Guilt on Ice
By Mary Kleinsmith (BUC252@aol.com or BUC252@adelphia.net)

Category:  Post-ep.  MT, big time.  A bit o' SA, too
Rating:  PG
Spoilers:  Ice
Summary:  With DeSilva cured and the placed demolished, the case isn't quite over yet
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and any other characters you recognize don't belong to me.  
The medical personnel are, however.  I'm not making any money on this.  
Author's Notes:  This was written for ATF's "Ice" challenge, but it took 
me a week or two longer to finish it than I'd anticipated.  Sorry for that.  
Thank you to Laura, Mindy, and Jenn, for encouraging and not giving up on me, 
even when I was ready to give up on myself.  Gratitude also to Mindy and Vickie 
for the betas.
Feedback:  Yes, please please please?


Guilt on Ice
By Mary Kleinsmith (BUC252@aol.com or BUC252@adelphia.net)


Scully watched in fascination as they rolled DeSilva towards the ambulance.  
After a brief discussion, Hodge left, rushing to reach her side, she was certain.

"I hope she's all right," she said to Mulder beside her as they walked towards 
the police cruiser.  "Did you know they were together?"

"No," Mulder responded briefly, and she worried that he was still upset with 
her over locking him in the closet for a day.  She really couldn't blame him.

"She was wearing a ring, so I asked her while we were doing our examinations.  
The wedding is in two months."

All the reaction she got was silence.  

"C'mon, Mulder!  If you're angry with me, just say it.  Shout, scream, whatever.  
This isn't the way . . ."

As she spun on her partner where he'd lagged behind her, ready to take him to 
task for his attitude, she found his expression vacant, his mouth slack.

By the time she reached for him, he was sliding to the icy pavement.

"Mulder!"

Kneeling in the freezing snow, she reached glove-covered hands to his face, 
but there was no response.  Her partner was out cold.

"C'mon, Mulder.  It's over, we can go home!  No time to nap."  

She was torn between the idea of checking him out and knowing how dangerous 
it would be to remove her gloves in the sub-zero temperatures.  Only moments 
later, her selfishness struck her.

Ripping the gloves from her hands and tossing them into the snow, she reached 
for him.  Simultaneously, a police officer raced to the pair, alerted by her 
surprised scream.  He was calling into his radio for a second ambulance before 
she could request his help.

"Dr. Scully?" he asked, having been well-informed of her credentials.

"He just passed out," she said.  "I need to check his vitals."

Heartbeat and breathing were okay, but nothing would bring him around.  Moments 
later, faster than she would have thought possible, the ambulance arrived.  Even 
the smelling salts a paramedic named Jackson produced couldn't bring around the 
fallen agent.  

"I'd better get a gurney," he said, rising.  

Returning with the bed and his partner in tow, the medic bent to where Scully 
was feeling the ultimate helplessness.

"Why don't you take his feet," Jackson offered, somehow knowing what she was 
going through.  Before long, Mulder was bundled into the rolling bed and being 
put into the ambulance.

She hastily climbed in behind him, the medics seeing no reason to restrict her 
presence.  Once inside and on their way, they took more time to remove Mulder's 
outer layer of clothes and check his injuries.

"What happened?" Jackson asked her.  He was a friendly dark-skinned man with 
an easy, comforting smile.

"I'm not sure," she responded honestly.  "It's been a long few days - maybe 
it's exhaustion."  She _hoped_ it was as simple as that.

"It's not exhaustion," the other medic, amusingly enough named Johnson, stated 
seriously.  She was Jackson's opposite in every way, despite the similarity 
in their names.  Young, very fair, and perhaps a bit overly serious.

"What did you find?"  Scully asked in shock.  Mulder had to be okay.  It 
was the way they worked.

"Well, for starters," Johnson said.  "He's got a hell of a bump on the back 
of his head.  You don't know where this came from?"

"It must be from yesterday - one of the . . ." She swallowed deeply, flashing  
back to the blood and death.  "One of the victims hit Mulder over the head with 
a glass jar.  He seemed okay, though, and with everything else going on, I didn't 
think to check him."

"If the situation was tumultuous, it could be that the adrenaline was the only 
thing keeping him going," Jackson suggested as he re-checked Mulder's pupil 
response, to which Scully only nodded.

"There are minor lumps on the side of his head, too," Johnson commented, her 
fingers probing through Mulder's brown strands.  They looked unusually dark 
against the chalk-like pallor of his face.

"Just before the evacuation team showed up, there was a fight.  I could only 
hear it, as they'd locked me in a closet, but it didn't sound like he was winning," 
she grimaced, remembering the sounds she could even hear over the clanging of her 
efforts to escape.  

"It probably aggravated the previously-existing injury," Jackson said.  He could 
function with the first, but for only a short time after the second."  The blood 
pressure cuff he'd put around Mulder's arm hissed in the moment of silence while 
he read the gauge.

"He just held it together long enough to be sure everyone else was okay," Scully 
said in wonder, reaching out to touch Mulder's hand.  This man's capacity to put 
the other person or people first amazed her.

"Still, it's odd that he never lost consciousness before.  He didn't do anything 
that made you think he was hurt?"  Johnson's tone was suspicious, and Scully 
fought not to get defensive.  She'd done what was necessary.

"No, but he was segregated from the rest of us most of the time."

"Segregated how?"

"We suspected that he'd developed the same . . . condition . . . that the other 
victims had, and feared his becoming violent and dangerous.  The decision was 
made to confine him in a locked room."

"How long was he in there?"  Johnson asked.

She felt like she was being interrogated.  "About twenty hours."

"Weren't you worried that, if he was violent, he could turn that violence on 
himself?"

It was something that hadn't occurred to her.  Mulder could have hurt himself 
in that tiny room, and they wouldn't have known until he was too far gone to 
help.  It had happened with the last two survivors of the original expedition; 
what made her think it couldn't happen to Mulder?

The medics seemed to understand her turmoil, because they interrupted their 
interrogation to do a full check of the patient's vitals, which gave Scully 
a couple minutes to think.  It was too long for her own good.

"How was he when you took him food and when he was allowed to go to the 
bathroom?"  Jackson questioned.  "Did he seem out of it at all?  Had he slept?"

At his questions, the latent sense of guilt she'd been feeling broke through 
full force, and  Dr. Dana Scully wished in stunned shock that she could find 
a place to hide.  Twenty hours he was in that tiny storage room with nobody 
to keep him company, and amid everything else, she'd never once thought of 
bringing him food or water, or of allowing him the dignity of using the 
facilities.  She hadn't even checked on him so that he could remind her of 
the need.  He was her partner, she was supposed to watch his back.  Lot of 
good she'd done him today, she thought, self-disparagingly.

"Dr. Scully?" Jackson asked, shaking her shoulder.

"I . . ."  Her voice caught and she cleared her throat.  "We forgot . . ."

Her admission was interrupted by the young blonde medic, whose tone was 
accusing.  "He hasn't eaten in almost a day?" she asked, astonished.  "You're 
a doctor.  You should know the possibilities!  He could have had a subdural 
hematoma.  He could have gone comatose while he was left in that room."

As much as Johnson beat up Scully, it couldn't surpass the level of punishment 
she was heaping on herself.  The medic was absolutely correct, and Scully 
had been selfish not to have seen it.

Jackson, older and wiser, was also more compassionate.  "Take it easy, 
Gretchen.  You haven't graduated medical school yet, so let's just get 
him to the hospital."

Nodding her head and biting her bottom lip as if she now realized she may 
have been more outspoken than was proper, Johnson turned her attention back 
to the patient.

"Sorry about her - she gets a little attached.  She cares, which is hard 
in this business, but she's going to make a hell of a doctor some day."

"She was right," Scully said, her voice barely above a whisper, whether 
from shame or sadness, she wasn't sure.  Her eyes were unwaveringly locked 
on her unconscious partner and she was helpless to drag them away.

"What?"

"She's right.  I was so caught up in the fantastic nature of the case that 
I neglected to perform my first duty - to take care of my partner.  I knew 
he'd received a blow to the head and failed to check on him, and I left him 
in that room without . . ."  Her voice caught again.  This was all so new 
to her yet, but it was no excuse.  She'd forgotten him, but she promised that 
it would be the last time she failed him.

Still lost in her self-disparagement, Scully didn't realized they'd arrived 
at the hospital until the rear doors were yanked open.

XXXXX

"Ambulance is pulling up now," Chief Resident Jacob Quail said to his assembled 
team.  It was a call to arms they didn't get very often in the wilds of the 
arctic.  An Air Force hospital with a mere two dozen rooms, most of their time 
was put towards minor injuries, births, and ailments among the soldiers and 
their families who were stationed on the base.  

This one was going to be different.  The crew had radioed en route, and the 
nurse who was the only staff kept in the ER 24/7 called the team from all areas 
of the hospital, making sure they had all the pertinent facts.  32-year-old male, 
agent with the FBI, unconscious from what appeared to be multiple blows to the 
head.

"Lesley," he said, addressing the young physician's assistant, "I need you to 
get him hooked up to an EEG machine.  Simon, I need vitals, and fast, then take 
blood and get it to the lab."  Simon was the only male nurse in the hospital, 
but he reveled in the work, thus gaining the trust of the doctors there.

"IV?"

"Yeah, but make it saline with lactose ringers.  Reports are he's dehydrated 
and hasn't eaten in a couple days, so that'll help without skewing his readouts."  
Peering into the darkness of night, he spied the gurney before the doors slid 
aside to allow its entrance.

Despite the lack of practice, they moved the gurney fluidly through the small 
waiting room and into the treatment area.  Normally used for putting in stitches 
or wrapping sprains, it was cramped for this purpose.

"Still no response to external stimuli of any kind," the paramedic named Jackson 
advised.

"How long has he been out?"

"According to his partner, he collapsed approximately sixty minutes ago.  The 
head injuries were incurred between two hours and two days ago, but they were 
quarantined by the storm as well as by the law.  She indicated that he was 
struck with a blunt object on the back of his head, and received the other 
injuries in a fight."

"She?"

He smiled, motioning toward the room behind them.  "She's out there.  Little 
redhead, but watch yourself.  She's a doctor and she won't take any crap."

"Wolf in sheep's clothing, huh?" he smiled.

"She's a doctor and an FBI agent, Doc.  What do you think?"

"I think I'd better be very careful to do this right," Quail chuckled, 
turning his attention back to the patient.  After examining him 
thoroughly and finding no other injuries, he stood back with a sigh.

"Let's get him down to x-ray for a full skull series, but stay close 
in case he shows signs of awakening.  Tell the technician to expedite 
results.  If he's in trouble, I want to know it now, not in an hour."

As the gurney was rolled out, Jacob turned to Lesley and Simon.  "When 
he gets back, if he's still unconscious, I want a pressure monitor inserted."

"You're worried about a subdural hematoma?"

"It's a definite possibility, so I want to know the second one starts 
developing.  If it hasn't already," he added grimly.

"I'll arrange for a room in the ICU," Simon said, and Quail found himself 
feeling grateful that his people knew their jobs so very well.

"Thanks.  I'm going to get a coffee, then I'll talk to his partner."

As he walked away, Simon smiled at his retreating back.  "Better watch 
yourself, Doc.  I hear those agents are trained to kill."

"Maybe I should take her a cup of coffee, too."

A short time later, Quail found the diminutive federal agent sitting on the 
edge of her seat with her hands clenched in her lap.  If she'd been reading 
or doing anything else while she waited, there was no sign of it.

"Agent Scully?"

"Yes, how is Mulder?"

"I'm Dr. Jacob Quail," he said first, extending a hand.  She shook it solidly 
but quickly, obviously getting the pleasantries out of the way.  He saw no 
need to torture her.  "I'm sorry, but I really don't have a lot to tell you 
at the moment.  Agent Mulder is still unconscious, and he's in X-ray at the 
moment.  Once we get the films, we should have a better idea what's happening 
with him."

"Do you suspect a hematoma?"

"It's a distinct possibility, and I've ordered a pressure monitor if he's 
still out by the time we get him in his room.  It could just be a matter 
of his needing the rest in order to heal.  The human body is a remarkable 
thing, Agent Scully."

"I know - I'm a physician myself."

"Yes, I was told.  May I ask your specialty?"

"I'm a pathologist," she said, blushing slightly.  "I know that doesn't 
make me an expert in treating a patient."

"No, but it does make you a good person to have around," he smiled.  

"Yes, I think he's found it a bit handy.  And I've had enough practice on 
live patients not to get out of touch.  But this one . . ."  Her voice 
tapered off, her eyes returning to her hands.

"This is one you can't fix, right?"

"Yes."

"I know the feeling.  It's always frustrating when you can't make it better, 
especially if it's for someone you care about."

Scully nodded, looking again to the doctor's kind face.  "Once you get 
him settled, can I sit with him?"

"Of course.  Actually, it'll be doing us a favor.  We're not a big facility, 
and the staff is very limited.  You can help us by keeping an eye on him."

Scully smiled at him, and he noticed how lovely she was when she relaxed.  
"I'd be happy to."

"With such special care, how can he help but get better?"

XXXXXXXXXX


Eight hours later, Scully was awoken by a gentle hand on her shoulder.  
She hadn't even realized she'd fallen asleep, and felt a bit lost.

"How long?"

"You've only been asleep for a few hours, Agent Scully, don't worry."

As her bleary eyed focused, her mind cleared, her memory returning. 

"Mulder!"  She jumped up, drawing as close to the bed as possible, but 
her partner slumbered on.

"He's fine," a kindly, white-frocked woman assured her.

"But what if he woke up while I was asleep?  I'm supposed to be watching 
out for him."

"Dana . . . may I call you Dana?"  

Scully nodded distractedly. 

"Dana, with this type of head injury, you know what the affects are.  You 
should take care of yourself now, because it's going to be quite some time 
before he wakes."

"But what if . . ."

"You need to eat.  And you need to sleep lying down, not sitting up in a 
chair.  He'll be out for . . ."

"What's a guy gotta do to get some quiet around here," a weak voice mumbled, 
nearly unnoticed by the nurse, but heard loud and clear by Scully.  She 
turned on him in an instant.

"Mulder!" she nearly shrieked, causing him to wince visibly.  It was a 
typical Mulder remark, but the sense of relief it caused ran through her 
like a tidal wave.  The blows he'd taken had apparently not scrambled 
his brain too badly.

"Could you move the party to another room, please?  My head's killin' 
me."

Mulder raised two hands to his temples, pressing in with his palms as if 
trying to keep what was inside from bursting out.  His eyes were screwed 
shut, creating deep wrinkles around them.

"Oh, no you don't," the nurse said, leaping to his side before he could 
curl into a fetal position.  It was clear he was headed that direction.  
"We can't have you pulling on your monitor leads."  She pushed him back 
to a reclining position, using both hands to gently guide his head back 
onto the pillow.  His eyes, no longer crinkled, remained closed.

"Scully?"

"I'm here, Mulder," she said.

"Okay?"

"I'm fine, don't worry.  Just take it easy."

Mulder's fingers remained at his temples, pressing less intensely 
now, although the pain couldn't have lessened.  He was just adapting, 
she realized.  His thumbs brushing something he recognized as foreign 
drew his attention, groggy as it seemed.

"Wa's this?"

"It's monitoring your inter-cranial pressure, Mulder.  The doctors 
are worried about a hematoma."  Rather than being concerned, he lay 
motionless, and she wondered if he'd fallen asleep until he whispered 
through clenched teeth.  

"Feel sick . . ."

"Just take it easy," she said, taking the nurse's place beside the 
bed and stroking his forehead as the lines there smoothed.  

"How bad?"  

She'd thought he was asleep again until he asked the question.  "It 
could be worse.  You have a definite severe concussion, and a hairline 
skull fracture.  Beyond that, the key is staying calm, following the 
doctor's and nurse's orders, and getting as much rest as you can."

"'Kay," he muttered.  "Water?  So thirsty . . ."

The comment, made in total innocence and under considerable pain, hit 
Scully like a blow to the stomach.  _She_ was the reason he was so 
thirsty.  _She_ was the reason he'd be starving, too, if he wasn't 
already nauseous from his head injury.  And, mostly, _she_ was 
responsible for his not having received treatment more promptly - maybe 
before it could have been compounded by the fight with Hodge.

She knew she was reacting illogically, but the little voice inside her 
kept up its accusing diatribe.  Her head told her there was little else 
she could have done, but her heart felt her betrayal of his trust in her.  
She'd helped them lock him in that little room - with no food, no water, 
and no "accommodations" - without giving him a subsequent thought until 
almost a day later.

"I'm sorry, Mulder," she whispered, helping him to a large sip of water.  
He lay back with a sigh, his forehead again crinkled in pain, so she 
repeated her stroking of a few minutes before until the frown disappeared 
and his breath evened out.

"You're better than a sedative," the nurse smiled at her.  "If he seems 
to need something else, though, just buzz me."  Picking up her tray, she 
left the two of them alone.

"Is she gone?"  The whisper came so quietly, she almost didn't hear it.

"Yes, and you're supposed to be resting," she chastised him, feeling a 
certain affection for this rogue agent.

"Head hurts too much," he said simply, causing her to frown.

"Why didn't you say something before the nurse left?  There are painkillers, 
you don't have to suffer."

"I'd rather suffer than take the painkillers," he responded cryptically.  
He rolled onto his side, clutching his temples again.  "Oh, God!  Maybe 
that wasn't the best choice."

Eyes clenched shut, Mulder panted deeply.  

"Just take it easy."  Before she knew it, she was on her feet again.  "Lay 
back and open your eyes, I want to take a look."  She felt herself switching 
from concerned-partner mode to doctor mode.

"Not sure I can," he mumbled, rolling back, his eyes clenched tight.

Touching him as gently as she could, she pulled back an eyelid, evaluating 
pupil reaction, before moving on to the other.  Then, resting a hand on his 
cheek, she took in the reading on the sub-dural pressure monitor.  Gratefully, 
they seemed to be the same as they'd been all along.

"I think you should reconsider the medication, Mulder.  You're in no danger, 
but the strain on you could become dangerous."

"Maybe if the lights were off," he said quietly.  "It didn't hurt this bad in 
the closet."

"In the closet, you weren't suffering from the affects of the fight you had 
with Hodge, either," she said.  The closet came to mind again.  "Mulder, I'm 
really sorry about what we did to you."

"Hey, no big deal," he responded.  "I've been meaning to give fasting a try 
anyway."  He attempted a grin, but didn't succeed.  

"Seriously, Mulder . . ."

"Scully, it's okay.  We were all a bit . . . distracted . . . with the 
circumstances."

"I just didn't think . . ."

"You did what you felt you had to.  I can't fault you for that."

Bowing her head, she accepted his forgiveness.  

"Next time, though?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time, could you maybe lock me in a bathroom?"

Scully couldn't stop the chuckle, and Mulder even managed a weak one.  That 
alone told her he was going to be okay.  "You didn't . . ."

Mulder chuckled again.  "Let's just say it's a good thing they bulldozed the 
place.  Otherwise, they probably wouldn't appreciate the condition of one 
corner of the storage room."  He smiled at her.

"I'll bet," she smiled back, then sobered.  "I really am sorry, Mulder."

"And it really _is_ okay, Scully."

She noticed that he seemed in less pain.  "How're you doing now?"

"A bit better, I think," he said, his eyelids drooping. "It helps to 
talk - it's a diversion."

"Do you think you can get some sleep?" she asked, lowering her voice in 
case he already was.

"Maybe for awhile," he mumbled, already nearly there.  "Wake me when it's 
time for lunch."

"I will," she whispered.  With a smile, she sat down beside the bed.  She'd 
keep her promise, soon, Mulder would be well.  She'd prove that she was worthy 
of the trust he'd bestowed on her, and reassure him that he had her trust in 
turn, despite the circumstances they'd overcome out on the frozen tundra.  

The End