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By dee_ayy
July 24, 2001
Disclaimer: It sickens me, but they still belong to Fox and 1013.
Archive: Sure thing. If you feel like it, tell me where.
Spoilers: Haven’t they already spoiled it? No, none.
Rating: PG-13
Category: S, A, MT
Thanks: To my friends Peggy and Kelly and Laurel and Susan and Michelle. And it’s good to have you back, Vickie. Hey Jan, remember this one?
Author’s note. It was December 2000. I was disgusted with what I was seeing on TV each Sunday night, namely the great NONsearch for Mulder. Nevertheless, I sat down to try and continue my fan fic habit, thinking maybe I’d cheer myself up by giving Mulder a nice disease. I found the beginnings of a Christmas-themed Muldertorture story started in December of 1999, and decided to carry on with that one. But as I wrote, I noticed something. The story was becoming one where Mulder needs Scully, badly, and she’s not there for him. It almost made me laugh when I realized how this story was paralleling my feelings about the show itself. When the show got no better, I put the story aside, for fear of making it too angry and bitter. I left it for months. Once the show was over (as far as I am concerned) and some time had passed, I decided that while I was still terribly disappointed in how they didn’t resolve any of the things Mulder searched for and believed and stood for all these years, the anger had, for the most part, passed. So I returned to this story, and finished it. It still mirrors my feelings about season 8 to a degree, but it’s better.
Summary: An ill Mulder needs Scully and can’t find her, forcing him to find comfort elsewhere.
__________________________________________
In Need of a Friend
By dee_ayy
“Come on, Mulder, it’s time to go.”
The man looked up from the file that was engrossing him. “Go where?” he asked absentmindedly.
“Upstairs. Skinner’s throwing his annual holiday brunch for the secretaries and admin assistants.”
Mulder sat up straight in his chair and craned his neck in an exaggerated look around their office. “Last time I checked, Scully, we didn’t HAVE a secretary or an assistant.”
His partner looked at him reproachfully. “And as a result you have probably charmed every one of the people upstairs into doing something for you when they shouldn’t have.”
She pulled his suit jacket off the coat rack and held it out for him. “Let’s go.”
Clearly this was not an optional assignment. Mulder sighed with resignation, and stood up.
+ + + + +
“Geezus Mulder, how many of these women do you have wrapped around your little finger?”
“What?” Mulder had no idea what Scully was talking about.
“I swear at least a dozen sets of eyes lit up when you walked into the room.”
Mulder waggled his eyebrows at her. “You sound jealous,” he teased. But after a second he dropped it, and dismissed her with a cursory wave of the hand. “You want a cup of coffee? I’m buying.”
“Oooh, Mr. Generous. No, thanks, it’s Christmas. I’m going for the eggnog.”
Mulder crinkled his nose in distaste. “Eggnog?”
“Absolutely. Don’t you like it?”
“Made with raw eggs, right? Sounds disgusting.”
“Haven’t you ever had it, Mulder?”
“Uhh, no thanks. I’ll stick with Juan Valdez.”
“Come on, Mulder, you don’t know what you’re missing.” She grabbed his arm and physically dragged him over to the enormous punch bowl.
Mulder stared incredulously into the bowl, at the viscous yellow liquid, as she poured him some. “God, Scully, it’s the consistency of crude oil. You *drink* that?”
She handed him the cup with a smile, and poured herself one. “Yup. But only at Christmas, and only sparingly. There’s about a million calories in that little cup.”
“Not to mention the cholesterol,” Mulder added as he tentatively sniffed the stuff. “Isn’t there supposed to be booze in here at least?”
Scully laughed. “Normally yes, there’s rum. But not at breakfast, and not at work. It’s still good.”
“Aren’t raw eggs bad for you? Full of disease?” Mulder was trying to come up with any excuse to keep the liquid from passing his lips.
His partner laughed again, clearly enjoying his apprehension. “Technically, yes. But I’m sure this eggnog is from a carton, processed and whatnot. Come on. Try it. It’s good.” To prove the point she took a long sip. “Oooh, they added rum flavoring. Tastes like the real stuff.”
Mulder put his cup to his lips. “Wish it was the real stuff,” he mumbled as he took a tiny sip.
And to his surprise it wasn’t bad. The first taste, and its incredible sweetness, was a surprise--Mulder normally didn’t eat a lot of sweet stuff--but then the rum flavor hit to temper it, and it was okay. In fact, if it was real rum, he thought he might actually be able to drink the stuff. He took another sip.
“So?” Scully asked expectantly.
“Not something I’d drink 12 months of the year, but it won’t kill me, I don’t think.”
She smiled triumphantly. “You like it.”
He took one more small sip. “Like is too strong a word. It’s not bad. Not as bad as I expected.”
“It’s a bit of an acquired taste, Mulder. By the time you finish that cup you’ll be hooked.” She sipped from her cup happily. “Let’s see what they have to eat, huh?”
+ + + + +
“I’m going up for a cup of coffee, Mulder. You want one?”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
No, actually, he wasn’t fine. As soon as he watched his partner leave the room, he made a beeline for the bathroom. He felt sick to his stomach.
He paced the bathroom, in front of the three stalls. He always laughed at the size of the room in the basement--it was two stalls too many, since he was the only one who used it. He paced, waiting for the nausea that had been building over the last hour or so to give way to vomiting. It was inevitable, he could tell, and better he wait for the inevitable in here than in the office, and run the risk of having to race out of the room covering his mouth with Scully watching.
As he paced, he poked each door open and looked in. Might as well pick the cleanest stall. God, he wished there was some way to hasten the process, short of sticking a finger down his throat. He leaned against the wall, pressing on his abdomen with both hands, hoping that would do something. But his stomach just flipped and rolled, never getting better, never getting worse. After about 15 minutes he knew Scully had to be wondering where he was, and he headed back to the office.
“Where’d you go?” his partner asked as soon as he came in.
“Ran into Ed the custodian in the can. Why is it that at this time of year people suddenly think everyone is interested in their weekend plans?”
Scully looked up at him, over the rim of her glasses.
“Scrooge.”
+ + + + +
It was a little before three in the afternoon when whatever it was that had been upsetting Mulder’s stomach finally decided to reappear. Earlier the nausea and abdominal pain had been constant, but manageable. But then, with only the slightest warning, Mulder knew the time was near. He stood up and walked, only a little too quickly, out of the office. He pulled the door shut behind him, and raced for the men’s room.
He was in mid-vomit when he heard the door open. Shit.
“You okay in there?” Maybe twice a month Ed came into the bathroom while Mulder was in there. One of those times just had to be today.
And of course, he couldn’t answer; he was too busy puking.
“That you Mulder?”
In between retches he managed an “uh huh” and an “I’m okay.” The room fell silent, and when he finished and went to rinse his mouth out, he found it empty. That was interesting. Ed was usually one to leave people alone, but it was odd that he’d leave a guy puking without a word.
He was drinking water from his cupped hands when he found out where the man had gone. He heard a light tap on the door.
“You okay, Mulder?”
Scully. Fucking tattletale, that’s what Ed was. He stood up, straightened his tie, and opened the door.
“So much for me and eggnog,” he said as he walked past his partner and back to the office.
She was right behind him as he sat down.
“Seriously, Mulder. Ed said you were throwing up.”
“Was. Was throwing up. But I’m feeling MUCH better now.” He sighed indulgently as he allowed Scully to feel his forehead for fever.
“You don’t feel warm,” she announced. “Are you still nauseous? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m not warm, no, I’m not, and because it’s nothing. Not used to eating a big breakfast like that. It’s nothing. Get back to work.”
His partner reluctantly left his side. “Let me know if you still feel sick.”
He nodded and smiled and looked at his watch. Only a little over an hour to go--then could go home, climb into bed, and die in peace.
+ + + + +
Mulder turned over in his bed and gripped his abdomen more tightly. He was still vomiting, and now his stomach was killing him. Had to have been that damn eggnog. When the phone rang he knew it was going to be Scully.
“How are you feeling, Mulder?” She didn’t even say hello.
“I’m dying here,” he said, only half-kidding.
He heard her chuckle. “Are you still throwing up?”
“Ohhh, yeah. See if I let you make me try something again, Scully.”
“It’s not the eggnog, Mulder. If it were, we’d all be sick. I drank twice as much as you did.”
“Well, then, what the hell is it?”
“I don’t know. Could still be food poisoning. Something else you ate. Or maybe a touch of the stomach flu. Do you have a fever?”
Mulder put his wrist on his forehead, just like he knew he was supposed to. But he had no idea. “Don’t think so.”
“Well, here’s what you should do. Stay in bed, monitor your temperature, and drink plenty of fluids. Hopefully it will go away by tomorrow."”
“I’ll just barf up the fluids, Scully.”
“Probably, but your body will absorb some of it before you do. You don’t want to get dehydrated.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“I’ve got a ton of things to do tomorrow, but I’ll call you in the morning to see how you are, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
+ + + + +
The pain got so bad during the night that three times he almost picked up the phone and called Scully in the wee hours of the morning. Three times. But it was Christmas Eve; he didn’t want to wake her up. He’d even resorted to keeping a trashcan by the bed to puke into, because moving was just too painful.
By morning he just lay there, miserable, staring at the phone and willing her to call him. Finally, at 9:30, she did.
“I only have a minute, Mulder, I have a bunch of errands before I end up at my mom’s for the night. She wants me to help her set up the Christmas tree. How are you feeling?”
“Terrible. But I’m still alive, anyway,” he finally settled on.
Scully chuckled. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Mulder!” she chided. “Seriously--are you still vomiting?”
“Yeah,” he admitted.
“How about your temperature?”
“99, 100.”
“That’s not bad. You’re still drinking plenty of fluids, aren’t you?”
“I’m trying,” Mulder started, when a severe cramp gripped his midsection, causing him to let out a low moan. “Scully, my stomach really hurts,” he finally confessed, figuring she’d heard his distress. “A lot.”
“That’s not surprising, Mulder, after vomiting all night.” He couldn’t believe his ears. She didn’t ask where, or how much or how bad, like she always did. And her voice was rushed, and he could hear all sorts of sounds in the background. He had a feeling she wasn’t listening to him at all.
“Where are you, Scully?”
“I’m at the mall by my place. Needed to pick up a few last minute gifts.”
“Oh. Fa la la la la.” So that explained it.
“I’m sorry you’re sick Mulder, that really stinks over the holidays. But if you feel up to it, come on over to mom’s tomorrow. She’d be happy to have you lounging on her sofa. I’ve gotta go. Take care of yourself, and keep drinking fluids! Most important thing you can do.”
“Just no eggnog,” Mulder said.
“It wasn’t the eggnog!” Scully exclaimed with another cheerful laugh.
And then the line went dead; she’d hung up. Mulder actually stared at the phone in his hand in disbelief. Okay, sure, so he hadn’t come right out and said he felt so bad it was scaring him, but he never did and she always knew anyway. He counted on her knowing; depended on it. Guess not when there were halls to deck and presents to wrap. After he’d hung up the phone with a bang, Mulder turned his back on it and gripped his stomach, willing it to stop hurting.
+ + + + +
By two in the afternoon Mulder was in unbearable agony. It felt like he was vomiting constantly, but it was nothing but painful dry heaves. He’d long ago given up drinking anything, because the minute it hit his stomach, it made a return appearance.
Thinking that maybe splashing some water on his face would make him feel less gross, he dragged himself into his bathroom. After more heaving into the toilet, he stood wearily at the sink and buried his face in a wet washcloth. It barely helped at all, but at least he felt like he was doing something. Leaning heavily on the sink, he took a moment to study his face in the mirror, and that’s when he noticed it. The whites of his eyes were sorta yellow. He got closer to the mirror and looked again, but his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him--they were yellow. What the hell?
He dragged himself back to bed and picked up the phone. He was half way through dialing Scully’s cell phone number when he stopped and disconnected the call. She was busy; she’d said so herself. She hadn’t been overly concerned when they’d spoken this morning, either. He put the phone down, and curled into a tight ball, pulling the blankets up to his chin. It was probably nothing.
He lay there for five minutes, thinking about nothing but his yellow eyes. That couldn’t be normal, he finally decided. But there was one person who’d know. So he picked up the phone and dialed Scully’s number.
“The cellular customer you are trying to reach is unavailable,” the disjointed female voice told him. She was out of range or, more likely, she’d turned off the phone. He knew she wasn’t home, but maybe she’d pick up her messages, so he dialed the number and asked her to call him. He didn’t elaborate; he didn’t want to alarm her too much. But she’d know he needed her; she had to. He put the phone down again, only to pick it up again immediately, calling information and asking for the number of Alexandria Memorial Hospital. Someone there would know if he had reason to be as scared as he was.
“How may I help you?” the nurse asked. It had taken three transfers from the patient information number he’d gotten from directory information.
“Ummm, My name’s Fox Mulder. I’m not feeling well, and I’m wondering if I should be concerned.”
“Okay,” the woman said kindly. “Why don’t you tell me what your symptoms are?”
“It all started with the eggnog,” Mulder said, and continued to lay out the progression of his illness.
“Well, it could be food poisoning, Mr. Mulder,” the nurse offered, “but you should probably be checked out to be sure. Have you called your personal doctor?”
“Uhhh, yeah. She’s not available.” Then Mulder realized he’d left out the very symptom that had prompted the call. “Oh, one other thing,” he said quickly. “My eyes. The whites of my eyes are kinda yellow.”
He could hear the change in the nurse’s tone immediately. “Are you alone, Mr. Mulder?” she asked, but she continued speaking before he could answer. “You need to come in as quickly as possible, okay? If you don’t have someone to drive you, I’ll send an ambulance. Just tell me where you live.”
Her words were like a slap. Mulder stammered at first, before finally lying. “No, I can get a ride,” he said. “It’s that bad?”
“You’re jaundiced,” the woman told him. “That could be the symptom of something very serious. But it’s very important we get it figured out immediately.”
She talked like they were solving a puzzle, but the urgent tone of her voice was all Mulder needed to hear. “Uhhh, okay. I’m on my way,” he told her before hanging up.
So he’d told her he could get a ride. But from whom? And on Christmas Eve? He knew Scully was out. He thought for a second about AD Skinner or the Gunmen, but the thought of dealing with them was too much to bear. So he picked up the phone for a third time, and dialed the long ago memorized number for the Alexandria Cab Company. He’d expected to be told it was a long wait, what with last-minute shoppers and whatnot, so he was surprised when they told him a cab would be there in five minutes. Just enough time for him to put on his shoes and make his way outside.
+ + + + +
The doctor wiped the conductive jelly off Mulder’s abdomen, and the agent immediately took that as permission to curl back onto his side. He wanted to wrap his arms around his stomach, but he had an IV in each of them now, so he settled for pulling his knees up. They’d given him something for pain, but it had only served to take the edge off.
“Well, Mr. Mulder,” the doctor said, pushing the portable ultrasound machine away and sitting on a stool to be eye-to-eye with his patient. “The ultrasound shows an enlarged pancreas, and your symptoms are consistent with acute pancreatitis, as well. The blood and urine tests will help, and I want to get a CT scan to confirm, but I think that’s what we’re dealing with.”
“How’d I get that?”
“Well, for starters it wasn’t the eggnog,” the doctor said with a kind smile. “Do you drink?”
“Rarely.”
“Good. The two leading causes of pancreatitis are alcoholism and gallstones. I didn’t notice any stones on the ultrasound, but the CAT scan will give us a better look. How long ago was your appendectomy?”
Mulder vomited again before he could answer. The doctor waited patiently until he was through. “Your appendectomy?” he reminded.
“Two years? Almost two years ago. Why?” Mulder was quickly losing patience with the questions.
“Previous abdominal surgery can lead to it as well, but not two years. Have you been in a car accident or received any sort of blow to your abdomen recently? Trauma can sometimes cause it, too.”
“No, not recently,” Mulder admitted. “If it is this acute pancrea-whatever, what do you do for it?”
“Well, you’re very sick, and liable to get sicker; you’ll have to be admitted. There’s nothing we can do, really, except provide supportive care: treat the symptoms and hope it goes away on its own.”
“Hope? That doesn’t sound good,” the sick man groaned.
“Depends on how bad a case you have. Let’s get the rest of the test results back, okay? Then we’ll talk more.”
+ + + + +
Mulder was finally settled into a room after being poked, prodded, and tested on in every conceivable manner. He didn’t know half of what they’d done; he’d just blithely trusted the gastroenterologist assigned to him, and signed every form put in front of him.
He wanted Scully to tell him what the hell was going on, what the hell was wrong with him, and when the hell he was gonna stop puking his guts out. But more than anything he wanted Scully to tell him that everything was going to be all right.
He picked up the phone, trying to decide if she’d be at her mom’s by now. But then he realized he didn’t have Maggie’s number with him, so he dialed Scully’s cell phone number. But as soon as he did, he changed his mind. She knew he was sick, she could have called. Instead he called his apartment to check for messages; there were none. He called the office, too, for good measure. No messages. He changed his mind yet again, and dialed her cell. After four rings he heard the beginnings of the unavailable message again, and disconnected the call. He knew she wasn’t there, but he tried her at home, too, just for good measure. When the machine clicked on he hesitated, and almost hung up. But instead, he left another “call me” message with the number for his hospital room. So that was that. She obviously had better things to do.
Mulder vomited again, and when he was done he pushed the call button as he’d been instructed to do.
“Oh, not again!” the nurse exclaimed kindly when she walked in and found her patient with the emesis basin still in his hand. She was a motherly woman in her mid-50s with sort of burgundy hair--surely a color that didn’t exist in nature. But her smile was genuine, despite being stuck working on a holiday. She’d been the nurse who had settled him into the room, so Mulder knew her name was Lydia.
“Again,” Mulder sighed. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take, Lydia.” He’d been given two different anti-nausea drugs that he was aware of, and nothing had touched it.
“I don’t know how much more you can, either,” the woman agreed as she marked his chart. “How about your pain?”
Mulder contemplated. “Still hurts, but bearable, I guess--as long as I’m not throwing up. When I am it’s excruciating,” he decided.
“Well, that’s not great, either! Fat lot of help we are, huh?” Lydia gave him a long look. “Are you sure there’s no one we can call for you? It’s Christmas Eve; you shouldn’t be alone!”
“Nope,” Mulder said definitely. “No one.”
“You poor thing,” the woman cooed. “I’m going to call the doctor and tell him you’re still vomiting. There has to be something he can do.”
The “something” proved to be decidedly unpleasant for Mulder. Lydia returned half an hour later with a package that contained a long tube in it.
“The doctor ordered an NG tube, Mulder. The point is to make your digestive system stop working altogether; that’s the only way your pancreas can heal. Did he explain all this to you?”
Mulder was sure he had, but that didn’t mean he’d been paying attention, so he shrugged.
“Your pancreas makes digestive enzymes. When you have pancreatitis, the enzymes get blocked or don’t leave the pancreas, and it literally starts to digest itself.”
“Gross,” Mulder offered.
“Yeah, I guess it is,” Lydia agreed. “So to stop the process, you’re NPO--that means you can’t be given anything by mouth--not even water. If there’s nothing in your stomach that needs digesting, hopefully your pancreas will stop producing the enzymes.”
“Okay, so where does the vomiting come in?”
“Well, the pain, the stress on your system, all those things can be causing it. And every time you vomit that’s your digestive tract at work, and it’s an excuse for your pancreas to keep making enzymes. So this,” and she held up the package of tubing, “will stop everything. We’ll put the tube into your stomach, attach it to some suction, and it will remove any fluids or stomach acid before you can throw it up. It should make you feel better.”
“How do you get it in my stomach?”
The nurse grinned sympathetically. “First I’ll put it up your nose, and then you’ll swallow it.”
“I was afraid you were gonna say that.”
“It’s not pleasant going down, but it will make you feel better, Mulder. Trust me.”
“Don’t have anyone else to trust at the moment,” Mulder said warily as the woman opened the package.
+ + + + +
Christmas morning dawned with Mulder in a fitful sleep in his hospital bed. He’d been put on a patient-controlled Demerol pump during the night; so he could “get some rest,” he’d been told. He had IV lines in both his arms, the tube up his nose and one in his. . . . He had them everywhere.
“Merry Christmas!” an altogether too cheery nurse announced as she barged into his room. She was wearing the loudest Christmas-themed scrub jacket Mulder had ever seen, as well as a pin of a reindeer--Rudolph--with a red nose that actually lit up and blinked.
Mulder just groaned and turned his face as far into his pillow as the NG tube would allow.
“It’s time to get you up and into a chair, Mr. Mulder!” the woman exclaimed.
“Mmmm I’m fine here,” the patient mumbled without coming out of the pillow.
“Gotta get you up and breathing deep and all that. You ready?” She was actually by his side and starting to lower the bed rail.
God, he wanted her to just go away. “No,” he said simply.
“No? Did you say no?” the young woman asked with a laugh.
Mulder summoned what little strength he had at the moment, and turned to look at her. “I said no,” he agreed forcefully.
The girl--and she was little more than a girl--was taken aback, Mulder could tell. “Well, why not?” she finally asked, as if everyone would want to be shuffled into a chair with tubes sticking out of every part of his body.
“Look,” Mulder started, squinting to get her name off her ID badge. “Look Sara, I feel. . . ,” he paused, suddenly too shy to say what he intended. But after a second he continued. “I feel like shit. I don’t want to get up. I just want to lay here and suffer in peace. Okay?” The tube running through his nose and down the back of his throat felt especially weird when he spoke, and the noise of the periodic suctioning as it emptied his stomach had woken him up repeatedly through the night.
A pain suddenly shot through his midsection, and Mulder found himself scrambling for the pain pump control. He found it and pressed the button as if he was giving a doorbell a long ring. He knew a push of a millisecond and a push of a minute delivered the same amount of relief, but somehow the longer pushes were more comforting.
“Just leave me alone,” he whined, fully aware that he was begging. He turned onto his side, away from the young woman, and closed his eyes, willing her to go away.
“Uhhh, okay,” the young nurse finally said somewhat apprehensively. “Later, then. You rest now.”
Mulder sighed with relief when she was gone. Score one for him, anyway. It was exhausting, this being sick and being responsible for himself stuff. He felt the Demerol starting to kick in, and willed himself to let it float him away.
+ + + + +
Later came, and by mid-Christmas afternoon, whether he liked it or not, he was propped up in a chair. Sara had brought in a reinforcement, interrupting another attempt to reach Scully, and he just hadn’t had the will to fight two of them. The nursing staff had been hovering over him so much, he was beginning to wonder if he was the only patient on the ward. The young nurse had promised to put him back in bed before dinnertime--not that ‘dinnertime’ meant anything to Mulder. Nothing had passed his lips since he’d arrived. When he complained of a dry mouth, he was given a wet cloth to suck on.
He was just sitting there, slightly reclined and with his eyes closed, trying not to dwell on how miserable he felt, when he heard the door open. He just knew it was going to be another well-meaning, overly-cheerful, Santa-hat-wearing nurse or antler-sporting orderly. He just couldn’t take any more.
“Mr. Mulder?” The voice was male, and unfamiliar. Mulder opened his eyes, and was surprised to find a priest standing in his room. He looked like Bing Crosby in White Christmas. “I’m Father Mike. . . . Mike Delancey. Merry Christmas,” he said with a gentle smile.
There was nothing merry about this Christmas, of course, but Mulder returned the greeting warily.
“Not exactly where you wanted to be today, I imagine?” the priest asked as he sat on the edge of Mulder’s bed, near the sick man.
“No, guess not,” Mulder agreed. “Not any day, actually,” he added. Then he took a breath. “Look, Father, I’m not Catholic.”
The man smiled. “Oh, that’s all right, I know. I just thought you might be in need of friend about now. So you wouldn’t feel quite so alone.”
Suddenly it made sense. “Which nurse called you?” he asked. The priest just chuckled and shook his head by way of a reply.
The pain in his stomach had been building since the man’s entrance, so Mulder reached for his pain pump control on the bed, and gave it a push. The Father reached forward and touched Mulder’s hand on the button. He tried not to, but Mulder couldn’t stop himself from tensing at the man’s touch. Father Delancey noticed, and immediately returned his hand to his lap, allowing Mulder to do the same.
“You’re afraid,” he said, once each man was safely back into his own personal space.
Mulder wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. Afraid of his illness, or afraid of the priest? “No, no, I’m not,” he said, deciding it was the latter.
“It’s perfectly understandable. Would you like to pray?” the other man asked. Apparently he’d meant the former.
“No,” Mulder said a little too quickly. “No,” he reiterated, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m not religious,” he explained.
“Maybe not,” the man said, “but one can find comfort from the most surprising places in times of crisis.”
“No, Father, thanks. But no.”
“Well then, perhaps you’ll let me call a friend for you? Someone who can provide more comfort to you than I?”
Mulder shifted again, and looked at his hands for a long moment, before again deciding against it. “No, Father. I’ll be fine.”
“Well, would you object if I prayed for you?”
Mulder looked at the man with surprise for a moment, before giving him permission with a shrug. No one had ever asked him that. He figured he came up in Scully’s prayers on a regular basis, but no one had asked his permission like this before. And he didn’t really need to watch it. “Just not now,” he added.
“Okay, then I will. Would you object if I asked my congregation at tonight’s mass to remember you in their prayers?”
Mulder again looked at the man with a bit of shock. “That’s not necessary, really,” he objected uncomfortably.
The clergyman smiled warmly. “But it can’t hurt,” he said somewhat slyly. Then he dared to reach out and touch Mulder’s hand again, poking it slightly as he spoke. “One needn’t be alone, Mr. Mulder,” he said as he stood to leave. “Get well.”
“I’m not,” Mulder started to object as the priest was leaving. “I’m not alone,” he tried to repeat after the man had left, but the words died on his lips.
Because, in fact, he was.
+ + + + +
Sometime during the evening Mulder decided that his Demerol pump wasn’t working. The nurses had fussily put him back in bed, and it had hurt, but when he’d eagerly depressed the button on the pump, the relief hadn’t come. He’d stoically toughed it out for a while, then tried another dose. And the pain only got worse. He didn’t want to ask for help, didn’t want those women flitting all over him, filled with good cheer and sympathy. But he couldn’t stand the pain any more, either, so he exchanged one button for another, and picked up the one to call the nurse.
“What’s the matter, hon?” Lydia had taken to calling him ‘hon’ by this, their second night together. At first it had set Mulder’s teeth on edge, but he knew she meant well, and now he kind of liked it.
“I don’t think this pump is working right,” he gritted out. “It still hurts. A lot.”
“Lemme check it for you,” she offered, and moved over to the machine, pressing buttons and watching readouts.
“Huh,” she finally said. “Looks like it’s working fine, hon. In fact, you’ve been maxing out your dosage here. Still hurts?”
Mulder took a deep, shaky breath before he could speak. “Like before you gave me anything,” he told her.
“That’s not good, is it?” she asked rhetorically, and proceeded to check his vital signs. “Your O-2 saturation’s a little low, so I’m gonna put you on some oxygen, okay?” She pulled the nasal prongs from the basket on the wall, and fitted them under his nose and around the NG tube before adjusting the flow.
“Why?” Mulder asked simply.
“Why is your sat low?” Mulder nodded. “Because you’re sick, hon,” she explained with a grin. “What’s one more tube at this point? I need to check your abdomen.”
Mulder couldn’t help but cry out when she pressed just below his navel. It felt like she was stabbing him with a butcher knife, and he told her so. He watched the woman’s brows knit together with concern.
“I’m gonna get the doctor on call,” she told him. “You just hang in there.”
Mulder was scared--just plain terrified at this point--and it only intensified when Lydia returned to hook him to a heart monitor. He’d heard his doctor down in the ER say the words “multi-system organ failure” to a bunch of residents when talking about his case, and he wondered if this is what it felt like.
A doctor he didn’t know came, examined him, and left without saying so much as five words. So when Lydia returned to his room for the fifth time in an hour, Mulder was glad to see her.
“What’s going on?” he asked. The pain was so severe he had to force himself to take deep breaths.
“They’re gonna take you down for another test and CT scan as soon as they can get a radiologist in here. The doctor is worried about infection, or a cyst or abscess on your pancreas.” She said it with a tinge of derision in her tone.
“You don’t think so?”
“Well, your temp hasn’t gone up, your white blood cell count hasn’t changed. They would with an infection.” She patted his arm and let her hand rest there a little longer than was necessary. “You poor thing,” she cooed again, in what had become somewhat of a mantra for her.
“If it’s not that, then why do I feel so much worse?” Seemed like a reasonable question to Mulder.
“Well, hon, that’s just it. We don’t know. Hopefully the test will help them figure that out. They’ll take a look, maybe take a sample of fluid from your abdomen to test for infection.” She looked at him for a long moment. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Can’t do anything about the pain, huh?”
The woman gave him a sympathetic frown and shook her head. “Sorry. I could teach you some Lamaze breathing, but between you and me? That crap didn’t work for shit. Still hurts.”
Despite his discomfort, Mulder managed to chuckle.
“Anything else?” the nurse asked.
Mulder knew what she was asking, and he reached his decision right there. This had gotten out of hand, and he wasn’t going to be able to call. “Yeah,” he said with a slightly defeated tone. “I need you to call someone. Dana Scully,” and he gave her every number he could think of, and Maggie’s name so she could call information.
The nurse wrote the numbers on a scrap of paper and promised to “get her here if I have to go pick her up myself.” He managed another grin at that, and the woman left with a smile of her own. He really did appreciate what she, and the other nurses, had been doing to try and keep his spirits up.
Lydia had only been gone about five minutes when the door opened again. Mulder had his eyes closed, concentrating on not letting the pain get the most of him. He wasn’t sure which nurse it was this time, and it really didn’t matter.
“Oh my God!” the female voice said quietly. “Mulder, what happened?”
Mulder opened his eyes and found Scully, frozen just inside the door to his room. She was wearing a deep green dress, the sort of thing she never wore at work. He immediately felt relief that she’d made it; but just as quickly as that emotion came, his annoyance at her, and at how unreachable she’d been, replaced it.
“That was quick,” he said tonelessly.
“What do you mean, quick? What’s wrong, Mulder? You look terrible.”
“I feel terrible. Were you driving by the hospital when Lydia called or something? How’d you get here so fast?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The priest at my mom’s parish mentioned your name during petitions of the faithful at mass tonight; that’s how I found out. Why didn’t you call me?”
“I did call you,” Mulder said bitterly. “Several times. Your phone was off.” He saw his partner’s hand go into her pocket, where he knew the phone was stored, but she didn’t pull it out. “Why didn’t you call me? You knew how sick I was.”
He saw the stricken look cross Scully’s face, and he was glad. But after just a moment she wiped it away, and approached his bedside.
“We can talk about that later,” she decided aloud. “What have the doctors told you?” She reached out to take his hand, and Mulder snatched it back. He wanted to punish her a little more.
“Pancreatitis,” he offered. But he didn’t elaborate.
“Bad?”
“Well, I don’t know, Scully,” he started, trying to shift in his bed to find a more comfortable position, and giving up when the tubes and his discomfort made it impossible. “Seems pretty bad from where I’m sitting.” As if on cue, a particularly intense pain cut through Mulder’s midsection, causing him to pull his knees up until he was virtually in a fetal position. This time when Scully touched him, he didn’t recoil.
“How long have you been here?” she asked after the worst of the pain had subsided and he’d uncoiled himself.
“Since yesterday afternoon. I felt really bad, and I couldn’t reach you, so I called here. When they found out I was a little jaundiced they told me to get my ass over here, so I did.”
“You did the right thing, Mulder,” she told him.
“Gee, thanks for the seal of approval,” he said sarcastically.
“Mulder,” Scully started. It was going to be a reprimand he was sure, but it was stopped by the opening of the door.
“Hon, that Maggie woman must be unlisted,” Lydia managed to get out before she noticed that there was someone in the room. “Who are you?” she asked suspiciously.
Mulder watched his partner’s back rise at the blunt question. “I’m Dana Scully, Mulder’s partner. Who are you?” she countered.
Lydia broke into a wide smile. “Well, what do you know about that! That’s quite a coincidence, eh Mulder?” She didn’t tell Scully who she was, and approached her patient on the other side of the bed. “The radiologist just got here, they should be in to take you down any second. Just hang in there, okay?” She put her hand on top of Mulder’s and he grasped it tightly.
“Yeah, I will. I am.”
“Hold on a second,” Scully interjected. “Where are you taking him?”
“He’s going for a CT scan and possible needle aspiration. That’s when,” but she didn’t get to continue before Scully interrupted.
“I know what it is. I want to speak to his doctor. I don’t want him going anywhere until I’ve spoken to his doctor.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Mulder stopped her. “I’m sorry, Scully, but where do you get off?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where do you get off showing up over 24 hours later and just taking over?”
“Mulder, I just want to make sure you really need this test.”
“How do you know what I really need? How could you? You weren’t here, you don’t know what I’ve been going through. Hell, Scully just LOOK at me!” He raised his arms up to show her the IV lines, just two of the many things invading his body. “You can’t just prance in here and expect me to suffer while you get up to speed. You don’t have that right. Not this time.” He was practically yelling by the time another knifing pain cut his diatribe short.
Scully’s eyes were wide with horror at what she was hearing, and she watched her partner turn toward the nurse for comfort.
“You just calm down, hon,” Lydia said quietly. “Everything’s gonna be just fine.”
Mulder did calm down after a minute, during which time Scully remained silent. He took a breath and addressed his partner yet again, in quiet, measured tones. “You want to get up to speed, Scully? Then you stay here and raise all kinds of hell if you want to--just not with the nurses. Page the doctor and ream him out. Read my chart. Do whatever necessary to make yourself feel better. But they say I need this test, called some poor guy in on Christmas to do it, and I’ve never felt this bad in my life. So I’m going.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and looked right into her eyes. “Okay?” he asked.
“Okay,” Scully said meekly, still stunned.
At that moment a pair of orderlies arrived to transport Mulder for his scan. Scully backed out of the way, against the wall, and watched. Once he was settled on the gurney he looked over at his partner. “I’ll see you later,” he told her. She nodded silently. Then he turned his attention to the nurse, and looked at her warmly. “You too,” he added.
“Well, hon, I don’t know about that,” Lydia said. “If they find an abscess or something, you’ll most likely end up in ICU. But,” she added with a smile, “if that happens I’ll be sure to be the one to transfer your things. So you’ll be seeing me again whether you want to or not!”
Mulder smiled at her through his discomfort. “I’m counting on it.” He glanced over at Scully, then back at the nurse. “Do me a favor? Let her read my chart. She’ll want to.”
Lydia winked at him “Sure thing, hon.” She turned her attention to Scully. “Come with me,” she instructed, and the two women followed Mulder out of the room.
As he waited for the elevator Mulder could hear the women’s conversation at the nurse’s station.
“He’s in a lot of pain,” Lydia explained to Scully as she handed over the chart.
“I don’t understand; I’m listed as his next of kin. Why wasn’t I called?”
“He told us not to, until just a few minutes ago. He was trying to reach you himself, I think. Couple of times we caught him with the phone in his hand when we came in. Did you check your messages at home?”
“No,” Scully whispered, running her hand through her hair. “Oh, God. . . .”
+ + + + +
The feeling of being lifted dragged Mulder from his stupor, and he groaned in pain as he was deposited back into his bed. His heart was pounding and his breath was short, so he was actually glad when Lydia replaced the oxygen cannula under his nose.
“No ICU?” he gasped out to her.
“Nope. Not now, anyway,” Lydia said with a smile. She didn’t elaborate, and he was in no condition to ask. “You just relax now, okay?”
“It hurts, Lydia,” he confessed.
The nurse reached up and pushed his hair back off his forehead. “I know, hon,” she said soothingly. “I know. Just try to go back to sleep.”
Mulder noticed the woman looking meaningfully at someone across the bed, and he turned his head to see Scully, looked extremely concerned. She gave him a slight, worried grin, and took the one step necessary to bring her to his bedside. He didn’t flinch when she covered his hand with her own and squeezed, but he didn’t return the gesture, either.
“They didn’t see an abscess or cyst, Mulder, that’s good news.”
Mulder had to wait to answer, as an intense pain swept through his abdomen. He was still panting when he finally told her, “They stuck a needle in my gut.”
Scully nodded. “They needed to remove some abdominal fluid, that’s all. They’ll test it for signs of infection. They’re trying to find out why you feel worse.”
The waves of pain kept coming, and Mulder found himself with an intensifying white-knuckle grip on his blankets as he tried to ride it out. Scully tried to hold his hand and reassure him, as she’d done so many times, but he’d have none of it. He’d been wishing she were there the whole time, he’d tried to find her, tried to have Lydia find her—he knew all that. And yet, here she was, finally, and he for some reason he couldn’t let her comfort him.
The part of his mind that was still rational through the excruciating pain knew that it made no sense. But all he could think was that if she’d paid attention to how sick he was earlier, he wouldn’t be this sick now. Irrational? He knew it probably was. But he wasn’t going to beat himself up about it now; he was in too much pain.
“I think he should be in the ICU,” he heard Scully say to Lydia at one point.
“NO!” he gritted out. “Want to stay here.” He looked at his nurse, who seemed to have given up on any other patients she might have this Christmas night, and was spending the bulk of her time with him. “With you.”
Lydia smiled comfortingly. “Well, hon, that’s sweet, it really is. But we just can’t seem to manage your pain down here. Your partner might be right. With closer monitoring than we can give you, they might be able to give you more for your pain.”
Mulder glanced around at all the tubes and machines attached to and surrounding his body. “I don’t think,” he exhaled, “I can be any more monitored.”
The nurse smiled. “Maybe not. But I’m going to put in a request for more pain medication for you. If it means they want you moved, then that’s what has to happen. You can’t get better when you are in agony like this.”
Mulder silently watched the nurse leave the room. He settled his gaze on his partner, but said absolutely nothing. He could see her discomfort rising in her eyes, until she was finally forced to look away.
“It’s going to be all right,” she said at last.
“You don’t know that,” he countered. Then he closed his eyes.
+ + + + +
In the end, Mulder wasn’t moved to the ICU. Nor did they get a handle on the pain. During the night Lydia had her fair share of opinions on the matter, but it didn’t do any good. The doctor on call ordered a slight increase in pain medication, but it provided little extra relief. And he steadfastly insisted that Mulder’s doctor did not need to be called.
It was a long night.
Lydia stopped in one more time before she left in the morning. “Dr. Potia is at the nurse’s station reading your chart,” she told Mulder, naming his gastroenterologist. “I told him what kind of night you had, and he’s livid that he wasn’t called. He’ll be in soon, and I’m sure he’ll think of something, okay?”
“Okay,” Mulder whispered. He didn’t have the energy to do much more. “See you tonight?” he asked hopefully.
Lydia smiled. “You betcha.”
+ + + + +
“It’s called an ERCP--an endoscopy where we insert a flexible tube into your mouth and advance it all the way through your stomach, and take a look at your bile and pancreatic ducts. The only thing I can think is that there is some sort of blockage or narrowing of the ducts that just isn’t showing up on the CT scans. This will allow us to see it from the inside, and if we find something, hopefully we’ll be able to deal with it right there.”
Mulder was barely paying attention. At this point all he wanted was for someone to do something. Anything.
“Will you use general anesthesia?” he heard Scully ask.
“Technically, no. I don’t want to go that far if we can avoid it. But he’ll be heavily medicated.” The doctor turned his attention to his patient. “It might be a little uncomfortable, Mr. Mulder, but from the sounds of it, it won’t be any worse than what you went through last night. Again, I must apologize for that. I think the holiday adversely affected some people’s judgement.”
“Yeah, I think so,” Mulder agreed, looking pointedly at Scully. “Just do something.”
“We will. Right away.”
+ + + + +
“Mulder? Mulder? Come on, hon, open your eyes for me.” Lydia? Couldn’t be. She’d just left for the day.
He kept his eyes closed as he tried to clear his head. He remembered being taken away for the test. Remembered Scully fighting for the right to go with him, and winning when he’d failed to inject an opinion on the matter. He remembered getting drowsier and drowsier, and welcoming the feeling, because it managed to overpower the incredible pain in his gut. He remembered the tube being shoved down his throat, and instinctively fighting it at first until he was just too worn out to care.
And that was about it. Now Lydia was trying to wake him up. It was unmistakably her voice, which had to mean it was almost twelve hours later. Where had those hours gone?
“Come on, hon. Time to wake up, sleepyhead.” The nurse added a gentle shake to his shoulder.
“What time is it?” he mumbled as he allowed his eyes to peek open.
Her tone of voice lightened considerably. “It’s time for you to wake up, that’s what time it is.”
Mulder pulled a hand up to his face to tiredly rub it. His arm felt heavy, leaden. Everything did. “No, seriously. What time is it?” He dropped the hand and looked at his caregiver.
“Almost 7:30. I just got back on. You look better, Mulder. Your chart says you’ve been sleeping comfortably all day long. How do you feel?”
How did he? He immediately noticed that the knifing pains that had hounded him all last night were gone. They were replaced with a persistent, though dull, ache--but it was much much better.
“I feel better,” he decided aloud. “That thing, that test, it worked?”
“Looks like it,” a voice to his left said quietly. Scully. Mulder turned his head and found her sitting in a chair to his left. The green party dress was gone and she was dressed casually, in black pants and a pale blue sweater. She didn’t get up.
“What happened?”
“They found that your pancreatic duct was severely narrowed. No one knows why. But they were able to widen it, and as soon as they did all the stuff that was blocked up behind it came rushing through. The doctor predicted that when you woke up you’d feel a lot better.” The small smile that had been playing on her lips as she spoke widened somewhat. “Of course, no one thought it would take ten hours for you to wake up.”
“Sorry.”
“Ohh, no,” Lydia interjected. “Don’t you apologize. Sleep is the best healer. Everyone knows that. You slept because you needed it. Besides, they woke you up a couple of times. You don’t remember?”
Mulder searched his memory. “Nope,” he finally decided.
The nurse smiled. “Figured you wouldn’t. Chart says they couldn’t get much out of you except ‘leave me alone.’ So they did.” She proceeded to efficiently chart his vital signs. “Much better, sir,” she proclaimed. “And now I’m going to go and call your doctor. He wanted an update.” She ruffled his hair familiarly before she left.
“So that’s it?” Mulder asked, turning his attention back on his partner. “I’m cured?”
“I wouldn’t go that far yet, Mulder,” she told him, finally standing to take her place by his side. “They were successful in relieving your acute symptoms, and that’s extremely important. Now we hope it wasn’t just a temporary improvement, until the duct narrows again. We just have to wait and see.”
“Killjoy.”
“I just want to be realistic here, Mulder. Pancreatitis is serious, and it is best to be cautious. Just be glad you’re feeling better, and hope for the best from here out.”
“Okay,” he agreed. And, feeling suddenly exhausted again, he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
+ + + + +
The sound of voices talking quietly awakened him. At first he just lay there with his eyes closed and tried to listen. Scully’s voice he recognized, and though the male voice was familiar, he couldn’t swear to who it was. His doctor, he presumed, but the past couple of days were a fuzzy blur in his mind, and that frustrated him.
He shifted in the bed and reflexively stretched his long frame, and was pleasantly surprised when the motion didn’t send him immediately into a tight ball of agony.
“Mr. Mulder?” Mulder opened his eyes and found the doctor looking at him with a smile. “How are you feeling?”
“What time is it?” he yawned.
“It’s after 10 at night, Mulder,” came Scully’s voice from behind the physician. She stepped aside so she could be seen. “How are you feeling?” she repeated.
“I’m tired and my throat hurts,” he answered.
“I’ll let you go back to sleep in a moment,” the doctor promised. Mulder was on his back, and the doctor didn’t even move the blankets aside, instead placing his hands on top of them, at the precise location on his patient’s abdomen of his previously most intense pain. He pressed firmly, and watched Mulder’s face.
The pressure intensified the ache he felt, and Mulder grimaced slightly. But even he was aware of the enormous improvement.
“Better, huh?” the Indian man asked.
“Light years,” Mulder nodded.
The man removed his hands and shrugged. “Not exactly sure what was going on with you, Mr. Mulder, but thankfully it looks like we’ve turned the corner here. If you continue to show signs of improvement, in the morning we’ll remove the nasogastric tube and give you some clear liquids, and see if your digestive system can tolerate that. How does that sound?”
Mulder shrugged back at the man. “You’re the doctor,” he said simply.
The door opened and Lydia entered with a fresh IV bag. “How’s my favorite patient?” she asked. It wasn’t clear to whom she was addressing the question, so Mulder looked expectantly at his doctor.
“He’s looking good,” Dr. Potia told the nurse. “Much improved.”
Lydia winked at Mulder as she was hanging the new IV solution. “Atta boy,” she said quietly so only he could hear her.
+ + + + +
The removal of the tube into his stomach come morning had brought with it unpleasant memories of when Lydia had put it in, but he was glad it was gone. It was now noontime, and the tray in front of him held an array of unappetizing clear liquids for him to choose from, but it wouldn’t have mattered if it was filet mignon. He just wasn’t hungry, and had no desire to put anything into his mouth.
“Mulder,” his partner cajoled as she lorded over his Jell-O and Italian ice. “Don’t you want to get better and get out of here?”
It was a stupid question, and they both knew it, and Mulder met it with a steely glare.
“It’s not that,” he explained. “It’s just that the idea of putting anything in my mouth at all, let alone that stuff. . . . It’s just about the last thing on earth I want to do.”
His partner gave him an indulgent smile, and sighed in such a way as to remind Mulder of a mother trying to get her child to eat broccoli. It infuriated him. She picked up a spoon, dug it into the cup of yellow gelatin, and held it up to his mouth. “You have to eat,” is all she said.
“No, I don’t,” Mulder exclaimed, and he lifted his hand to push the spoon back down onto the tray. Scully dropped the utensil with an exaggerated clatter, then folded her arms on her chest and stared at him for a long moment.
“Mulder--,” she started, but the ill man cut her off by rolling onto his side, effectively turning his back on her. “You’re acting like a child,” she finally said.
“No,” he disagreed without facing her. “You’re treating me like one.”
The exchange was interrupted by the arrival of one of the day nurses. She kindly walked around the bed so that her patient didn’t have to turn to face her. “Not ready to eat yet?” she asked with a warm smile.
Mulder shook his head. “I just can’t,” was all he said. “Not yet.”
“That’s all right,” the woman said brightly as she picked up the tray. “It was a little fast. You stick with the ice chips for now, and we’ll try again at dinner, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”
As soon as she was gone Mulder narrowed his eyes and turned to look at Scully, but all he saw was her back as she was leaving the room. He relaxed as the tension left the room with her, closed his eyes, and was asleep in no time.
+ + + + +
The dinner tray was met with similar resistance from Mulder. But this time, while the physical aversion to eating had abated somewhat, his annoyance at his partner had only grown. She again dangled the spoon in front of his face--like he was a baby, he thought.
“Scully, I can feed myself,” he said.
“Then do it.” She carefully placed the spoon onto the tray and looked at him expectantly.
Mulder stared at the food on the tray, and he did eventually lift the spoon. He scooped up some gelatin and tried to put it in his mouth, and found that he just couldn’t. Or wouldn’t; he wasn’t sure which. He dropped the utensil with a sigh and shook his head.
“What is the problem, Mulder?” his annoyed partner asked. “Just eat!”
How could he explain it to her when he couldn’t really explain it to himself? He just couldn’t eat, and the harder she tried to force him, the more impossible it became.
“I can’t.”
The woman actually snorted in disgust. “I give up, Mulder,” she said. “I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”
Mulder again found himself watching Scully’s back as she retreated from his room. When she opened the door Lydia was on the other side, about to enter. “Maybe you’ll have better luck,” Scully said with disgust as she left.
The nurse entered, looking back and forth between Mulder and the door Scully had just passed through. “What was that all about?” she asked.
Mulder shrugged. “I’m not really sure myself,” he admitted.
“She seemed pretty angry,” the woman said with a chuckle.
“Yeah, she’s mad at me all right.”
“What’d you do?”
Mulder’s eyes opened wide with disbelief. “Me? What did I do? Nothing! Unless you count having the nerve to get sick over the holidays, thereby ruining her Christmas.”
“Did she say that?” Lydia quietly pulled the lid off a container of apple juice as she spoke, stuck a straw in the cup, and handed it to Mulder while she spoke. He took it and drank, seemingly without noticing what he was doing.
“Well, no, not in so many words. But that has to be it.”
“It does?” the nurse asked as she took the now-empty juice cup and handed her patient a container of Jell-O and a spoon. This time Mulder noticed what she’d done and grinned at her in resignation before taking a mouthful of the gelatin.
“What else would it be?”
“Maybe you’re the one who is mad at her.”
“Well, yeah, I did get mad,” Mulder agreed. “She came in here and has been treating me like some baby.”
Lydia shook her head. “That’s not it,” she said. “You’re angry at her, and she’s feeling guilty. You guys really need to talk.” She popped the lid off the cup of hot water and put the tea bag in to steep. “Eat your broth before it starts to congeal,” she advised.
Mulder did as instructed.
+ + + + +
He’d eaten a little more than half of the contents of his tray before pushing it away. He’d flipped idly through the 10 channels available on TV but nothing caught his fancy so he’d turned off the set.
Was Lydia right? Was he angry with Scully, really? Still?
Yeah, he decided, he was. What he wasn’t sure of was whether or not that anger was justified.
His rumination was interrupted by the opening of the door. Scully stood there, looking at him without entering. He didn’t say anything, either, so finally she spoke. “Lydia said you wanted to see me.”
Mulder chuckled ruefully; he’d said nothing of the sort. But that didn’t seem to matter now, so instead he nodded, and she entered the room and sat down.
“Mulder,”
“Scully,”
They’d both started speaking at the same moment, and stopped just as quickly.
“Go ahead,” Scully told her partner.
Mulder didn’t even know what he was going to say when he opened his mouth. All he could do was hope and trust that he didn’t screw this up.
“Scully,” he started again. “First of all I want to apologize for being such an ass since you got here.” That out of the way, he continued. “But,” he said, drawing the word out longer than three letters deserved, “but I was pretty damn mad at you.” The slight look of shock that crossed his partner’s face gave him pause for a second, but he continued. “And I guess I still am.”
He let the confession sit between them for a second, and when Scully didn’t speak, he decided to add one more thing.
“Where the hell were you?”
To most, Dana Scully seemed remarkably stoic and difficult to read. But not to her partner. Mulder watched a crestfallen pass through her eyes for the briefest second before she caught herself and rebuilt her composure. When she spoke, Mulder knew she’d be controlled. But he’d already seen it, and he knew Lydia had been right. Scully was feeling guilty for not having been there when he’d needed her.
“I. . . ,” she started. “I was really busy, Mulder, you knew that. It was Christmas. And when we talked you didn’t tell me how sick you were.”
“I did,” Mulder interrupted, not letting her get away with deflecting responsibility. “I told you my stomach really hurt. You weren’t listening.”
“But,” she sputtered. “You knew what to do; you got to the hospital. You took care of yourself.”
“Of course I did, Scully!” he exclaimed in exasperation. “I’m not a child!” Mulder closed his eyes for a second to slow his breathing and calm down a bit before continuing. “But so what? You knew I was really sick and you didn’t call, or even pick up your messages. Have you checked them yet? How many times did I call you? Three? Four? Five times? It wasn’t your medical expertise I needed, Scully.” He took a deep breath and again allowed his partner to speak if she wanted to. When she didn’t, he decided to finish the thought.
“It was you.”
The woman dropped her head in defeat, and stared at the floor. She was still looking there when she spoke. “I don’t know what to say, Mulder. I couldn’t tell you why my phone was off--I thought it was on. I can’t tell you why I didn’t pick up my messages. Except that it was Christmas, and I was with my family, and it was nice to not think about work and all that for a bit.”
Mulder was stunned. “So I’m just ‘work and all that’?”
By the way her head shot up and she looked at him, Mulder immediately knew that wasn’t what she’d meant. Hell, he knew it before he’d made the accusation. But it’s what she’d said, and apparently he wasn’t done punishing her, which was a surprise even to him.
“No, Mulder, of course not. You know that’s not true.” Her head dropped again. She looked up after a moment with a sad shake of her head. “I just don’t know what to say. There is no explanation. Believe me, I’ve been trying to come up with one. You needed me, and I wasn’t there. And that’s pretty much all there is to say.” She stopped talking long enough for Mulder to think she was through, but before he could respond she hastily added, “except ‘I’m sorry.’”
He knew how hard that last part was for her to say; Scully wasn’t one to apologize overtly like that. Usually she did it in a roundabout fashion, with a mixture of admission and justification, and Mulder had gotten used to it. So to hear her use those two words was big, and it should have been exactly what he’d been waiting to hear. He should have felt vindicated and victorious.
But he didn’t. He just felt awful.
“Hey,” he finally said softly, all his fight and anger suddenly dissipated. “I did okay on my own. I’m okay. On the road to recovery and all that.”
She looked at him sternly. “That’s not really the point, is it?”
Mulder sighed. No, it wasn’t, of course. Apparently she wasn’t done punishing herself, either.
“Well, it’s a point,” he said with a wry grin, intent on lightening the mood, “and a pretty big one from my point of view.” Scully smiled wanly at his little joke, but the atmosphere between them immediately settled back to its previously level of gravity.
“I guess,” Mulder stated, “I’d just gotten used to you covering my back, all the time--not just at work. Maybe I, . . . no, I probably took it for granted that you’d always be there.” He shrugged. “So when you weren’t, and I couldn’t find you, and I was so damn sick, and . . . I don’t know. . . .” It was his turn to stare at his lap for a long moment, but then he looked up and locked gazes with her.
“I was scared,” he admitted.
Scully’s face immediately softened, and she reached through the rails of his hospital bed to take Mulder’s hands in her own.
“I know you were. But I’m here now. That’s something, isn’t it?”
Mulder nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “it is.” It was enough, he decided; that’s what it was.
Lydia chose that moment to barge into the room. She caught the looks on their faces and their interwoven hands and smiled. “So, everything better here? Everyone apologize and all that?”
“Lydia,” Mulder said with an exaggerated sigh, “has anyone ever told you that you’re a busybody?”
The nurse laughed out loud. “Who hasn’t?” she exclaimed. “So I see you ate even more after I left, huh? Do you feel sick?”
Scully released Mulder’s hands, the mood clearly broken, and she grinned at him. He grinned back before answering. “From the food?” he replied, drawing the last word out disdainfully. “No, not at all.”
“Excellent,” the middle-aged woman declared as she continued to chart the amount of liquids he’d ingested. “You’ll be out of here in no time.” When she finished she picked up the tray. “Carry on,” she pronounced on her way out the door.
“Are we okay?” Scully asked when they were alone.
“Yeah,” Mulder decided. “We are.”
Then he looked at her with a sly grin. “But I’m still blaming all this
on that eggnog.”
THE END