoudln't worr about her. She can
take care of herself.

...i should be there. i shoudl be backing
her up. she shouldn't have to face this aloen, not
so soon after her father's death. not ever.

more medication. it's less than before but
still seemsl ike a lot. pulls everythign all outof
proportion. funhouse mirrors. taffy. molten glass.

so easy to drift away. sometimes i forget
and think i'm in that clinic. patterson checked
me in, kept it quiet. pneumonia. that was the case
that broke me. bet he nodded with quiet satisfaction
as he arranged for the stay at that place. at last
he knew how far he could push me. once you know
a tool's limits you can begin to use it more
efficiently, running it just under the braeaking
point forever.

once i woke up in the dark and thought
for just a second that my dad was pacing at the
foot of the bed. It was Doug the green bay packer
nurse checking on me. he wanted to know why my
heart rate went up when i came to.

keep wondering, doug.

or i'll space out and think that my mom
is just behind me and to my rihgt, her chair
pushed against the wall nesxt to the bed. at one
point i looekd there thinking it was her and
nurse cratchett ws there making out some littl
report. okay, i shouldn'tve yelled at her then.
i guess i am a bad patient. pretty lousy at
everything else, so why not.

Scully wanted to knwo why i insisted
on lower drug dosages. why i would prefer pain
to muddy thought processes, as she put it. even
with less drugsd i'm having a hard time getting
it out, communitcating. why would i want to be
bleary? it's going to hurt no matter how i handle
it, so i would reather handle it with a minimum
of chemical interference. i don't know if this
is true of toerh peple, but for me drugs don't
make it stop hurting, they just make me not care
about the pain. i'd rather be aware. I'd rather
care.

and i'd ratherr not be in a stupor in
case i startt flashing beack to being in the
hospital back then.

though so far, eveyrtime the drugs hit
hard i starrt rememberhing music. those john
lennon songs. mostly xmas music. annoying. strange.
sort of autistic. like when i was first in school
afterwards and it was as though i saw it all
through a big paane of glass and none of it
mattered because Sam was gone. drugs make you
stupid, let you almost forget.

the thing i keep remembering, can't
get out of my head, is the pencils. one of the
first nights i was hoemn from the hsopital then.
the doctores ahad me taking pills to sleep. i
woke up all slow and stupid int eh middle of
the night and wanted to write seomtihgn down
from the dream i'd been having. dumb. got out
of bed and saw the light on in Dad's study,
forgot. forgot everything. just went over to
his study and asked if i could borrow a pencil.

stupid.

first year i was in high school, i'd
walk to the bookstore to get the new stephen
king and suddenly be confused. did i have money,
did i have enough of it, did i already have this
book, am i sure. but thosedoubts were just excuses
because i wanted ot put the book back and leave
the store so that i woudln't ahve to deal with
anyone at the counter.

dumb. just dumb. i liked king's books okay
but erally i got them because everyone else read
them and i guess i was hoping someone might ask
to borrow it. at the same time i dreaddd being
approached. not that it ever happened. i'd see
them takling about his books or about movies or
parties, like through a telescope looking at
life on mars. see the guys trading porn mags
under the tables in study hall. i've always
wondered where they got that stuff back then.
finally started playing basketball adn wasn't
quite so far out of humanity for a while.

Dad reached into his top desk drawer
and got out a pencil and tossed it to me. And
then another. And another, and anoather. i dropped
one and he started to throw them at my feet, one
after the other, mechanically reaching into the
drawer until he ran out of pencils. then he pulled
the drawer out of the desk and upended it, emptied
the whole thing at my feet, dropped the drawer onto
his chair, and shoved past me out of the study. i
cleaned it all up. and i never forgot again.

gotta write this one down, just woke up
from dreaming that i was the star of a kids' tv
show called spooky doo. no kidding. Scully was
liek a cross between Daphne and velma, had daphne's
outfit but was velma's hheight and had those glases
on. And the `spooky snacks' were little bags of
sunflower seeds. in the dream i believed in everything
so i was afraid to do much of anything. had tobe
coaxed with sunflower sseds.

oh, shit. i bet those are off limits
until i get out of this place. miserable hole.

my newest definition of heaven: a shower.
god, standing up in a stall and taking a shower.
i want to crank up the water and let it pound
down, gorgeous manmade rain, let it pour in a
diluvial torrent down over my head. imagine,
stading up and taking a shower. it's like a memory
from another planet. cutting away all the dreck,
not just glossing off a layer of sweat. getting
really clean. with real soap! when i get home
i'm going to coat the entire stall with soap
suds just becuase i can.

a real shower, standing up, with real
soap. clots of froth dripping off my hands. steam
wafting up, saturating the air to sauna humidity.
water hot enough to broil lobsters. wash my hair,
shave my own face, get dressed and walk to work.
walk to the smithsonian. jog until the muscles
tighten up against the bone and scream for mercy.
til my legs are on fire. and then go home and
stand in the shower and get really clean again.
sprawl out on the couch any damn way i want,
read a book, watch a video, do some work. Play
basketball.

right now, just to stand would be enough.

was threatned with the prospect of another
sponge bath if i don't quit messing with things.
is it really such a big deal that i tried to macrame
the bedsheet?

well, there's nothing else to do. sleep and
stare at the ceiling and hurt. tried to con one of
the nurses into getting myc ellphoen for me. i kept
telling her i wohj'tn-- am i ever going to be able
to write straight again? aghjl;afsjlhel. my own
new language. mulderese.

told the nurse i wouldn't eb able to sleep
until i knew what's going on with my partner. she
seemed sympathtic-- this wans't nurce cratchett,
this woman's name is Wanda-- but siad no outside
electronics in icu. kep tmy temper even though
if i could stand, i'd stomp my foot.

and then she kind of looked at me strange
and said she'd see what she coudl do. tahnked her
profusely. but it was all for nought. she went to
check with, of course, nursse cratchett. who came
down an d informed me atht if i didn't calm down
and cooperate, my cells will rebel and cause an
infection and i will swoon away and die. funny,
i don't feel terminal. i gritted my teeth and
told her that i'll be hjappy to settle into bland
convalescnece if i can just find out what's going
on with Scully.

nurse c. just stormed out yelling somthing
about impossiblel patients. wanda said she'd try
to find out what wasg oing on and let me know.

but just a few minutes ago she stopped
by agian, apologized becauese she'd been told
that any informationa was to be ketp from me
to prvent undue stress. excuse me while i have
an apoplectic fit. i'd like to relapse now just
to make my point. how'm i supposed to relax and
sleep until i knwo? i need to know wha'ts giong
on!

well, now i know.

Doug the green bay packer nurse agreed
to fetch my cellular. i promised him redskins
tickets and good behavior for the rest of my
hospital stay. redskins teickets make great
bribes around here. i stock up in advance and
pretend that it's a big deal to get ahold of
tehm. if i'm not in town to use them i just hand
them over the Byers and Langley and Frohicke.
none of them likes football, but they treasure
the opportunity to test their newest pinpoint
surveillanvce equipment on the crowds.

doug said he would've done it to gain
an oath of good behavior but the tickets did
sweeten the deal. so i called the raleigh office
and found out...

Scully enlisted boggs' help again. they
gave her a team of men and she's going after
boggs' accomplice. lucas henry.

she's going in there with a crwod of
strangers. right where boggs told her to go.

i'm trying to hold my own but it's an
uphill battle. Scully, you do know what you're
doing, right? of course she does. this is Scully.
She;ll expect henry to be waiting ofr them, will
expect betrayl from boggs. She'll be fine.

Scully! dammit. she should have called
me. something. just keep thinknig, she can handle
it fine on her own, she'll be fine...

or is that why i'm really worried/? it'd
be a kick in the head if Scully took care fo things
without me, realized she doens't particularly need
some obnoxious twit of a partner trying out all
those weird theories on her all the time. this has
been her first field assignment, first partnership.

we've seen so much together. i know she's
intrigued. committed. she's risked her life.

the fact reamins that Scully doesn't need
me. Eventurally she's going to figure that out, if
she hasn't already. She could pick up and move on
at any time.

things would just go back to being liek
they were before. i could manage. it would.. it
would be tough for a while. but it's always a
possiblity and i have to keep that in mind.

we've worked together almost nine months
now. brought a partnership to term, so to speak.
i just don't want her to go.

and the idea that something might happen
to her... henry shot me for boggs, wouldn't hesitate
to shoot her fro the same reason. revenge. how could
he hurt her, how could anyone hurt her/? i couldn't
imagine, couldn't... there's practially an aura of
intelligence aroudn her, it's so obvious in the way
she stands and speaks. how could anyone stand to
strike against someone like Scully?

even a total psychopath like henry. or like
boggs. no. they'd do anything. hurt anyone. agent
morgan said he gave her the best men for the strike,
said every possible precaution is being taken. Swore
he'd call me the instant it's over.

anything happened to Scully and i'd kill
boggs myself if i have to hobble all the way to
the prison to do it. find henry and tear him the
hell apart.

no. no. She'll be fine. nothing will happen.
she'll be okay. please.

finally got the call. She's okay.

They found henry right where Boggs said he'd
be. She saved Jim Sommer's life. She shot Henry and
tracked him through a deserted brewery and watched
as he fell through rotted floorboards and died.

if she'd taken a few more steps...

Scully's okay.

i must have crashed pretty hard once i got
the call. and i suspect whilst i was unconcious, nurse
c. took the chance to deliver a boosted dose of pain-
killers. because that weird lethargic, distant, almost
paralyzed state greeted me when my mind rolled back
into coniocusness tongiht.

Scully was there. sobbing like her heart ws
broken. it seemed so far away. maybe it's better,
actually, that i couldn't quite wake up. that i
didn't say anything. i wish i coudl help her, reach
out. then what? she cries on my shoulder and..? we
work together. it's not my place to try to comfort
her or be part of her life outside of the office.
it would only make her uncomfortable.

but i didn't make the choice. i couldn't
have reached out even if i had wanted to. admit
it. i did want to. even at the risk of alienating
her. i can't help it. i do care about her.

i care about her. and i can't help her
now. that hurts more than the bullet or the drugs
or the needles ever could.

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

Dana Scully's Personal Log

Saturday, June 13

I had some business to attend to this morning.

I went by the hospital first. Mulder was sleeping. 'Resting
comfortably', is the standard phrase to concerned family
members and I got it in spades. The nurses told me that he
had been awake earlier, but he sort of crashed right after his
jello and broth. In a way, I was glad he's finally getting the
sleep he needs. But I really wanted to talk to him before I
went out to the prison. I left him a note saying I'd be back
later in the day and to be nice to the nurses 'cause they have
ways of getting even.

After my little crying jag at Mulder's bedside (thank God he
was out of it, or I'd be in *deep* trouble), I went back to the
hotel and collapsed. Fell asleep in my clothes and didn't wake
up till this morning. It was the first 'real' sleep I'd had in
almost a week and it felt wonderful. I got up, took a shower,
went down and ate restaurant food. (I suddenly realized that I
had been running on nothing but coffee for over two days--not
the best diet, but my slacks were loose this morning.)

I finally had to face it. I needed to see Boggs.

OK, so maybe Mulder is right and Boggs was in on this
kidnapping with Lucas Henry. That does not explain why he
told me the whereabouts of Henry and Jim last night. Or why
he warned me about the catwalk. If I had `followed Henry to
the devil', as Boggs warned against, I would have a broken
neck and be sharing morgue space with Lucas Henry right
now. I have no doubt of that whatsoever.

So, for whatever reason, I had to see Boggs again.

The man sitting in that cell was a far cry from the hardened
murderer that we first met when we arrived. Gone was the
cockiness, gone was the essense of evil he had radiated on that
day just a couple of days ago. The man in that cell today was
meek, almost humble.

He asked if I had come to say goodbye.

As far as I'm concerned, there are pros and cons to capital
punishment. And if Mulder had died, and I'd had the chance, I
really would have gone ahead with my threat to be the one to
drop the pellet and end Luther Lee Boggs' life, no questions
asked.

But Mulder didn't die. And without Boggs' help I never
would have known where to look, or how to find Jim
Sommers before he, too would have died. And if I hadn't
listened to Luther's warning, I would have blindly followed
Henry onto that catwalk, and plunged to my death, too.

A lot of `what ifs'. Very few answers.

I couldn't bring myself to say the words, but I think Luther
knew that I was grateful for what he had done. He was the
one to bring up the subject of unfinished business. He told me
that if I wanted to know what my father's message was to me,
that I should be there tonight, at his execution, and be his
witness.

I stopped by the hospital on the way to the regional office.
Mulder was feeling a little better. Most of the tubes and
attachments are off now, and he's down to just an IV for
fluids. They'll keep him on that for a couple of more days, it's
easier to leave it in than start a new one and they are still
watching his white blood cell count closely for signs of
infection.

Mulder grumbled about being stuck in the hospital and how
soon could I spring him. I was able to get him moved out of
ICU (and away from the nurse he calls Cratchet) down to a
regular semi-private room. That helped a little, I think. He'll
be here at least a couple of more days. Then, we'll talk about
what kind of care he's going to need at home.

I had to relate the details of last night for him. He had his
own theories on Henry and his psychosis. As always, there
was a nice debate on how Boggs knew where they were. I
didn't press my side, for once. And I could tell Mulder was
wilting pretty fast, so I watched him drift off to sleep and then
left.

I spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening
drowning in reports. I fired my weapon, struck a suspect,
witnessed his plunge to death, God, the forms are enough to
make you wish for the days of the old West, where the only
thing a lawman needed was a badge and a loaded six gun. But
for once, I was sort of relieved that I had those mundane
things to keep my mind occupied.

Stopped by the hospital and had dinner with Mulder. Well,
I had dinner, Mulder sat there and complained about the
broiled cod and mac and cheese they brought him. We
watched a little TV together, now that he's in a room where he
can sit up and even close a curtain if he wants. He tells me the
leg doesn't really hurt, but the lines around his eyes sort of
negate that statement. Still, he's looking a far sight better than
he did the night we brought him in.

I left there about 9:00, before the nurses turfed me out. I
would have stayed longer, but I think the conversation was
starting to drift into areas that I didn't want to pursue.
Besides, he still needs a lot of rest.

Came back here and considered Boggs' offer.

I can't help thinking that it's possible. I know. That's so far
out there that Mulder would label *me* an X file! But I think
about what Boggs did when he warned Mulder. And when he
warned me. Maybe there is more to this than Mulder is willing
to see.

I can understand Mulder's point of view, too. I mean, he
was in this sicko's head at one point. He ate, slept and lived
with Luther Lee Boggs stuck inside his mind for the entire
time he was writing that profile. I've never spoken to Mulder
about what it was like to write profiles all the time, but from
the 'casual warnings' I received from some of the agents in
vicap after we first started working together, it must have been
horrid.

It's no wonder that of all the people who the spirits might
decided to talk to, Mulder would resent that the one they
chose would be the likes of Luther Lee Boggs. It just really
messes up any sense of cosmic justice. Boggs is not the
medium type. Extra Large Demented, maybe, but never
medium.

Still, who am I to say who gets to be the mouthpiece of the
afterlife and who doesn't? I mean, I don't even buy into this
crap most of the time!

It's 11:55 pm. The execution is set for midnight at the
prison on the other end of town. I guess I won't be in
attendence.

Sunday, Jan. 14

I called the office this morning and told them that I would
be staying in Raleigh for a couple of more days. I have the
time coming and then some, especially since I took off only
two hours for Ahab's funeral. I talked to Mulder's doctor and
he agreed to let him leave Tuesday, provided I `sit' on him and
he gets plenty of rest. Four weeks at home will have him
climbing the walls, and have me tied up on the phone
constantly, no doubt. But I don't even want to consider what
he would be like if he tried negotiating the basement hallway
on crutches. Or slipped on a sunflower seed.

I found a little park near the docks. It was chilly, but not as
cold as it was the other night. I sat and watched the boats in
the harbor for a while. And thought about Ahab.

I remember the first time he took me to see his ship. Most
of the time, Mom would drive him to the dock and someone
would watch us, or one of the other men would pick him up at
our house and he would ride with them. But one time, when I
was six or seven, he decided it was time that we all got to go
see him off.

Billy had seen him off before and had a science project he
needed to finish, Missy was at a sleepover and wasn't at home
and Mom decided at the last moment that Charlie had a bad
cold and shouldn't be out in the wind, so when all was said and
done, it was me that got to go. Just me. And Mom, of
course, but mostly just me.

We got to the dock early. Ahab was just an XO in those
days, but the Captain was a good friend, George Walters.
Uncle Georgie, we all called him. And when he saw that I was
there, Uncle Georgie told Ahab that he should give me `the
cook's tour' of the place.

Ahab showed me the bridge and his quarters and the
officer's mess. And everywhere we went, men saluted him and
then looked at me and asked if I was the newest seaman on
board. Ahab just laughed and said the Navy was looking for
them a little taller, but that one day I'd do.

He held my hand the whole time. It was so special. Just
the two of us. Like when he would read to me. I felt like,
what did we call them? Oh, yeah, an 'oldest and only'. The
parochial school term for the kid that got all the notes for the
parents in a large family.

Well, the time went fast and pretty soon I had to leave and
go back to stand on the dock with Mom and the other families.
Ahab gave me a kiss and a big hug and promised that we'd
read some more when he got back. He took one of my pigtails
and rubbed it under my nose to make me giggle. And he
called me Starbuck.

Suddenly, I was standing on the dock with Mom. And the
ship was pulling out and it looked so small as it left the harbor.
And I tried really hard to see him, standing next to Uncle
Georgie on the bridge, giving orders to the men, like he had
told me he got to do.

I didn't cry. I knew he would be back. When he came
back we'd read Moby Dick and talk about the ocean and all the
places he had seen. We'd be together again. And until that
time, I knew that he would think of me, his Starbuck. He
would think of someday when he would be the Captain and I
his first mate.

And while I sat there and watched the boats today, I think I
finally figured out what he was trying to tell me. And I didn't
need Boggs to do it.

By the time I got back to the hospital, the sane part of me
was starting to take over. I realized that it was possible for
Boggs to have found out about my father's death, even the
song he sang which was my parents favorite could have been a
damn lucky guess. I mean, who got married to a Navy man in
the early 60's who hadn't fallen in love to 'Beyond the Sea'? I
even convinced myself that I hadn't really had a ghostly visit at
all. Ahab wouldn't have done that. He wouldn't have seen the
need. He expected me to know what it took me several days
to figure out. He always thought I was smarter than I thought
myself to be.

Mulder was off the morphine, finally, and was actually
looking and sounding rather human. And of course, it finally
dawned on him the implications of all that I had told him over
the last several days. I told him about Boggs wanting me to
come to the execution. And how I didn't.

Mulder asked me why I didn't go. After all I'd seen. There
was so much feeling struggling within me at that point, that I
went with the strongest emotion. I was afraid. I didn't want
to know that Boggs was a fake and yet, I didn't want to know
what he might say. Besides, I really didn't need to.

Mulder, the seeker of truth, couldn't understand why I
didn't overcome my fear, if it meant finding out my father's
message. Poor Mulder. If it would only be so easy for him. I
found my truth. It was sitting inside me all the time. I told
him I already knew what the message was.

I don't know if he thought I was lying at that point or what.
He asked how I could know.

It was simple. He was my father.

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

The Journals of Fox Mulder

* 13 January

When I woke up this morning, Doug Foutz
was adjusting the straps looped around my ankle
to keep my leg from moving.

I'd been dreaming about being strapped
into the gas chamber.

Today is the day of Bogg's execution.

Capital punishment.

As a deterrent, it has no appreciable effect
on crime. As a punishment, it is both cruel and
unusual, harsh and unfair. We could still learn from
the criminal, learn about his psychosis. It's a
waste of a human life. As indefensible as the crime
for which a man is executed. Capital punishment
is the moral equivalent of murder.

I've heard all the arguments, turned them
over in my mind for hours on end. I'm a law enforcement
officer. I've considered the issue at length.

I know if Boggs had not been poor, he probably
would have escaped this fate on appeal. Justice still
can't reach past a pile of money. I know that plenty of
criminals who deserve the death penalty-- if anyone
deserves the death penalty-- slip through the cracks
of the criminal justice system daily. I know the
inmates on Death Row are always overwhelmingly
people without money, or minorities, or both.

It isn't fair. It isn't right.

All I know is that there is no penalty that
equals the magnitude of Bogg's crimes. Except death.
He forfeited his life when he claimed that of his
first victim.

What punishment befits a man who stands
before you and says Yes, I ended the life of another
human being? What penitence could redeem him? How
could he atone? ...These are moral terms, religious
terms, but the psychological jargon amounts to the
same thing. And there is never any answer. Murder
is never less than inexplicable.

I've interviewed men like Boggs; some, in
their lucid moments, begged not to be released from
prison. Some warned that their compulsions are beyond
their control; some asked to be put to death.

If even a killer can recognize that his
crime merits death... can I say differently? We can
learn nothing from Luther Lee Boggs. His urge to
murder indiscriminately is beyond understanding.
There exists every indication that, were he to
escape or be released, he would continue to kill.

And so we excise the infection, kill the
killer. Make ourselves a little more like him to
ensure that he can't hurt us again. A small dose
of nitroglycerine staves off a heart attack. A
small dose of murder eliminates the possibility
that Boggs will kill again.

This is a terrible thing, and deserves all
the gravity it is afforded, deserves to be the object
of debate and controversy.

But this is where I have to take my stand.
Because I cannot conceive of any other way. I've seen
too many deaths, too many murderers, to have sympathy
for the devil now.

But that didn't stop me from dreaming myself
in his place.

A grim start to a pretty good day, as it
turns out. Scully worked her doctor magic, bless
her beautiful heart, and liberated me from the ICU.

This room has a window with curtains; the
sun's spilling over my hands right now. It's not
until you get stuck indoors for extended periods
that you realize how vital sunlight is to sane
and steady mental health. Anyway, there's a TV
in here, too. Which is great, except that when
they brought me in here this morning, Nurse Cratchett
flipped it on and said, "I hope this keeps you
occupied, so you don't cause as much trouble here
as you did on my watch." Love you too, Nurse C.

She got the last laugh; she left the
channel on Geraldo and the remote control across
the room. Sadist! I had to listen to the plight of
misunderstood neo-Nazis for forty minutes. Then it
was on to Sally Jesse Raphael, with-- choke-- normality
makeovers. People brought in their recalcitrant kids,
friends, siblings and SOs because they objected to
their nonstandard clothing choices. Sally had the
offending persons whisked away into the bowels of
the studio, where they were presumably scolded for
their selfish, individualistic ways. Then they
brought back the made-over people, who all looked
`normal' and a little dazed, as though they'd
just emerged from Room 101. The audience clapped
and cheered. The entire thing screamed "CONFORM!
CONFORM!"

I wonder if how much trouble I'd be in
if I dyed my hair blue. Maybe I could get the
temporary kind. It'd be gone by the time I get
back to the office. Something to consider.

That's the most agonizing `entertainment'
I have witnessed since my high school girlfriend
dragged me to see (groan) _The Fox and the Hound_,
giggling against my shoulder every time the cartoon
fox bounded onscreen. Well, okay, the laughing
against my shoulder part was nice. But the movie
was hideous. And a guy from the basketball team
saw me. The next day every time I saw one of my
teammates they'd say that line from the movie...
what was it... "I'm a hound dog. Arooo!" Gah.
That was a nightmare.

I get to sit up in the new room! Yeah,
I went back and looked at everything I wrote while
prone. Mulderese, it turns out, is a nigh-indecipherable
language rife with transposed letters and misplaced
spaces. Still, a document not without historical
interest. I think it captures the essence of what
it's like to be on morphine... it BLOWS!

I'm now dope-free, unless there's something
in this IV they're not telling me about. Yesterday
they let me have liquids (forgot to put that down,
I was too worried about Scully) and today I got
broth and... wait for it... Jell-O! O frabjous
day, callou, callay.

Actually, after several days of ice chips
and IVs, Jell-O tasted pretty good. How far I've
fallen. The instant I'm home, I'm ordering a big,
greasy, unhealthy pizza. Mm. And when I can walk
again, I'm taking Scully out to the Exchange to
celebrate. If she'll go. Well, worry about that
later.

Doug came by to check on me, even though
I'm no longer in his aisle of the produce section.
I got his address and promised to Fed-Ex him those
Redskins tickets.

He asked, "Hey, is it true that when you
work for the government, you can mail stuff for
free?"

I said, "Yeah, of course." His eyebrows
went up and I added, "And I don't have to pay
taxes, either."

Pissed him off a little-- he grinned at
me and said, "I shoulda ripped that catheter outta
you for all the trouble you caused." It turns out
that Nurse Cratchett found out about his getting my
cellphone for me. "So that promise of good behavior
better hold true 'til you're out of Raleigh, got
that?"

I saluted him, thanked him again. He said,
"You know, you think you got it bad here, but you
ain't seen nothing yet. Ever been in physical
therapy?"

Not physical, no. Shook my head. Nope.

Doug laughed, a low, slightly unsavory
chuckle. "You may not like it lying in that bed,
but you definitely ain't gonna like it standing
on that shot-up laig." (That's not a misprint.
I can spell now. He pronounced it `laig'.)

When I asked, he said I could be standing
in just a couple of days, walking within a week
or two-- if I take it easy and behave "or else
I'm gonna come down here and whomp you one, got
it?" Also he tried to fish for more information
about Scully. Stonewalled him and recommended
that he ask her himself.

This is priceless: he said, "With the
way she's been snarling at the nursing staff
for not taking care of you? Like hell I will."
That's when I found out it was Scully who got
me moved out of ICU. She apparently didn't have
anything kind to say about the nurses there,
which really chastised them, since she's a doctor
herself. According to Doug she told Nurse C. that
`My partner shouldn't have to bribe someone to
use a telephone. This is a hospital, not a prison.'

Amen, Scully.

That really burned her, apparently. Anyway,
she told the nurses she realized I was a difficult
patient (I am the very soul of good behavior, thank
you) but witholding my phone was senseless and
detrimental to my health. Oh, man, I wish I'd
been around to hear this. It must have been great.
At least I got it secondhand-- Scully As Lioness.

She came by this morning, Doug said, but
I was sleeping and she didn't want to wake me.
Left a note. She went to the prison.

Well, does she believe him or not?

I'll have to wait until later to find out
for sure.

Paste.

Somewhere in this hospital, a roomful of
`cooks' is busily sculpting gluey little tubes of
macaroni and adhesive slabs of fish out of paste.
Scully joined me for dinner; she had a Caesar
salad, and even the bunny food looked appetizing
compared to the beige repast they gave me.

No sooner had I thanked Scully for getting
me moved to this room than I started cajoling her
to push a little more and spring me entirely. She
gave me that "My name is Dana Scully and I always
wear sensible shoes" expression. No dice. We talked
a little about the case. I tried to angle for some
kind of clue what she's been thinking the past few
days, but she didn't want to talk about it. And
when I persisted, she left.

I shouldn't have pushed it.

Now I'm alone, it's getting late, and
I've alienated my partner. Again. I still can't
stand up straight. And Luther Lee Boggs is being
led to the gas chamber as I write this.

Things are tough all over.

*Sun. 14 January

12:05. Luther Lee Boggs is dead.

2 pm. I'm being released Tuesday.

On my own recognizance, to borrow the legal
term. Well, actually, on Scully's recognizance.

Scully assured the doctor that she'd make
sure I don't-- what? I don't know what greivous sin
they expect me to commit, but anyway, she promised
to keep me off my feet. A variety of surefire methods
comes to mind... Now _that's_ a greivous sin.

At any rate. She promised them that she'd
insure I don't do anything foolish. And asked me
if I'd rather be installed in my own apartment,
and she'll stay over a couple of days, or at her
place. Why, Scully, I said, we haven't even been
to dinner, yet.

But she was in full-out Doctor Scully mode,
crisp no-nonsense professional, brooks no nonsense.
So when I get shipped back to DC, I'm going to have
a houseguest.

So I insisted on taking her to the Exchange
once I'm mobile again. She accepted.

I figure the fact that there's no actual
bed in my apartment (a bit of trivia well known
amongst VICAPers who pay attention to gossip) will
forestall the inevitable rumors.

Really, truly, honestly... I covered by
making jokes, but this is ineffably generous. She
is under absolutely no obligation to do any of this,
certainly under no onus to look after me in DC.

But she seems determined to do just that,
even going so far as to warn me that if I give her
hell like I did the med staff here, I'll get a
matching bullet in the other leg.

I tell you, I am genuinely touched.

Scully has been really quiet all day. I
suppose she's thinking about Boggs. This morning
she told me that she didn't attend last night,
didn't go to receive the message from her father
that Boggs promised her. She told me a little of
the things he said to her that made her wonder,
made her doubt. Made her believe.

She didn't say anything more. I tried to
have a little respect and kept my mouth shut for
a change.

I planned out exactly what to say and
called Mom with my carefully prepared script.

"Hi, Mom. Everything's fine. Look, I want
you to know, everything is okay now and I'm going
to be all right. I got shot in the line of duty
last week. It was nothing serious and I'm going
to recover completely. I don't want you to worry.
I just wanted you to know."

She was a little surprised to hear from
me, since I just called over Xmas and we don't
talk much. When the words "got shot" echoed over
the line, I heard that awful gasp in her voice.

Stupid. I forgot to tell her to sit down
first. So much for thinking it through.

Mom interrogated me over everything and
wanted to know why the hospital hadn't notified
her. I temporized a little, told her that Scully
is authorized to act as my next of kin. Told her
that most FBI agents do this for their partners.
I know it's wrong, but I'd rather lie to her than
say, `Hey, Mom, I made my partner my next of kin
because you go to pieces under pressure.'

She got flustered, wanted to know what
went wrong, and generally, well, went to pieces
under pressure. But at heart Mom's the soul of
reason, and once she calmed down she acknowledged
that it could have been worse. And she didn't insist
on being notified, should it happen again. Which
it won't. Once is plenty, thank you.

Then she said, "Have you called your
father?"

"No. And I'd rather you didn't tell him
either, Mom. Please."

I didn't plan that. I hadn't even thought
about it...

Oh, grow up. I've thought about nothing
_but_. Just basked in free-floating anxiety. What
would I tell him? `Dad, I stood out on a well-
lit dock and shouted at a concealed suspect...
and he shot me! Who'd've seen it coming? No, Dad,
no one else was hurt. No, I'm not trying to give
my mother a heart attack. You're right, Dad, that
was pretty foolish of me. And irresponsible! Yeah,
absolutely, thanks for pointing that out. Yes, I'm
telling the truth. Of course I'm not lying... Dad,
I swear, everything I told you was the truth...
No, I'm not hiding anything... Look, it was my
fault and I'm sorry and it'll never happen again
so please just leave me alone.'

Which is more or less how it went when I
told him about John Burnett. How the rules prevented
me from taking the shot at him when I had it, and
two men died because I hesitated. I don't know if
I called because I thought he might understand, or
if I just wanted to pillory myself by letting him
rant at me.

Not that I have to give him another reason
to do that. All I have to do is call.

Which is precisely why I won't.

She doesn't believe him. Maybe she never
really did.

Scully came to my room this evening and
we chatted briefly. Then suddenly she began to
rationalize everything Boggs knew about her.

I can't help it. I'm disappointed. I
asked her. "After everything we've seen, why
can't you believe?"

She eased down on the edge of the bed
and thought it over. "I'm afraid," she decided
finally. "I'm afraid to believe."

Dana Scully? Conquered by fear? A deeper
fear than she knows, perhaps. A fear that her strong
abiding faith in sense and science and order has
been misplaced. Fear that believing in the inexplicable
opens doors that lead to chaos. Not such an unlikely
thing to be afraid of.

But I've never known anyone who faced fear
and uncertainty as readily as Scully. I've never
known anyone so brave. "You couldn't face that fear?
Not even to know what your father wanted to tell
you?"

Scully's face was so serene, almost luminous,
as she said, "But I do know. He was my father."

And the sense of relief for her was so strong.
I'm so glad she understands, that she saw it herself.
And she knows, too, doesn't she, that... no. Never mind.

She deserves to feel that absolute, unconditional
love, to know that her father was always and forever proud
of her.

Only later, when she left, could I acknowledge
that as happy I am that she's found peace, there's a
bitter little knot in my throat.

I want that.

But I know, too. I know it's out of reach.

That doesn't stop me from wishing.

He's my father.

end.




5 January 1993

I, Fox Mulder, being of sound mind...

Okay, let's not open up THAT whole can of worms.

Scully, you're my next of kin, so you're probably
the one who gets to read this. Sorry about that. I just
wanted to leave a few indications as to what should happen
next.

I signed the organ donor space on my driver's
license, but let's make this official: I want to be an
organ donor. Give the rest to science. You have to
admit, after all the trouble I've given science, I
probably owe it that much.

Some of my stuff is designated to go to a
few friends. Books, computer, phone, magazines,
videos. That's on a file on my computer, under
"last". You won't be able to get in touch with
these guys, but they'll call or email you. Just
send them that file and they can worry about getting
what I left them. I want those lithographs of Oxford
to go to Phoebe. Mostly to let her know that I didn't
bear her any grudges, after all. There's a pocket
watch in my top dresser drawer. I need that to
go back to my Mom.

Almost everything I really value is in the
X-Files office. I'd like you to have those things.

Unless things REALLY change, there should
be a reasonable sum in my bank account, and at my
broker's. I'd like to put that money in trust to
you, Scully; maybe donate it to the Skeptical
Inquirer or use it to set up some kind of fund
to make sure someone keeps asking all the wrong
questions.

But that someone doesn't have to be you.
The last thing I want to do is leave you thinking
you have to carry on the X-Files without me. Dana,
if you want to keep going, you have my blessing,
but you should move on with your life. I think
I probably took up enough of your time already.

Just so I don't leave with any regrets,
I want to say it here. Dana Scully, I value your
trust and your respect above all. Our partnership
is simply the best thing that's ever happened to
me. I hope you knew that before you read it here.

Now if you'll excuse me, I suppose I'm
finally going `out there'. Someone's got a lot
of explaining to do. I know you don't believe
in this sort of thing, but if I can... I'll
keep in touch.

<signed>
Fox Mulder