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By dee_ayy
December 3, 1999
Disclaimer: They belong to 1013 Productions and that shining example of all that’s evil about vertical integration, 20th Century Fox Film Corporation. I am just borrowing. Don’t sue.
Rating: PG
Category: V, A, MT, post-ep
Spoilers: For the 7th-season episode “Millennium,” with oblique references to the two “6th Extinctions.” Be warned.
Feedback: Yes, please. dee_ayy@yahoo.com
Thanks: To Keryn, Vickie, Peggy G., thanks for making sure I was saying what I wanted to say Christine, thanks for not saying what I bet you wanted to say.
Summary: Mulder’s injury leads
to some reflection. Fill-in for “Millennium.”
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Stitches
By dee_ayy
Where had that shot come from? The body fell to the ground, exposing his partner, gun drawn, and eerily flickering from the red light of the flare. Mulder let out his breath and let his hand fall on the shoulder of Frank Black, still lying beneath him.
“Nice shooting, Agent Scully.” He let her hear the relief in his voice.
“Thanks.” She was holstering her weapon and approaching, obviously still tense. “You okay?”
“Am now.”
She was kneeling at his side. “Mulder, you’re hurt.” She reached out to touch his arm, and he carefully moved it out of reach.
He saw the scratches on her neck. “So’re you.” They were often hurt. Nothing new.
She ignored him. Typical. Then he saw her finally notice who was still on the floor. Black was sitting up, his palm firmly pressed to his forehead, saying nothing.
Scully stood, and for the first time Mulder took in the whole scene around them. The rotting, decayed corpses of four men littered the floor. The smell was unbearable. “Can you get up?” his partner asked as she turned back toward the two men. Black was already standing.
Mulder still sat on the dirt floor, his right arm now held protectively against his chest, still holding the empty gun as if his very life depended on it. He wasn’t quite ready to let it go. “How’d you know about the head shot?” He bent his knees so he could rest his left elbow there, and then let his forehead fall into his palm. He hoped no one would notice how badly he was still shaking.
“I had my own little run-in with the undead, Mulder. I’ll tell you about it later. Come on, let’s get you upstairs. You’re bleeding.”
He picked up his head and looked at her. “You don’t say.”
She wanted to know if he needed help, but before Mulder could answer Black was offering his hand, which Mulder took, and allowed himself to be pulled upright. He swayed, and he felt Black put his other hand around on Mulder’s back, not letting go until he was sure the younger man was steady.
“Thanks,” Mulder said, and he didn’t mean just for the hand.
“You’re welcome,” the man said quietly, understanding.
+ + + + +
“Did you do this, Mulder?” Scully was investigating the necktie bandage prior to removing it.
“Uh huh.” He was sitting at their suspect’s kitchen table, trying not to flinch in anticipation of what he knew was to come.
“Not bad. Nice work.” She started to untie it.
“It was bleeding. It wouldn’t stop.” He’d had to do something.
She unwrapped the tie and used a kitchen knife to cut his sleeve, exposing the gash on his arm.
“Mulder, how did this? . . . . What happened?”
He looked down and saw it for the first time himself: a gaping wound, about four inches long, snaking diagonally across his upper arm. “I don’t know. It was dark.” He gasped as she started to wipe it with a wet cloth. “Bad?”
“It’s deep. You’re going to need stitches. The ambulance should be here any minute.”
He sighed. He didn’t want to deal with ambulances and hospitals. Not now. “It’s a cut. Just a cut.”
“A cut that’s been bleeding for hours, Mulder. You’ve lost a fair bit of blood. You’re even exhibiting the early signs of shock.”
“I am?”
“You are. The wavering on your feet downstairs, you’re shivering, your skin is clammy.”
“Just the aftereffects of abject terror, Scully,” he explained. But he could already feel the battle being lost.
She allowed a slight smile. He saw the sympathy there. “Maybe. And maybe shock, too. This is gonna hurt.” She pressed a folded, clean dishcloth against the wound, wrapping another around it and tying it tight. As she finished the knot they heard the sirens approaching.
Mulder started to stand, and was instantly pushed back down by his partner--gently, though, and he felt her hand linger on his shoulder briefly. He had neither the will nor the energy to fight back, so he settled into the chair, admitting defeat. He looked at her, and noted an unsettling look on her face.
“What?” he asked.
“New Year’s Eve in the emergency room, Mulder. Somehow it’s appropriate.”
He looked away in dismay, and took note as his partner passed through his field of vision on her way out the door to direct the coming troops.
She was right, though. It did somehow seem like the inevitable place for them to ring in the new century.
+ + + + +
“I do _not_ need an IV.” Mulder was sitting in the ambulance, on the gurney, but with his feet firmly on the floor.
“Look, Agent Mulder. You’ve lost blood. Your BP is a little low.”
“It always is,” the agent interjected quickly.
“Maybe so,” the paramedic parried. “But your partner tells us you’ve been lightheaded, and your skin is cold and clammy. All are symptoms of shock caused by loss of blood. You need to replace the fluids.”
Mulder didn’t know quite how to explain to this man why he was cold and clammy. Why the hair on the back of his neck was still standing on end. Why the chills he was feeling were the same he’d felt the minute he’d seen what was in that basement, before anything had attacked him. He couldn’t imagine this man hearing tell of a standoff with the walking dead without immediately changing the ambulance’s destination from the ER to the psych ward. So he silently relented and offered up his left arm. He sat back and rested his head against the wall of the truck, and closed his eyes as he felt the needle slide in.
Noise brought him back to attention. He looked up and watched as Frank Black climbed in the back of the ambulance, a large gauze bandage taped to his forehead. He took a seat next to the paramedic, opposite Mulder.
“You okay?” the younger agent asked.
Black touched his forehead. “This? Yeah, it’s fine. Just a scratch.”
“Join the club,” Mulder said. But he looked at the gauze bandage that was now covering his wound, and it was already soaked through to the outside with blood. Stitches. Not the first time he’d needed to be stitched back together.
“You okay?’ the retired agent asked.
Mulder nodded silently. “Long day,” he understated.
“Why don’t you lie down, Agent Mulder,” the paramedic offered.
Mulder looked at the gurney. It was tempting, but . . . “Nope,” he said matter-of-factly.
“We’re ready to go. You can’t ride sitting like that.”
“You can,” he pointed out. He looked at Black. “He can.”
The medic reached over and adjusted the gurney so its back was in a seated position. “We’re not hooked to IVs, Just sit back, will you?” His exasperation oozed out of every word.
Mulder turned his body, sat back against the gurney, and pulled his right leg up, bent. But he steadfastly refused to take his left foot off the floor. These were games he routinely played--an effort to retain what little control he could when things were completely out of control. The paramedic sighed loudly, and strapped his patient to the gurney at the waist.
“We’re just trying to help you here,” he told Mulder.
“I’m fine,” Mulder countered. Always fine, even when not. The ambulance started to move, which startled him. “Where’s Scully?” he asked no one in particular.
Black looked up. “Finishing up. She said she’d follow.”
“Oh.” Mulder closed his eyes again. New Year’s Eve in the emergency room. Alone, no less.
+ + + + +
He’d wanted to walk; of course they hadn’t let him. The doctor was now inspecting the wound, and Mulder was trying to appear nonchalant through the searing pain. He finally had to gasp, and the doctor apologized.
“What happened?” he asked again, as if Mulder might suddenly offer an answer this time.
“I told you, I don’t know. I was attacked in the dark.”
“No idea what cut you?”
“I told you. No.” The bare hands of the undead? Couldn’t have been.
The doctor nodded. “How’s the pain now?”
“As long as you don’t touch it, a dull throb.”
The doctor was pulling off his gloves. “I want an x-ray, to make sure there are no foreign bodies in there. Then we’ll clean it and stitch you up, okay?’
Mulder nodded and picked up his left arm, where the IV was still imbedded. “Do I need this?” he asked.
The doctor looked back. “Probably not,” he said as he left, but he didn’t take it out. Bastard.
Alone at last, and Mulder settled back on the bed. The rush of adrenaline was leaving him quickly, and he was suddenly bone-achingly tired. He closed his eyes, and was immediately assaulted with the memory of the four dead men as they approached him, relentlessly coming ever closer. He opened them quickly, his heart racing.
What the hell had happened?
He’d cheated death one more time; that’s what had happened. That was twice now in a little more than two months. He forced himself to take deep breaths, to calm down, to push the memory from his mind.
After a moment he’d succeeded. Then, when he closed his eyes again, he saw Scully, flickering in the light, weapon in hand. It had been quite a welcome sight. She’d saved him one more time; that’s what had happened. Twice now in a little more than two months.
He allowed that realization to comfort him as someone came to escort him to x-ray.
+ + + + +
They’d brought in a plastic surgeon. It was deep enough that the ER doctor didn’t feel comfortable suturing it. It had nicked the muscle, which also needed to be stitched. Mulder only half-listened to the explanations of what they were going to do. Numb, irrigate, absorbable sutures. Just get on with it. He looked at the clock on the wall. 11:06. He wondered where Scully was.
The injection of the anesthetic hurt more than the cut, and Mulder hissed his displeasure. The doctor did it over and over, in several places, insisting it was necessary because the laceration was so big and deep. But eventually the numbness set in, and the doctor set to work.
First they cleaned it, irrigated it with syringe after syringe full of water forced into the open wound. Never a fan of seeing his own blood as it was shed, Mulder looked away. He could feel the force of the water, over and over and over, into the wound and out, running down his arm. As soon as he’d told them the injury had taken place in a dirt-floored cellar over seven hours ago, their concern about contamination and infection had gone up tenfold. Over and over they forced water into the cut, washing out any dirt, any impurities that may have gotten in.
It gave Mulder time to think, even though he really wasn’t in an introspective mood. But it was better than participating in the idle banter taking place around him.
He opened his eyes and looked at the wall across the room. If Scully were here, he knew she’d be occupying this space, in his line of sight, offering comfort with nothing more than her presence. She was good at that, and he hadn’t realized until right now how much he counted on it. Depended on it. Even needed it.
She looked out for him.
The water pouring over his arm stopped, and he looked back at the proceedings. The doctor was declaring the wound clean, and was ready to start suturing. He watched in disgust as someone actually held the broken skin apart so the doctor could stitch the muscle. It was like watching surgery. He looked away again.
The doctor was trying small talk. Diversion, that’s what he was trying, which Mulder didn’t need. So he didn’t participate--he hadn’t had any plans for this night before suffering an injury anyway, so he didn’t have anything to contribute. It didn’t take long for the man to give up, and stitch in silence.
This night. New Year’s Eve. The millennium. He kept forgetting. Surprising, considering they had just saved the world from the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
Or maybe just from four walking dead men running roughshod in a cellar. Mulder stifled the laughter he wanted to release at the thought. But truth be told, they’d never know for sure what would have happened, and that was precisely the point. Scully was normally the cautious one, but not this time. This time he was the one who hadn’t wanted to tempt fate or God or whatever. Better to be safe than sorry when dealing with Armageddon.
If he could be glib about this then he knew that his equilibrium was returning. He was glad. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he’d been terrified; he had been. Hour after hour, feeling the blood run down his arm, with that stench and those eyes watching him, waiting. He was sure no one would find him. He was sure he’d bleed until he passed out, and then be at the mercy of those things that knew no mercy.
The doctor declared the muscle repaired. Mulder nodded, and felt him set to work on the skin. He tuned out the man’s lecture on silk sutures versus nylon.
But he had been found. First by Frank. Mulder knew he’d wanted to help; knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away. “Single minded? Sounds like someone I know,” Scully had said, and she’d been right. Frank Black was no more able to reject his lot in life than Mulder was able to reject his own.
Except… he looked at his watch. 11:34 … in 26 minutes Frank Black would be freed from the thing that had driven his life. The group dispersed, the millennial moment past, he’d be free to live his life. A normal life. Mulder still had far to go, many truths left to uncover, before his journey was done. He knew this, and he had recently come to accept it. It didn’t bother him. It was his life, such as it was, and he welcomed it.
And he didn’t have to face it alone. He had Scully. For whatever reason, she was still committed to his path.
No, to their path. It was theirs now, together, intertwined through shared experiences and mutual trust and respect. Stitched together with the care and strength of the stitches going into his arm. She’d shown up in that cellar. That fact, and its significance, was not lost on him. She believed him enough now to trust his judgment; to back him up no matter what. It hadn’t always been that way. They’d had their ups and downs, but right now things were good, their commitment to their work and each other at a high. It felt good, comfortable.
He had been through a lot in the last few months, for sure. But he knew that in many ways she’d been through more, her journey more painful. His experiences had simply led him to a rededication to his mission, to his fate. Scully’s had forced her to reassess every belief system she’d held dear all her life--her faith, her science. It was a journey that was ongoing, he knew.
She didn’t know what or who she could count on. She’d told him that in a moment of emotional honesty that was rare for her. And he hadn’t taken her confession lightly. He never would.
He looked. The wound was almost closed.
Their lives, as different as silk and the skin it held together, were irrevocably stitched together now, one needing the other to hold their frayed edges secure. He hoped she always knew she could count on him. He’d make sure she always knew.
Hm. That sounded like a New Year’s resolution. The realization made him smile--he hated resolutions.
The stitching was done, the bandage was wrapped around his arm. Mulder barely listened, only nodded appropriately as the doctor explained antibiotics and a week in a sling so the muscle could heal properly. He checked his watch again. 11:52 p.m. He wanted the doctor to hurry. Someone pulled the IV out of his arm finally. You lost blood, take it easy. He nodded some more. 11:55 p.m. Pain medication, take these pills. He did without protest. 11:57 p.m. Finally he could go. He had two minutes. Two minutes to find her.
He knew where he wanted to be, where he needed to be, when the clock struck midnight.
<End>