Without Words By Mary Kleinsmith Category: Post-Ep for Tooms, UST, M/S Friendship, MT Rating: PG Spoilers: Tooms, Squeeze Summary: We should have known Mulder getting through this case unscathed was too good to be true. Acknowledgments: Thanks to Sally, Brenda, and Deb for the beta, and Ten for some of the technical advice. Feedback: Please, please, please, please, please?? Author's Notes: Continuation of the episode Tooms , Written for After_The_Fact's Challenge. Without Words By Mary Kleinsmith "Well, he won't be harvesting any more livers," I say, listening to Mulder panting beside me. "No, he won't," he agrees. "That was just too close." "Tell me about it," I say. "You're going to give me a coronary yet, Mulder." "Just keeping you on your toes, Scully," he pants, and I notice that he looks like a little boy, just in from a hard day's play in the schoolyard. His oversized white dress shirt encourages the impression. I almost fail to hear him say what's next. "Let's get outta here." "In a minute, okay? I think you need to catch your breath, and I want to call a forensic team to take the body to my autopsy bay. We haven't gotten the opportunity to closely study Tooms' anatomy, and I have no intention of letting it pass me by. This is one X-File that's not going to disappear. I want the remains under lock and key, with just your and my having access to them." He nods his agreement silently, and I put my new cellular phone to use. Naturally, they put me on hold while they chase down somebody with the authority to call in a team at this hour of the night. "Where're you going?" I ask my partner as I watch him sliding across the smooth tile floor on his butt. "Take it easy, Scully. I'm just going to relax against the wall here while we wait. If they're in typical form, it's going to take some time for them to get here." Sure enough, as I watch Mulder slip back into his jacket, an agent I don't know comes on to tell me it'll be about thirty minutes before they arrive. I ask them to make it shorter if possible and disconnect the line. "How're you doing now?" I ask Mulder as I move to kneel by his side. "You still look pretty shaky." "I've been better," he remarks. "Damn, Scully. I don't remember this happening to you when he got into your apartment." His hands shake, and he clenches them together to try to still the trembling. "Sure it did. I've just become better at hiding it. Don't forget, I gotta keep up my 'ice queen' image. Or Mrs. Spooky, if you prefer." I smile at him, hoping it will help calm his frazzled nerves. I'm not totally sure what happened down there, and I intend to get a full accounting at some point. But right now, he doesn't need to give a report. "Thank God this wasn't one of those times I went out without you," he says. "They'd never believe it if you weren't here to serve as a level-headed witness. They've already nearly cooked my goose because of the assault accusation." "They'd never have gotten past the preliminaries on that, you know. The evidence was circumstantial." "Yes." His mood seems dark, but he's still jittery. "What's wrong?" I ask gently. "I don't like that you lied for me, Scully. Don't get me wrong, I really appreciate what you did - more than I can say. But your integrity is more important to me than some trumped up charge, because I know how much you value it." "Well, it's a moot point now," I say, and the dim light of the store is suddenly bathed in brightness. Two cars, their headlights shining into the building, pull up front, and I'm surprised and happy to realize that the team is here - and they're early. It also gives me my first clear view of my partner's face since the incident, and the adrenaline still appears to be pumping strongly through his system. "Agent Scully?" I hear somebody call a fraction of a second after the sound of the doors opening. "We're over here," I shout, and they make their way to us in due haste. I'm relieved to see a face I recognize, and, despite Mulder's warnings, trust. "It must be my lucky night," I say to the tall, dark-haired woman. Patricia Forster is the one person in forensics that I'd trust with my life. We went through the academy together, and she climbed quickly to the top in her field. She's honest, and she doesn't play at politics. "I was just leaving when the call went out. Your name was all I had to hear before I volunteered to head the team." She smiles at me, her voice dropping low. "Besides, I've been dying to get a closer look at that adorable partner of yours." "I never said he was adorable," I whisper to her sternly. "You didn't have to," she smiles and winks. She adopts a serious expression as the other members of the team come in with their equipment. "So, what have we got here?" "Serial murderer. Eugene Victor Tooms. I need you to collect his remains and take them to Quantico so I can do the autopsy. It's absolutely vital that this be kept under lock and key, for my or Agent Mulder's access only." "That's all?" She seems a bit disappointed. "What kind of name is Eugene Victor Tooms for an alien?" "He's no alien, but he's also like no human I've ever seen before. Pat, this is really important." "I'll bet. Wasn't Tooms the name of the suspect in that case where you and your partner bested that bastard Colton? He sure hasn't changed since the academy, has he?" "Not a bit - he actually seems worse. I think we were just blind to it then." "Well, you certainly knocked him down a few rungs on the ladder. And I was cheering you on, believe me." She smiles again. "So this is the guy you busted back then?" "Yep. He got released because they'd originally convicted him on a psycho. Less than two weeks out and he killed his probation officer. Then he decided it was time for a little retribution. It's a miracle Mulder got away from him," I add, looking over to where my partner is still sitting. "Go on, Agent Scully," she says with a knowing grin. "Take your partner home, and I'll handle things here. And I promise, nothing is going to happen to the remains - on my life." "Thanks," I say, breathing a sigh of relief. I really didn't want to have to hang around for a few more hours and then accompany the remains to the lab. "Just doing my job," she says, then adopts a devious grin. "Oh, and Dana. When I told you to take your partner home, I didn't expressly mean his own." She breaks into a laugh. "Pat!" I say, shaking my head and smiling. Leave it to her. I return to Mulder, who still seems to be a bit out of breath, and sits with his eyes closed. "C'mon, Mulder. Time to go." His eyes open slowly, his focus moving from my face down my arm to where I extend my hand to help him up. "Where're we going?" "Home, Mulder. It's been a long day." "But . . ." He seems a little lost, and I know it's because he doesn't want to second guess me. "What about the remains? Shouldn't you stay with them?" "Normally, I would," I assure him, letting my hand fall to my side. "But the team leader just happens to be one of my best friends from the academy. I've assured her of the importance that these remains be kept confidential - for your and my access only - and she promised me to come through. I trust her, Mulder. And you certainly don't look up to doing anything but going home for some rest." I extend my hand again, and this time he takes it. "You sure had a lot of friends at the academy," he remarks as he begins to rise, and I know he's hoping that Pat turns out to be better than my last classmate we ran into. Tom Colton is still a sore spot for him. ** Man, am I tired. Nothing like having a murderous mutant chasing you throughout sub-floor to take it out of a guy. But at the same time, I know that I won't be falling asleep very quickly tonight It's okay, though - better than being the next victim to be found liver-less and very, very dead. I take Scully's hand and she helps me to a standing position. Okay, so far, so good. Now where is that damn tie? As if reading my mind, Scully hands me the scrap of fabric from where she'd apparently shoved it into her pocket. "Thanks. Mom would never forgive me if I lost one of her birthday gifts." I shove it into my left pocket, shift the weight to my right leg as I do so, and suddenly, I'm stumbling. Scully makes a grab for me just as I do the same to her, and it's enough to keep me on my feet. "Are you okay, Mulder?" She's looking at me with her "doctor" eyes again. "I'm fine," I assure her. "I just turned my ankle. Must've fallen asleep from sitting on the floor so long." "Well, stick close to me on the walk to the car," she says. "I don't want you falling over before it wakes up completely." We make our way carefully to the sedan parked outside. It seems like a year ago that we drove by and I was struck by my sudden flash of inspiration. The way I feel right now, I'm not totally certain that this was a blessing. I'm exhausted. Every muscle in my body is sore from my unplanned flight from a killer. As Scully opens the passenger door for me - a gesture I accept without question - I realize there's one more thing amiss. The slight ache of a twisted ankle flares to the intensity of a stitch in my side - only in my leg. It's not severe, but it is annoying. "You taking me home, Scully?" I ask with a grin. I must make my point because she rolls her eyes and climbs into the driver's seat. Thankfully, the car's got bucket seats; I can stretch out my legs while she moves hers forward so she can reach the pedals. "Do you have ice at your apartment, Mulder, or should I stop for some on the way?" she asks after we've pulled out onto the road. "You planning on staying for a nightcap, Agent Scully?" I smile, but I really don't have any idea what she needs ice for. "It's not for your insides. It's for your outsides. I want to put some ice on that ankle." "You don't ice a twist, Scully. That's for a sprain - even I know that." "Well, I'm not totally convinced that it IS just a twist. And if it's swollen, we'll need it to reduce the swelling." "When it turns out to be a twist, how about that nightcap?" I ask again, half serious. "I have a big pitcher of ice tea in my refrigerator." "I'm not sure we're ready for ice tea just yet," she says, and I can see the meaning in her blue eyes. She remembers as well as I do my prior comment. As I think about it, I drift off to sleep. I'm not sure how long it's been, but I'm jarred awake when Scully pulls abruptly into a gas station/mini mart that sports a rather large ice cooler out front. She insisted on going in alone, so I take in my surroundings while I wait. I realize that I recognize this place, and that we're about ten minutes' drive from my place. I also realize that I'm eager to get home. Five minutes later, she returns with a small bag of ice and a small grocery bag. I wonder what's inside, but I'm really not sure I want to know. She places both bags on the floor of the back seat and then joins me in the front. "We're not far from your place, so try not to fall asleep, okay? How're you doing?" For the first time since I woke up, I take an inventory of my body. It definitely feels like I've been rode hard and put up wet. "I'm okay, but the scrambling I did back there is gonna leave me sore in the morning." "What about your ankle?" I flex them both, comparing one to the other. The left makes a wider arc than the right under the same effort, but I chalk that up to the pain. "It hurts, but not any worse than I've had before. It'll be back to normal by morning." "You sound very sure of yourself." "You know better than anyone, Scully," I tell her with a grin. "It's not the first time I've been hurt in the line of duty." "Yeah, and it probably won't be the last either, I'm afraid. Now that we're partners, do you think they'd let me take an insurance policy on you?" She grins. "It probably all depends. Would you benefit more from my death than my life?" I grin back. "And don't forget, you can't collect if you've had a hand in my dying." "I've only wanted to kill you on occasion - but I'd never really do it. Much as you might tempt me," she looks at me slyly. "Now let's get you inside." Surprisingly, it hurts no more to walk on my ankle than it did to just sit. Walking on it does feel strange, though. Odd. . . like nothing I've experienced before. Still, it doesn't keep me from walking, and soon, we're entering my apartment. "I know it's not the Chez Ritz, Scully, but you're welcome to stay for coffee. Presuming, of course, you're the one who makes it. You'd never want to touch mine," I offer, dropping down onto my sofa. I love this sofa, and have no intention of leaving it again tonight. "Sure, why not?" she says, leaving my side to go into the kitchen. "Besides, I don't trust you to ice that leg yourself," she adds from where I know she's collecting mugs and coffee grounds. And ice, of course. "Scully, you wound me," I say, laying a hand over my heart where she supposedly pierced my chest. "Yeah, right," she says with a grin as she rejoins me in the living room. I notice there's a towel in one hand and a zip-loc bag full of ice in the other. Do I even have zip-loc bags? "Lift up," she orders, and I know she's talking about my leg. She supports it under the calf while she removes my sock and shoe, setting it gently on a pillow. Poking and prodding, she makes her examination. "It doesn't look like there's really much swelling, but the ice can't do you any harm. Just in case," she adds, and I try to remember how many times I've heard that phrase tonight. Too many, I think. "I know that I give you a hard time," I begin, remembering how she'd agreed to put herself on the line for me, "but I really do appreciate what you've done for me. This is above and beyond the call of duty, y'know?" "I know," she says quietly. "But I think we've gone beyond work. I like to think that we've become something more. Friends, at least." "Well, I don't have enough of them that I can go scaring 'em off, now do I?" I say, and I'm not totally sure what tone I'm going for here. More seriously, I add, "Scully, you're the best friend I've ever had. I do appreciate you, whether I show it or not." Our eyes meet, and communicate, for just a moment before she blinks and then turns away. "That coffee should be ready." She rises and heads for the kitchen, the mood broken. "How about a video?" I call out to the kitchen. I admit - I was frightened in there tonight, and I'm not ready to be alone just yet. "Sure, so long as it's something a 17-year-old can legally watch." That's her subtle way of reminding me that she not only knows of my predilection for adult movies, but most certainly does not share it. "No problem, I have more than just the kind that aren't mine," I joke. Before I know it, the closing credits are rolling and my eyelids are definitely telling me that it's time for bed. Scully, apparently, knows it as well. "Would you like me to help you into bed before I head home?" she offers from her place in the easy chair beside my sofa. I think of the many times I've spent the night right here and wonder why she presumes I'd be moving at all. "I'll probably just sleep here tonight," I admit, pushing myself up to a sitting position. "I do need to make a pit stop, though." It's apparent she has no intention of leaving until I've made it to the bathroom and back. I'm just going to have to go with her sitting out here waiting for me. I make to rise from the couch, and suddenly, I'm afraid. No, terrified. "Scully!" I realize my voice is shaking, but I really don't care. "Scully, I can't get up." She's by my side in a second. "What do you mean, Mulder? Are you weak?" "I can't move my legs, Scully," I say, turning what I know are fearful eyes to her. My God, what's happening to me? "Maybe they're just asleep," my ever-pragmatic Scully suggests, but I know that's not it. "I don't think so," I say, and I know my voice has turned from shaky to terrified. "What is it?" "I'm not sure. It could be a pinched nerve in your back. You went through a lot of unusual twists and turns down in that access way. Maybe, if we get you on your feet, it'll straighten out. You game to try?" She looks at me with such hopeful eyes that I can't help but feel a little bit of it myself. "Sure, why not," I say, but it's not really a question. "Good. Let's get your legs under you." Scully moves to the end of the couch, sliding each hand under one of my calves. "I'm just going to start out by swinging your legs to the side so you can sit up, okay?" "Okay," I respond. She gets a better grip on my legs and begins to move them, but a sharp pain shoots through my body. I shriek as the stars flood my vision. "Scully, stop! Stop!" I shout, and she does. The room is filled with the sound of her panting and my sobbing. "I'm sorry, Mulder," she begs, and I realize the pain has subsided since she released my legs. I've never experienced that kind of pain before, and I pray that I never experience it again. "It's not your fault," I absolve her. "I didn't know that would happen either." "How's the pain now?" "It's gone. It seems like it only got bad when you grasped my legs," I tell her, then search out her blue eyes. "You don't know what this is, do you?" "No, and we need to get you to a hospital so we can find out. I'm going to call an ambulance." She does so, and I don't object. I'm still scared, but I'm not sure whether it's more over what's wrong with me or what will happen when the paramedics arrive. I have no desire to experience that pain again. I try to distract myself by listening to her on the phone. "This is Special Agent Dana Scully of the FBI. I need an ambulance at the Hegel Place apartments, Apartment 42. I have an agent suffering from an injury of unknown origin. He has a lack of motor function in his legs, but severe neural pain when pressure is applied. I was unable to move him on my own, and patient cannot walk." Geez, I knew it, but hearing it makes it seem so much . . . I don't know. I was going to say worse, but it really can't get any worse. Scully pauses. "I'm licensed in forensic pathology, so please advise dispatch you have a doctor on the scene." She thanks the voice on the other end of the phone and clicks the off button on my cordless phone. "Hang in there, Mulder. They'll be here soon." Soon comes sooner than even I expect, and suddenly there is a flurry of activity around me. I'm taking it all in, answering questions when I can. My coffee table is pushed out of the way and a medical gurney is drawn up close to the couch. A backboard is wedged up close to me. When the two EMT's take places at my head and my feet, ready to roll me onto the board, Scully and I almost don't stop them in time. "Wait!" we shout in unison, startling the men. "Is there a problem, Dr. Scully?" the taller and obviously older man asks calmly. "Didn't dispatch alert you to the situation here?" she asks sternly, and I'm reminded why I have no desire to cross her when her Irish is up. When the men shake their heads, she mutters, "idiot!" and then clarifies, "Agent Mulder experienced excruciating pain when I put pressure on his legs in an attempt to swing them off the couch. You can't grab his limbs like that." "We're sorry," they admit. "What do you suggest?" She looks for a moment like she's thinking, and I feel like a bump on a log laying here without contributing. If I wasn't so tired, I'd probably be either angry or embarrassed. But I do come up with an idea. "Scully, this couch has a lot of give to it." It's enough to show her what I'm thinking. "Good idea." She turns to the men. "The couch is very soft. You should be able to slide it under him without too much trouble or even having to roll him. Hopefully, when his weight is evenly distributed over the board, like it is now, he won't experience the pain." I won't say it works like a charm, but I bite my lip and get through the move with comparatively little pain. It still shocks me to realize that no amount of effort will produce movement in my legs. As I'm rolled out to the ambulance, Scully in patient attendance as always, the inquiry begins. How long had it been since I'd been able to move, when did the pain start, was there any sign of the pain before Scully's aborted attempt to lift me. And they go on and on. I begin to wonder if it's just their attempt to keep me from falling asleep. It must not work, because the next thing I know, I'm being lifted from one bed to another, still on the backboard. I'm left lying there, unable to move. They've strapped down my head, another "just in case," but it's making me crazy. "Scully, are you here?" Is that frightened voice mine? "I'm here, Mulder," she says, coming into my field of vision. I feel her hand on mine, and it doesn't hurt the way that my legs did, but I don't know if it's because of the location she's touching or the amount of pressure she's exerting on my skin. She's gentle, barely brushing her palm over the back of my hand, but it's good enough for me. Before I can say much more, Scully looks up and I hear a voice in the room. It introduces itself as Dr. Farthing, and moments later, a smiling face joins Scully's beside me. What's he got to be so happy about? Probably lots more than me. "You hanging in there, Agent Mulder?" he asks. "As much as can be expected considering the circumstances," I reply. "Well, let's take a look at you and see if we can't figure out where you've gone astray. Now you can't move your legs at all?" "That does seem to be the case." He turns away from me for a moment, and I have to presume he's talking to another medical person. "Call for a portable x-ray unit to be brought down here. I don't want to move him again if I can avoid it." He re-addresses his attention to me. "Now, tell me what happened, from the moment you first started feeling that something wasn't normal." "I was . . . we were on a case. I was chased by a subject who we'd been pursuing - sort of turned the tables on me, I guess you could say. We finally got him, but it was close. Very close. I was out of breath, and rested for a few minutes. When I got up awhile later, my ankle turned. Kind of like how somebody with weak ankles looks on ice skates, y'know?" "And that was your right ankle?" "Yes. I figured I twisted it, but Scully was afraid of a sprain. She helped me get home, but there wasn't any swelling, so she finally agreed it was just a twist. Everything seemed fine at that point. We sat, had some coffee and watched a movie. After the movie was over, I went to stand up, and couldn't. "And did you have any pain at that point?" "No, it was as if nothing was wrong until I tried to move." "He didn't experience any discomfort until I tried to move his legs for him. I presume it was from putting pressure on his tissues because a light touch doesn't bother him," Scully suggests, and I can do little more than barely nod my head. "And how is the pain now? Still there?" "No, it's pretty much subsided." "Mr. Mulder, I'm going to have to examine your legs. I'll be as gentle as I can, and I don't want to move you too much until after we've done your x-rays, but it's probably going to bring back at least some of that pain. You let me know if it gets to be too much, though, okay?" Again, I nod my head, gritting my teeth to fight the anticipated pain. His touch is gentle, and I find the pain not nearly what I feared. First, he divests me of my pants. I suppose I should be embarrassed, being stripped in front of my partner and at least one other female, but, to be honest, I'm more worried about my condition than anybody seeing me. At least he leaves me my shorts. He tests each of my joints, moving them and watching for pain or, I presume, weakness. I reach out a hand, and Scully takes it. It comforts me as much as I think is possible at this point. The doctor seems fascinated with my right ankle - the same one that gave me problems earlier. "You find something there, doc?" I ask casually. "Yes, possibly. You have an abrasion on the back of your right ankle, almost onto the foot. Do you remember scratching yourself or rubbing up against something? Maybe ill-fitting shoes, even?" Well, I know my shoes aren't the problem. "I suppose I could have scraped myself down in the access tunnel when I was chasing the suspect we caught tonight. I got sort of . . . involved, so I don't know if I did or not." Scully walks to the end of the table, examining the area the doctor points out. "It almost looks like it was rubbed raw, Mulder. You didn't feel this happen?" "No, I didn't even notice it was there. You looked at my ankle earlier, Scully. Did you see it then?" Scully looks uncertain, and a little embarrassed. "Well, granted, I was pretty much looking for symptoms of a sprain, so I didn't look that closely, but no, I didn't notice it." "Whatever it is," the doctor re-takes control, "I doubt it's got anything to do with your problems. I'll have one of the nurses clean and dress it when we're finished here." That seems like a ridiculous comment, from my point of view, given the fact that I'm lying here unable to move from my hips down. Before I can restrain it, a near-hysterical giggle escapes. The doctor is confused, but Scully understands. "It's going to be okay, Mulder. We're going to figure this out." "She's right, Mr. Mulder. It's very odd. Your motor functions seem most affected, but your neurological functions are fine. Meaning you can feel, but you can't move," the doctor clarifies. "Usually, those two go hand in hand." He's looking up at something toward where I believe the entrance to our cubicle is. "Ah, the x-ray machine. We're going to leave you for a bit and let them get some pictures, then we'll get blood samples and some others. Hang in there for us, okay?" He smiles warmly at me, patting me on the stomach before he leaves the area. "I'll be right outside, Mulder," Scully says. I make jokes about smiling for the camera for the young female radiologist, but when she flirts back, I realize that I have no interest in pursuing the situation any further. It's probably just my condition getting to me, I think. When the woman leaves, a couple of nurses take her place, extracting some blood and asking me about a urine sample. I hadn't given it much thought, but I'm relieved when I find I can perform this most basic of functions. Then, they leave me. Now, I've given Scully more than my share of advice in my time, solicited or otherwise, but here's another piece of it I wish I could voice. Don't ever. . . EVER . . . leave a terrified ill person by himself. Problems magnify in the vacuum of an empty room, and it gives him entirely too much time to think about exactly what's going on with his health. The time stretches on and on. I'm sure we're close to meeting the three-hour mark when Scully finally returns. Imagine that . . . she informs me that it's been just sixty minutes since the nurses left my cubicle. That's another thing that happens when you leave a person alone in the hospital - time expands. "Did they tell you what's happening with me?" I ask her, hoping that she'll say it's no big thing, they're going to give me a shot and send me home. Of course, that's not the case. "We won't know until we get the films developed and the tests back. Until then, they want to admit you. Move you to a room, all that stuff. Are you okay with that?" "No, but I'm even more 'not okay' with not being able to walk! What the hell is happening with me, Scully? At noon today, I was perfectly fine - twelve hours later and I'm a mess." "I'm hoping that the tests will tell us . . ." "That doesn't sound very certain, Scully," I interrupt. "It's all I can say, for now," she says, the last two words catching in her throat. My eyes meet hers, and I can see my own fear reflected in them. She's scared, too. Before we can talk further, orderlies and nurses arrive, and I'm moved from the ER cubicle to my very own, sterile, impersonal hospital room. I note a television set - maybe that would help keep my mind off the mess I'm in. But even so, I wish for a quick return of my tests. I'm not sure if I'm totally convinced they'll help, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Somewhere in amongst the commotion of the move, the doctor reports to Scully that my x-ray was clear of spinal damage, and she sighs with relief stronger than I think I've ever heard her. Of course, I could have missed something, as there were several conversations going on around me, it seems. We make it to my room just about the time I'm hearing about the orderly's date with a particularly cooperative female the night before. Finally, it's just me and Scully. "How was the pain when they moved you this time, Mulder?" she asks. I realize that I'd barely felt it and tell her so. "It was okay this time. At least that part of it seems to be getting better." Of course, she has to make her own examination. My right leg is uncovered, and she puts pressure on the foot, then the ankle, and the calf. It's slightly sore, but nothing that I would think twice about. "Mulder, when I lifted your legs earlier and you screamed in pain, where was the pain, exactly? Was it one leg or both? The entire leg or just a part?" I think for a minute, trying to analyze what I felt beyond the purely excruciating pain. "Umm . . . it was my right leg, below the knee. I can't be more specific than that, I'm sorry." "Roll over, Mulder." I sit in shock at what my partner has just requested. Is she nuts? I look at her in shock. "What exactly did you have in mind, Agent Scully?" I ask, and she just smiles. "Get your mind out of the gutter. If I wanted a look at your butt, do you really think I'd ask in the middle of the largest hospital in the city?" I decide to leave that one go - answering might get me hospitalized for an entirely different reason - but she's not about to give up. "C'mon, Mulder. On your left side or your stomach, your choice. I want to get a good look at the mark the doctor found on your Achilles tendon." "You think it could be related to that? Listen, I probably just scraped it scrambling around trying to get away from Tooms. He almost had me down there." "I know," she says seriously. "You scared me . . . again." "Believe me, it wasn't my choice." "I know. I just get tired of seeing you hurt. Now can I examine your leg?" I somehow manage to roll over onto my stomach, letting her look at my leg, without the back of the gown they put me in opening to the world. She increases the lighting in the room as high as she can, and moments later I feel her cool fingers on my skin. "This is more than a scrape, Mulder," she declares after a few minutes. "It almost looks like a burn, but that's not quite right either. It's like nothing I've ever seen." Just at that moment, to add to my total vulnerability, the doctor walks in. I know he's wondering what exactly is going on here, and I have to admit, I do, too. Before he can speak, Dr. Scully answers the unasked question. "I was just examining that mark on the back of Mulder's leg. I don't like the look of that abrasion one bit. Did you hear anything on the tests?" "Yes, I did." I know from looking at the doctor that there is something big he had to tell us. But this is something I refuse to hear lying on my stomach. "Hey, before you guys go on, could I get back onto my back? It's not nearly as easy as getting over here was." They stop and help me back into a sitting position. "Thanks. Okay, go on, doc." "As I was about to say, the blood and urinalysis weren't clean, but I'm at somewhat of a loss as to explain it. There were traces of an unknown substance, so slight that in another six hours, it probably wouldn't have shown up at all. It's almost as if it was stronger at one point, but the substance was absorbed into the muscle tissue, like some kinds of snake venom." "Could it BE snake venom?" Scully asked. "Could we treat this with antivenin." "I said it acted similarly to venom, but that's a far cry from being so," the doctor said, and I know Scully knew this already. She's grasping at straws - the sign of desperation. That doesn't make me feel better. "Damn. Where could you have gotten it, Mulder?" She expects ME to know? Then she turns to the doctor. "Could he have ingested it?" "This type of reaction doesn't usually work through the digestive tract. It more likely went directly into the blood stream. What I don't understand is how that happened. There were no puncture wounds on your skin, I'm sure of it." Scully adopts that look she gets when she's onto something. I wish she'd just spill it . . . and she does. "There is that unidentified mark on the back of his leg. Can we take a tissue sample from the area and see if it shows anything?" "Certainly," the doctor confirms, smiling. "I'll get a nurse on it immediately. And while we wait for the results, Mr. Mulder, I advise you get some rest. We don't know what's coming, but you will likely need your strength." "I'm going to call the bureau and let them know what's going on, then I need to call the PD and let them know we won't be there first thing in the morning to give our reports on last night's incident. I'll be back before you awake, okay?" "Okay, Scully." I fade off before the door clicks shut. ** Calling the office didn't take very long - hardly anybody was around this time of the night, so I left a few voice-mail messages. There were people on duty at the police department, and from the tone in the young rookie's voice when I told them who I was, our escapades the previous night were by now general knowledge. Finally, I'm making my way back to the hospital room as quickly as I can. There's a commotion surrounding Mulder's room when I return. "What's happening?" I beseech, pushing my way into the room. Two nurses are surrounding the bed, with two more aids standing by. All of their eyes meet mine with sorrow. My eyes meet Mulder's, and I see terror there. "I can't move my arms," he pants. Then, louder, "Scully, I can't move my arms!" I look up to the nurse. "The doctor's been called. We've just been trying to calm him without drugging him into next week." I quickly sit down on the edge of Mulder's bed, laying a hand on his chest. I can feel the pounding of his heart. "Calm down, Mulder. Take it easy and tell me what you're feeling." He takes a deep breath, and then another, regaining a modicum of control. "I was taking a nap. When I woke up, I had an itch. But I couldn't scratch it! My mind was telling my hands to move, but they just lay there." "Just try to take it easy. Whatever this is, it's spreading, and I'm guessing that the faster your heart pumps, the faster it'll move - even if it's only in your blood stream in limited quantities." Just as I feel Mulder's heart rate return to normal, the doctor enters the room. He doesn't say much, just moving to examine him, paying particular attention to his arms. "Well, the color is good, and the pulse is strong in all four limbs, despite their dysfunction. That's a good sign." Somehow, that doesn't make me feel better, and Mulder's eyes tell me it's not helping him either. "You still have no idea what's causing this?" I ask the doctor, and I can tell before he opens his mouth what he's going to say. The chagrined look tells it all. "Never mind, I know you don't." "I have to figure," he says, oh-so-rationally, "that this is something to which he was exposed sometime in the last 48 hours. Maybe some rare snake or new crossbreed bit you - we've already discussed the similarities to venom. But if so, this is a much more powerful kind, as well as being different in other ways." "It just doesn't make sense for this to be a snakebite," I remark. "Never mind the fact that Mulder didn't feel himself get bit, and he doesn't have a bite mark on him. Consider . . . the purpose for a snake's venom is to incapacitate its victim to make consumption easier. It has to work instantaneously, so that its dinner doesn't escape. Mulder was perfectly fine less than three hours before. And unless there was a rare and, as yet, unidentified breed of snake hiding in his living room couch, there's no way he could have been exposed." "Scully . . ." The whisper from the bed is so quiet, I almost don't hear it. "Mulder, what is it?" I snap, forgetting for the moment that he has more at stake here than any of us. "It had to be Tooms. Somehow . . ." He shakes his head distractedly. "Did you ever wonder how he overpowered some of those men? Some of the victims were in excess of six feet tall, yet Eugene Tooms, all five foot six of him, was stronger? And if he was stronger than his appearance dictated, then why was I able to overpower him?" "You mean he's got some kind of . . . naturally-occurring venom in his system?" I ask, incredulous. It makes sense, though. "Oh, God . . ." "Where's the body now?" Mulder asks, and I can hear the hope in his voice. "Pat was going to take it to my autopsy bay at Quantico. It should be on ice there by now." "Feel like a little slicing and dicing, partner?" Mulder asks. "Because right now, I'd better pray you are, and that you find something." "I do and I will. But, Mulder, how would it have gotten into your body? There were no breaks in the skin outside of the abrasion. Certainly not a route into your blood stream." "I'm thinking it's somehow absorbed through the skin," Mulder proposes. "You mean like hand lotion?" I remark with a grin. "I don't know how . . ." "It's all we have, Scully. I need you to check it out. It's unlikely I'll be able to do it for myself." The fear's returned to Mulder's eyes, and I touch his face softly. "We'll find the solution, Mulder. You just rest and I'll go see what lurks inside our Mr. Tooms." He gives a heavy sigh of relief before closing his eyes. By the time I'm walking out the door, I believe he's fallen asleep. ** Standing over the mutilated form, I almost can't stand the stench. I've done more than a thousand autopsies, some on bodies that had been around for longer and were in a much more advanced state of decomposition, yet this is worse. It stinks of blood and bile, not of just decay. Pushing down my revulsion, I start with the Y incision. I know this isn't standard procedure - I've taught enough to know you always start with the head. But I admit, the curiosity is getting the better of me. I just need to get a look at his internal organs, since I'm relatively certain that Tooms' abnormalities don't originate in the brain. Amazingly enough, his liver looks like every other liver I've ever examined, as do all the rest of the internal organs. It isn't until I've removed the stomach, after analyzing the contents first, that I discover an unidentified organ attached to the back side. A vein runs from it to the heart and lungs. This must be the organ that takes whatever he needs from the livers to extend his life, I think, and push aside the voice in my head saying that I'm jumping to conclusions. At least this is explainable from a scientific standpoint. Around his rib cage I notice that his bones and muscles appear standard, but are much more malleable than the average human's, which is probably what allowed him to stretch and re-form himself the way he did. Next, I turn my attention to the head. I half expect to find some kind of correlating organ attached to the brain stem that controlled the slowing of his autonomic functions while he went into hibernation, but there's none. His brain is fairly normal. His esophagus and trachea are about the same, if a little larger in diameter than most. His teeth and gums are no big deal either. And then I examine his tongue. It's thicker than mine or Mulder's, I realize, and when I look at it more closely, I see two small sacs on the underside. Knowing how the average human being would cringe at the process, I dissect Eugene Tooms' tongue, carefully removing the sacs. As I do, I find passageways that must take the contents to the surface of the tongue near the upper tip. This is it, I realize, taking one sac to a nearby microscope. I extract a small sample and apply it to a slide, watching in sad fascination as I view its properties. This is the poison that's threatening my partner's life at the moment. Or, at the very least, his future. Stripping off my gloves with an audible snap, my cell phone is near at hand. I try to keep my hands from shaking while I punch in the numbers. "This is Special Agent Dana Scully," I say authoritatively. "I'm going to be sending a bio-toxic sample by courier in the next hour. The sample is a poison. I need to have it analyzed and an antidote synthesized before the day is out - the soonest you possibly can." I listen for a moment as the lab clerk begins to make excuses. "You don't understand. The life of a special agent, my partner, lies in the creation of this antidote, so I have no intention of taking no for an answer. If I have to come over there and stand over the shoulder of every chemist there, I WILL have that antidote. Please don't make me do it." Whether it's my threat or the news about Mulder's life, she agrees to put it on top priority as soon as the sample arrives. It takes me a few minutes to package the sample and a few more before the courier I've called arrives. I hurry him on his way, wishing him care with his precious cargo. All I can think of now is getting back to Mulder and the medical staff to let them know what I've found. Quickly covering the incompletely-autopsied body, I put it back into cold storage. I'll finish my study of all the oddities of Eugene Tooms another time when I'm more of a mind to it. "How is he?" are my first words as I rush onto Mulder's floor. The nurses at the station know me, and know what I ask and about whom. "He's asleep the last time we checked, Agent Scully," one gentle soul informs me. "Could you page his doctor, please? I have some new information." I watch as she picks up a phone and punches in several buttons. I'm thankful when Dr. Farthing comes rushing up less than five minutes later. "I should have known a 911 page to this station would have come from you, Agent Scully," he says, but it's not at all negative in tone. "I've found a sample of the toxin which is affecting Mulder. The FBI crime labs are analyzing it right now, and hopefully will have an antitoxin by the end of the day," I tell him, wishing it were sooner. "Let's hope they're successful," he says. "I really don't know in what direction this will go next, but the sooner the better. I was going to go in and check on your partner in just a few minutes anyway - would you care to join me?" I nod silently and take up a position between he and a nurse as the three of us enter Mulder's room. As she'd said, he's asleep, but I fear it's more. "Should I wake him?" I ask. "If you don't, I will," he says motioning to the bed. I run a gentle finger down the side of Mulder's face that's showing as he lies on his side, but there is no response. I do it a third time, beginning to worry, when I finally see his eyelids start to flicker. "Hey, there, sleepyhead," I say, and I realize that I sound more like my mother than myself. Did I just call my working partner in the Federal Bureau of Investigation "sleepyhead?" His eyes grow bigger and rounder, but he doesn't answer. Within a moment, they look terrified. "Mulder, what's wrong?" I ask, and then curse myself for my thoughtlessness when I realize what's happened. The paralysis has progressed - this time to his mouth and/or vocal cords. He can't speak. "It's okay, Mulder. Take it easy," I sooth as I rub the back of his hand. I wish I could be more convincing, but I'm almost as frightened as he is. "You can't talk," I say, and know it to be true. "If this is correct, nod your head." Nothing happens, and I realize that ability has left him, too. "Okay, new plan. Try blinking once for yes. Twice will have to be for no until we get you back to normal." His eyes blink once. "Mr. Mulder," the doctor asks, drawing his attention. "Has anything else changed besides your vocalization abilities and your ability to move your head?" Mulder seems to look within himself for bit, finally blinking twice. "Good," the doctor declares. Mulder looks to me again, and I want to tell him something positive. "I conducted the autopsy, Mulder. I found two sacs on the underside of his tongue; the contents matched the toxin we've been finding in your system. I have a theory . . want to hear it?" He blinks yes, and I continue. "I think that the mark on your ankle is more than just a scrape. Among other things, the toxin had faint acidic properties. I think he licked you, Mulder. During your escape when you were fleeing from him, or maybe when he pulled you back the first time. This deposited the toxin on your skin, and from there it ate its way into your bloodstream where it quickly moved to your muscles." His eyes look at me like I'm crazy, and I wonder if this is how he feels most of the time. I promise to myself that, once he gets better, I'll be more receptive to his theories. "It makes sense," I argue. "We were so caught up in all his other unusual abilities, we overlooked one of the most important ones, but you guessed it earlier. How did Eugene Tooms possibly overpower some of the men he did?" He blinks "yes" again, and I see he's understanding my theory. "I think that you only got a small portion of the dose a real victim would get. If he could get the toxin onto his victim, most likely over where the skin would be damaged in the liver removal, we'd never have known it existed. The victim would be instantly paralyzed, rather than slowly as you have been. And he'd be helpless to fend off his attacker." I don't have to know Mulder as well as I do to see the acceptance in his eyes. ** He did this to me. That damn Eugene Victor Tooms did this to me. It's the first time I've really let myself think about him. Maybe it's my relief, and my faith that the guys in the crime lab are going to fix this. But will they really? I look up into Scully's eyes, searching their depths for what she's really feeling. I need to know that she believes this will work out. That they'll send us the antidote, that it will reverse the affects of Tooms' venom. That I'll be whole again - or at least alive. I look for all these things, study every nuance of her face to find my answer. And I'm terrified because the answer I see is uncertainty. She's not sure that they'll cure me. I can feel my heart begin to race, its frantic beat as it pounds in my chest all the more evident among the stillness of my limbs, my head, and my mouth. The breath is entering and leaving my body in more frantic pants. I almost miss the words exchanged above me. "What's he doing?" the doctor asks. "He's having a panic attack. He's scared - can you blame him?" Scully turns her attention to me, but I feel anything but calmed by her. "Take it easy, Mulder. You're going to hyperventilate." She grabs my hand tightly, and I feel her skin on mine even though I can't return the clench of her fingers. "I know you're scared - I am, too. But you need to relax." She keeps up her litany, the words warm and full in my ears. And I take it in, and it returns a sense of order to a universe that's tilting on its axis. I realize that with Scully on my side, I have more of a chance than I would with any other in my circumstance. She'll be sure that I have as much chance as is possible and then more so. My only responsibility is to hold on. And to fight. "That's it," she says, and I know my breathing has evened out to a degree, and will continue to do so. "Keep it up, Mulder. Keep coming back to us." She finally seems satisfied that I've calmed, but all I feel from my latest escapade is exhaustion. I know I should stay awake, keep vigil, wait for the boys and girls of the crime lab to come through for me. For us. But every bit of reserve I had has suddenly been drained, and all I can think about is drifting off to sleep. A moment after I think of it, I realize I'm doing it. I'm sorry to leave you to wait by yourself, I think, but I wouldn't be much for sparkling conversation anyway. The blackness gently enfolds me. ** I've sat here watching Mulder sleep for hours. When he awoke briefly, I turned on the basketball game for him - I don't think they'd let him watch his other favorite form of video entertainment. He watched for a few minutes, then drifted off again. I guess it's hard for him to stay awake when he can't be his normal, active self. The game is still droning on in the background, and I'm afraid that it'll wake Mulder if I shut it off. I'm also afraid that it'll leave me too alone with my thoughts. What the hell is taking the lab so long, I wonder as we go into the fourth hour since I sent over the sample. I want this to work so badly - it's got to. When did the rogue agent I was resentfully sent to babysit become my best friend? I'm not left to ponder that thought for very long. A soft knock begs entrance, and I rise to open the door before Mulder is awakened. I expect a doctor or a nurse, but instead am greeted by a man in the distinctive dress of an agent of the Bureau. The serious expression on his face is not lost on me. "Agent Scully, I'm Agent Wilson. I was told to get this to you immediately." I'm surprised he didn't leave what I hope is the antidote with a member of the medical staff out on the floor, and it must show on my face, for he adds, "I was told to ONLY give it to you." "Is that it?" I ask as he hands it over. "Did they send any information on it?" "Yes, ma'am," he adds, and I'm struck by how young he is, yet how he seems to understand just how serious the situation is. I haven't been at this long myself, but this guy looks barely 25. "They said to give this to you and tell you to read it first," he advises, retrieving a standard envelope from his breast pocket and giving it to me. "I hope your partner is okay, Agent Scully," he says, and I see nothing to think he's not sincere. "From your mouth to God's ears, Agent," I tell him, and he grins slightly before dismissing himself. I hardly notice that he's gone in my race to get to the button that will call the doctor and nurses. One answers promptly. "Get Dr. Farthing in here. The Bureau labs came through," I say simply. If she doesn't understand what I mean, she doesn't stop to ask questions. It's less than ten minutes before the doctor is in the room. In that time, I've had a chance to examine the letter that had accompanied what will hopefully be my partner's cure. He notices the packet in my hand first thing. "Is that it?" "Yes," I answer simply. "They've given us everything, including suggested doses." I hand it over to him, and he scans it. "Did you read this completely, Agent Scully?" he asks me, and I nod. "And you understand their statement that there are no guarantees that this will work, or even that it won't harm Agent Mulder?" "Yes, I understand." I move toward the bed, and he looks at me in confusion. "I won't give it to him until he knows the options and the risks as well. I insist on it." Farthing nods his own agreement as I wake Mulder as gently as I can. "Hey, Mulder, it's me," I say once, and then again until his eyelids flutter open. He seems alert almost immediately. "I need to talk to you seriously - are you awake?" I ask, seeking confirmation. He blinks once. "The Bureau has come through with what they think is a cure for you, but it's untested. It could work, it could not. It could even make you worse. It's got to be your decision, Mulder. Your body could fight this off on its own, or it could continue to deteriorate. The Bureau chemists think this is right, but we can never know until it's tried. Do you want us to give you the serum?" Three sets of eyes, mine included, are glued to Mulder's, waiting for his answer. I can see in their depths that he's thinking about it. And seconds or minutes or hours later, there is a blink. We wait for a second, but it never comes, and I can't say I'm surprised. Mulder always had the courage in this partnership. "Very well, Mr. Mulder," the doctor says, opening the container that holds the serum that may restore him to full health. "Diane, would you please get me a hypodermic?" The nurse is back in less than a minute with a sterile, wrapped needle. I see Mulder's eyes grow huge as he takes in the size of the thing. "Don't worry - it's going into your IV," I assure him. He relaxes immediately, seeming to say something. I think for a moment that he's closing his eyes while he's given the serum, but then notice he's just looking from me down to his bed and back. Somehow, don't ask me how, I know what he wants. My hand wraps snugly around his. "Now, all we can do is wait," I say, glad that he can at least feel me holding his hand, even if he can't grip it. "Would you like to go back to sleep?" He blinks twice, and then twice again. I follow his eyes to the television set. "Is there something on you wanted to see?" One blink. "Is it a movie?" Two blinks. "A show?" Two blinks. "A game?" One blink. Ah, victory. Let's see . . . what does Mulder like. . . "Baseball?" Two rather frustrated blinks. I think I just made a major sports faux pas. "Basketball?" One blink. Finally! I take the remote and begin changing channels, stopping every time I find a game. Two are not the one he wants before the third is it. The Knicks - I should have guessed. Naturally, his team is victorious. Aren't they always? I admit, I've gotten into the game, and am now embarrassed to realize that I don't know at what point Mulder fell asleep. It's been a few hours, and I wonder if I should wake him to see if there's any improvement yet. I decide that I just can't stand not knowing, and gently shake his shoulder. That doesn't work, so I take his face in my hands, running my thumbs over his cheeks. "Mulder, wake up," I whisper into his ear. Nothing. Grabbing his wrist to take his pulse, needing the reassurance, I'm shocked by what I didn't notice from the beginning. The bases of his fingernails are very slightly blue. Oh, my God . . . I thumb the intercom quickly, berating myself for the time it's taken. "This is Agent Scully in Fox Mulder's room. Get the doctor in here. NOW!" In the time it takes the doctor and a nurse to arrive, I've put the oxygen canula from above the bed under Mulder's nose and turned on the air flow. He's still breathing on his own, thank God, and is apparently getting enough into his lungs. And I think I know why. "The paralysis. I think it's reached his lungs," I say, and wonder if the quaking in that voice is really me. "Not completely," I clarify, "but the nail beds of his fingers were blue, and I couldn't awake him just now." "How long since you started the oxygen?" "Not more than five minutes. I called the nurse, then started it." "Why don't you try waking him now. See if it's gotten any better." I look down and notice that his fingers, at least, are closer to normal in color. "Mulder, wake up," I demand. "C'mon, Mulder. Open those eyes - I know you're in there somewhere." Slowly, ever so slowly, the lids raise, finally open all the way. His expression is a little confused. "Are you having any difficulty breathing?" I ask him, and pray that the oxygen will be enough, although my rational, doctors' mind tells me it's very unlikely. I study his eyelids, waiting for my answer. He seems hesitant, and I wonder if he knows the answer. Finally, they blink once, and then, surprisingly, there is a second. I breath a sigh of relief. "Thank God." Dr. Farthing looks at me like I'm daft, but wisely holds his tongue. I know how sick Mulder still is, but if I've learned anything as his partner over the past year, it's that you have to appreciate the baby steps as you get them, because the large gains are sometimes few and far between. "Agent Scully, could we have a moment?" the doctor asks. It's the first time I'm sure he's ready to disagree with me on something since this entire mess began. Hence, I'm taken by surprise when he does not argue once we're in the corner of the room. "I don't want you to get your hopes up," he says. "The serum could still work, but we'll need to watch him carefully from now on. He could improve, remain the same, or get worse. If his breathing is any more compromised, we'll have to put him on a ventilator." "Of course," I agree. "Do you think a pulse ox monitor will be effective?" I'm thinking of his immobile hands, and how it usually clips onto a fingertip. "I've seen nothing to indicate otherwise." We return to Mulder and I explain everything to him as the monitor is applied. That frightened, little-boy look is back in his eyes, and I wish I could do something to wipe it away. ** It's not the first time that I've had to wear one of these, but the implications this time terrify me - even before Scully explains it to me. I see from the corner of my eye when the nurse wheels in the equipment while she and the doctor are away discussing my situation. There's a real possibility I could die before I can be cured. That should bother me a great deal, I know, but somehow it doesn't. Not that I want to die. A year ago, if this had happened to me, I'd have been letting this poison take over me as quickly as possible. But now, I feel like I'm on the verge of something good. Something healthy. Something long term. I know that's because of Scully. I don't want to die, and am not going to go easily, I promise. But if it happens, it won't be completely bad. In dying, I may save Scully from being ostracized along with me. She could be so successful if she didn't have the millstone of Spooky Mulder hanging around her neck. God, listen to me. I must be losing my mind. One minute, I'm saying I don't want to die, and the next, it sounds like that's all I want. Scully's become the best friend I've had in years. Isn't it right that her happiness should be as important as my own? How long have I been lying here? I can't move, but I can feel every little thing that's done to me. The needles. The IV. The damn Foley. And now, the oxygen tube. I wish it was doing some good, but, except for the air, I really don't feel like it is. I know how Scully is feeling right now, too. She puts such faith in her medicine, in her science, but neither of those things are doing much good right now, and she's finding herself helpless. It's gotta be driving her crazy. Oh shit. Now the oxygen doesn't seem to be working either. ** Okay, I admit it. It's driving me crazy. I'm sitting here helpless, while Mulder is lying there wondering what his life is going to be like tomorrow. There's got to be something I can do. Diane and Dr. Farthing have left, and I'm alone. It's apparent by now that the Agency's serum isn't working. That or Mulder's autonomic system has slowed to a crawl, in which case he'd be less conscious than he is. Maybe if I call them. Get them to try again . . . Wait, what's that noise? I jerk my eyes to see Mulder take a few more gasps before alarms fill the room. "Oh, my God." Before I can call for help, the medical staff is swarming the room. "His pulse ox is bottoming out," one nurse shouts. "Call a code and get a cart in here," the doctor declares, nearly oblivious to the fact that one is being wheeled in as he makes his command. "It's right there!" I shout before I even realize it. Okay, now I feel really stupid - backseat driving when you're a doctor is just not done. He ignores my rant. "He's not breathing on his own. Prepare to intubate." I stand in shock while they slide the tube down my partner's throat. I search his eyes, and am relieved to note that he's no longer conscious. Thank God. He'd never be able to stand having that in if he was awake. I'm frozen in space until, finally, most of the staff files out. The doctor remains to speak to me. "I'm afraid whatever it is that's happening to him has reached his lungs. They don't seem to be functioning any longer. I'm afraid. . ." He appears at a loss for what to say. "It's not looking good. If something doesn't turn this around, we may have to . . . well, his next of kin may have to make some kind of decision. They should probably be called." "I'll do it," I say, thinking of Mulder's rarely-mentioned parents. I'd called them when he first came down ill, and neither seemed like they could have cared less. Okay, that's not true. His mother did seem concerned, but not enough to come. She did ask me to call if he needed her - as if he didn't already at that point. I guess now qualifies. His father was worse, though. I'm not sure if he'd just awoken or if it was something else, but his slightly slurred voice just made a comment about how Mulder would be luckier than Samantha was if he died and then hung up on me. The bastard. By the time I'm done reminiscing about my conversations with is parents, I look up to find the doctor has left and I'm, once again, alone with Mulder. The respirator hums, and the heart monitor they've added beeps. It's a haunting rhythm, listening to the air being pumped into his lungs and then listening as his body expels that forced breath. I can't do it. I can't just stand here and watch this happen. Maybe I can go to the lab. Maybe I can go back and get more samples from Tooms. But what could would that do? I sent more than enough of the bio-organic toxin to the lab for them to use. It sure would help if there had ever been a human who survived having this crap in their body . . . But wait . . . there is somebody who survived! All my tests on Eugene Tooms' body showed him to be human. Yes, granted, there were variations, but for the most part, he was human. Susceptible to all the same things to which humans are susceptible. So why didn't his own poison kill him? I need to get to Quantico. Tooms' body is still there, and it may hold Mulder's salvation. That is, if I can find it before this thing kills Mulder. I'm torn, though. I know I need to go, but I don't want to leave him alone. He's got nobody - he shouldn't have to face death all by himself. But if I go, he may not have to face it at all. My salvation arrives in the form of a rather burly Assistant Director. He's not a friend - hell, he's barely civil to us - but he'll do. "Oh, Sir. I'm so glad you're here!" "What's going on with Mulder, Scully?" He takes in the still figure on the bed. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that my partner is in real trouble. "He lost the ability to breath on his own about an hour ago," I say, realizing how quickly that hour has gone by. "I just thought of something I need to check on Tooms' body. Can you stay with him?" Skinner looks confused and not a little bit flustered. "I'm sure the medical team is doing everything necessary, Agent Scully," he suggests. "Yes, I know that, sir. But I don't want him to be alone. Just in case . . ." My eyes search out his, and somehow, he feels my desperation. "Okay, Agent. I'll stay here for a few hours." Already, I'm grabbing my coat and purse. "Call me and let me know if you find anything," he adds. "Thank you, Sir. He just needs to hold on." I'm shocked by Skinner's agreement to stay, but I'm more thankful, too. Not that I really believe he'll sit beside Mulder's bed and entreat him to hang in there, but if there's a familiar presence, it might help. I'm probably not the safest driver as I race through the streets, but I guess the fact that I recognize that is better than nothing. I can't concern myself with street obstacles and speed limits when Mulder's life could be on the line. I finally arrive at my destination. My autopsy bay at Quantico is dark. Okay, I guess I'm being possessive saying that it's MY bay, especially since others use it, too, but some of the weirdest autopsies in history have been performed here - naturally, I think of it as mine. I rush to the small door behind which I know Eugene Tooms' body is stored. It's not locked, and I probably yank on the handle harder than necessary to gain entrance. Damn! The chamber is empty. I was sure I'd put him in this one. Frantically, I check six more chambers before finally finding Tooms'. I'm going to kill whoever moved the body like this. Yet, from the moment I pull open the drawer, my anger fades away. All I can think about is finding an answer for Mulder. ** My drive back to the hospital is even more frantic than it was away from it just a short time ago. I burst through the doors to Mulder's ward, not ignorant of the disapproving stares that surround me. "How is he?" I demand, with a lump in my throat. If I'm not in time . . . "He's hanging on," a voice behind me booms, and I'm surprised that AD Skinner is still standing by. "Did you bring good news?" By now, Dr. Farthing and a couple nurses are also standing and listening. "Possibly. I finished the autopsy on Tooms' body. There was a gland in his throat unlike any I've ever seen. It appeared to secret a substance that I suspect counteracted the toxin's affects in his own body. I was able to remove a small quantity of the excretion." I turn to the doctor hesitantly - I know he won't like this. "I'd like to try giving it to Agent Mulder." As I predicted, he looks at me with astonishment. "Agent Scully, I don't know where you got your medical degree, but I can't just give a patient an unidentified substance in the hope that it helps. It goes against every bit of medical ethics." "That may be true," I defend. "But what about Mulder? He doesn't have the time to wait for clinical experiments. At this point, can you tell me that he's going to get better without intervention?" Dr. Farthing looks a little swayed, but mostly still determined. "Nothing we have tried so far has had any impact. But that doesn't mean that nothing else will." "Then you tell me, Doctor, what your next suggestion is. Because my partner is in that room," I point. "He's on a respirator, and he can't move at all. How long before his heart is paralyzed and can't beat? How long before the terms of his living will force us to take him off the life support?" His face is a mixture of compassion and objection. "Okay. But I want to go on the record that this was not my choice." I notice Skinner give him the same look I do - one of disbelief. "Hey, I've got to protect myself if I want to keep practicing medicine." "You'll have your medical immunity, doctor," I say, marching towards Mulder's room. "Just get me a hypodermic." He nods to one of the nurses, who rushes away to get the supplies. Mulder is exactly the way I'd left him an hour or two ago - still breathing, but not by his body's own choice. I feel a clenching in my chest when I look upon him, this brave man who has become so important to me over the past year. It seems like it's been longer, yet I find that I'm not willing to have it end even that soon. "Mulder, I think this will help you," I tell him as I inject the small quantity of the substance into his IV port. I pray that this gets to him adequately and that it's enough to help. Should I have injected it directly? Given it to him orally? Let it absorb through his skin? There's no way to tell, so I go with my instincts. "Okay, that's it," I sigh as I hand the used needle to a nurse for disposal. "Now, we wait." "Any idea how long, Agent?" This is from Skinner. Funny, I'd almost forgotten he was there. "I have no way to tell, Sir," I answer, wondering what I can expect from this man. We're still getting used to him, and it's proving a challenge, to say the least. "I'll keep watch over him. If I see signs of his vitals improving, I'll check him for breathing, then for motor control." I turn to Dr. Farthing, still in attendance. "Will you be available to pull the ventilator if . . . when we suspect he can breath on his own again?" "I'm on duty for another three hours - I pulled a double shift - so all you have to do is call." "Thank you," I say in gratitude. It seems longer than it is, but within the hour, Dr. Farthing is once again in attendance. "Okay, let's try shutting off the vent and seeing if he breathes on his own. If he doesn't, or can't completely breath on his own, we'll put him on assisted for awhile more. You ready?" "Yes," I respond, confident that this is right. I can't explain it, but I just feel that he's coming back to us . . . that the substance I gave him helped. The doctor is very formal about the entire procedure. He walks to the opposite side of the bed where the respiratory equipment stands active. Choosing a switch, he says, "discontinuing ventilation . . . now." There's a click, and all ears in the room are centered on the figure on the bed. And . . . . . . his chest rises . . . and falls . . . and rises again, unassisted. We stare as it repeats the action several more times, then the doctor checks his pulse ox readings. "Looks like he's getting enough oxygen on his own," he smiles at me. "Let's pull that vent." Before long, Mulder is free of the tubing - he doesn't even need an oxygen canula any longer. "Why don't you see if you can wake him, Agent," Dr. Farthing suggests, and if there's a hint of something in his voice, it's that he's seen how important this man is to me. I draw closer to the bed, taking his hand in mine, laying flat, palm to palm. "Mulder, if you can hear me, move your fingers." I wait a second, and when I see and feel no motion, I prompt him again. "C'mon, partner. Show the doctor what you're made of. Move those fingers for me." And sure enough, first an index, then a middle, a thumb, and all the rest curl around my hand and then straighten again. Setting his hand down gently, I race to the foot of the bed, yanking out the carefully-tucked sheets. "Okay, Mulder. Now your toes. Move your feet." And almost immediately, his toes curl, then his ankles move in a circular motion. I realize that I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life. "Mulder, you did it!" And before I know it, I'm hugging him. When I pull back, his eyes are open. "Nice to see you back with us, Mulder," I say happily. His lips begin to move, and I wonder if he'll be able to speak, and if so, what he'll say. I lean close and his breath comes out in a whisper. "Don't forget. YOU get the next mutant." I laugh, and realize how good it feels when he smiles back at me, a slight chuckle on his breath. "I won't forget, Mulder." And I won't. The End - Mary : )