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By dee_ayy (dee_ayy@yahoo.com)
August 15, 1999
Category: A is for angst (for both Scully and Mulder). MT is for Mulder Torture (more implied than anything). I wish I could give it a V for vignette (I tried!), but it's too long. Some day I'll do it.
Rating: PG all the way.
Spoilers: This story nestles into the middle of the fourth season episode DEMONS. But you've all seen that one by now.
Archive: Yes, please. Just let me know where!
Thanks, Vickie. (And you too, Keryn, for the 2 a.m. title conference.)
Feedback: Pretty Please? dee_ayy@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: I'm running out of new ways to say this. I don't own 'em, I don't claim to. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and 20th Century Fox Film Corp., a subsidiary of Rupert Murdoch's evil corporate empire (Go David, go David!). I'm just borrowing.
Author's note: This one literally came to me in a dream, which I find very scary indeed. It attempts to fill in a huge blank in the episode DEMONS, and knowledge of that episode is essential. I also took the liberty of undoing a bit of what was done in the episode (as if Scully would let Mulder go to the hospital without her!). This is a first attempt for me at lots of things. First first-person piece, first Scully point-of-view piece, first time I consciously didn't let myself get completely mired down in medical minutae. I'm told that maybe a post-episode piece is in order after this one; let me know if you agree. And if you think this note is nothing more than a second appeal for feedback, you are extremely perceptive!
Summary: Those missing scenes from DEMONS, where Mulder goes to the hospital after his collapse outside the cottage. Scully ponders what is happening to her partner.
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Worried
By dee_ayy (dee_ayy@yahoo.com)
"Agent Mulder isn't going anywhere except to a hospital." I wait for my words to sink in with Mulder, for him to protest as he has every other time since this day started, but he says nothing; just continues to look at me and Detective Curtis blankly.
He's scaring me.
Curtis is speaking, but I can't focus on his words. I can't tear my attention from my obviously confused partner in front of me. The hospital, together, ride with them. They're going. I tell Mulder not to say anything and I'll examine the bodies.
But then the magnitude of what is happening in front of me quickly settles in. What am I doing? I know where I need to be.
I catch up to Mulder and stop his motion with nothing more than a touch to his forearm. "Why are _you_ taking him?" I ask Curtis. I make sure my voice is sharp, authoritative, but not confrontational.
"We'll put him in a squad and drive him over to the hospital." Curtis seems confused by my sudden challenge.
"Is Agent Mulder under arrest?" I force myself to take a deep breath, remain calm. I don't want to get shrill, to panic--even though I have spent most of this day so far quelling a rising panic.
"Well, no." He's defensive. Good. But then he volleys back. "Not yet, anyway."
Ignore that. "Then I will drive him to the hospital myself. You can follow in your own car." I square myself and attach a hard gaze on him. Years of experience has taught me how to deal with men like him. "You don't think he'll run, _do_you_?" My peripheral vision catches Mulder looking down at me. He caught the saccharin-coated sarcasm of my tone, and I see his eyebrow arch slightly. He enjoys when I get like this. I'm glad I can amuse him a little, especially now. But I don't turn my head to acknowledge him; don't divert my attention from the man in front of me for a second.
"Oh, no. I don't think. . . " His voice trails off in defeat.
"Get in the car, Mulder." I watch as he silently follows my order and returns to our car, folds himself within, and pulls the door closed very deliberately, as if pulling it with conviction might snap whatever thread it is that is keeping his emotions in check. As I go around to take my place behind the wheel, I make sure to give Curtis one more look. Don't mess with me; that's the message I want him to get. I think it's working.
Mulder's face is buried in his hands, and after a moment he scrubs it furiously, as if trying to clear his head. I have no doubt he's trying to do just that. I should say something, but there's nothing to say at this moment. I've already said it all. I'm still looking at him when I start the car, and the noise of the engine turning over seems to bring him back.
He takes his hands down and looks at me. For a fleeting moment it seems apparent that he was hoping my attention would be outside the confines of our shared space. He almost looks away quickly, as if he's ashamed of something, but he catches himself and settles his gaze back on me. It's dull, lifeless. That spark of intelligence, of wit, that is almost always there, is missing.
"What's happening to me, Scully?" I hear the desperation in his voice. He truly believes he killed those people. I can tell that he does. And he's afraid. Not that he might be seriously ill, but that he might have killed two innocent people. Illness he could deal with, but more guilt? I don't see how that's possible.
I won't believe he had anything to do with this. I can't. I tell him it's going to be all right as I turn the car around.
I'm talking as much to myself as I am to him.
+ + + + +
I want to answer all the questions for him. I want to protect him, to let him have time; a chance to try and figure this out for himself. I can answer the questions. I know that Mulder hasn't suffered a head injury recently.
But I actually don't. He told me he didn't. But does he know? He's lost 36 hours at least.
Does he have a headache, is his neck stiff, has he experienced any nausea or vomiting. No, no, no, he says. I don't know. I can't answer these questions any more. I don't know what Mulder is experiencing.
Please, God, let there be some simple medical explanation.
The doctor is kind, taking his clues from Mulder. Moving deliberately, speaking clearly, but not being condescending.
Squeeze my hands, Mr. Mulder. He squeezes and the doctor actually pulls away with a grin when it gets too tight. Mulder doesn't return the smile, but I allow a slight one. My partner's delicate hands are deceptively strong. He's showing the doctor, I think. Telling him silently that he's still there, still strong, not totally defeated.
Not yet.
Everything I see from my place off to the side is normal. Eye responses normal, heartrate, BP, temperature all normal. But I knew they would be.
He's thorough too, this doctor. Taking his time. I know the things he's is trying to rule out, one-by-one. Aneurysm, meningitis, encephalitis, head injury, tumor. For starters.
They draw blood--lots of it. Mulder doesn't protest. He just wearily lays back and covers his eyes with his free arm.
Are the lights bothering your eyes, Mr. Mulder?
No.
He doesn't elaborate, nor does he remove his arm. Photophobia, another symptom he isn't experiencing. I watch vial after vial of his blood get labeled and placed in the tray.
The doctor is puzzled, I can tell. Not overtly concerned, though. He doesn't know Mulder. Doesn't know that his patient should be either charming the nurses with his dry humor, or protesting and complaining right now. For all the doctor knows, this cooperative, docile, and almost affect-less demeanor is normal. I want to grab him and shake him and make sure he knows that this isn't my partner. Something's not right; definitely not right.
But the question remains, is there a physiological explanation for the change? I pray one more time that there is.
The blood is taken away, and in the mean-time the doctor orders a finger-prick blood glucose level. Could it be that simple? Hypoglycemia? The level is low. But only slightly. Not low enough to cause a seizure.
When is the last time you ate, Mr. Mulder?
He doesn't remember, he says. The doctor looks to me. Not since I joined him at 6, I realize.
Do you know if your blood sugar has a tendency to fluctuate, Mr. Mulder? Have you ever been tested for diabetes?
Mulder shrugs and looks at me.
I don't know, I tell the doctor. But he has a very high metabolic rate. He just nods. The complete blood workup will tell us more, he tells Mulder.
The doctor keeps addressing his words to Mulder, even though my partner has begun his normal routine of deferring to me. I appreciate it. Mulder is the patient, after all. It's his problem, his diagnosis, his life. When doctors bypass him and talk to me, often doctor-to-doctor, I always sense Mulder's frustration. I always find myself trying to steer the physician back toward the person to whom he should be speaking. I appreciate not having to do it this time.
A CT scan, the doctor says, might help rule out a few things. Nice way to put it. Might discover a few things, too. Head injury, tumor, hematoma, bleeding aneurysm, encephalitis. The litany of possibilities run through my mind constantly; on an endless loop. Has he ever had one, Mulder is asked.
He nods. I watch as he slides himself off the examination table and sits in the wheelchair. His every movement is studied, deliberate. It's as if he doesn't trust his own body not to turn on him. He has reason not to, I suppose. Though he doesn't need to for this test, he takes his watch off, and I approach. He hands it to me silently, and I squeeze his fingertips as I take it.
It'll be all right, I tell him again. He nods, and I wonder if he believes me.
Do I believe myself?
+ + + + +
"Dr. Scully, I need you to tell me everything you observed while Agent Mulder was experiencing this event."
An event. That's a birthday party or a concert, not this. Yet that's what they call it, and it seems absurdly ridiculous to me now. Nevertheless, I nod. I feel tired and drained, but as the only witness to Mulder's "event," the information I can provide to the neurologist sitting before me is invaluable. I know this.
Think clinically, that's what I have to do. "Onset was sudden, and was apparently precipitated by an intense pain to the head. He cried out, grabbed his temple, and fell. He was completely unresponsive for at least a minute, probably closer to two, though I was unable to discern if he was actually unconscious. I did not observe any convulsions."
"What about muscle contractions? And if not, would you classify his muscles as rigid or relaxed during the event?" His questions for me are more detailed than they would be for a lay-person, I imagine. He's trying to classify the seizure. Grand mal, partial complex, focal, temporal lobe. I've already tried this in my mind, but my knowledge of neurology is rudimentary at best by now. I just don't remember details any longer. Seizures are for the living.
"He was tensed, but I'm not sure. I guess I would have to say there was some clonic movement, yes. But it wasn't severe." That's what he was fishing for.
"What about contraction of his facial muscles or movement of his head specifically?"
"No, it was more generalized. And it wasn't localized to one side, either."
"Did he lose control of any bodily functions during or immediately after the event?"
I know what he is asking. I shake my head no.
"What about recovery after the event? Was he groggy, disoriented, dizzy?"
"Not at all. His pulse was extremely rapid, but it recovered within minutes." In my mind I can see him sitting there, telling me he feels really good. "He recovered almost immediately."
"And the pain. Did he remember it?"
"Apparently not. I don't even know if he was in pain. But it appeared that he was." It's getting easier. I can pretend I'm talking about someone else--as long as his name isn't mentioned. Detachment. Distancing. Defense mechanisms.
"Did he remember anything about the event?"
I shake my head again. "He told me he had a vivid flashback to his childhood, which he did remember after the seizure."
"Yes, he told me that. Did he exhibit any bizarre emotions or have any sort of an outburst?"
"Not at all. To the contrary, actually."
"Hmmm." I hate when doctors do that. Hmmm. It doesn't exactly instill confidence. But then, I don't need him pretending he has a handle on this when he doesn't. The doctor chews on the end of his pen for a moment, then looks up at me. "You've known him for a long time?"
I smile. "A long time."
"How does he seem to you?" He's not asking for a medical opinion, I know, and I want to thank him for asking.
"Scared," I offer. It's not what he was looking for, I'm sure, but it just came out--as if I was playing some sort of word association game. Mulder. Scared.
He's scared, and I'm scared for him.
The doctor smiles sympathetically. "Of course. But specifically," I don't need to make him finish.
"He's subdued. His affect is diminished. Mulder is normally a quick-witted, intelligent and lively man. He should be, anyway. Whether the change is brought on by the seizure or by fear, I can't tell you. But in the past he has been able to keep his wits about him--quite literally--in moments of crisis. So I am inclined to think this is caused by whatever is wrong with him." I realize that I used his name. I think I do it now to remind this man that my partner is not a series of symptoms, but rather a real person. But I'm not sure he is even listening. His nose is buried in Mulder's chart.
"Complete amnesia," he reads--more to himself than to me.
"He doesn't remember anything from Friday evening to when he called me early this morning. Mulder normally has an amazing memory. Virtually photographic."
I silently pray that the doctor is getting my unspoken, implied plea. Find the smart, witty man with the uncanny memory, and bring him back.
"May I ask what you are thinking?" It's my right. Colleague to colleague.
He looks up from the chart. "It's too early to say. We don't have any lab work yet, and we need the results of the scan. I ordered an EEG as well. That will be done before he's brought back here to the ER."
"What about the seizure? Can you classify it?" Because I can't.
"The indications don't point to one particular kind. The sense of recalled memory is indicative of a temporal lobe seizure, but he exhibited none of the motor disturbances associated with one. But that response may have been an hallucination, which is indicative of any number of seizure types, as are the rest of his symptoms."
In other words, he's saying he doesn't know. I nod my head silently, and watch as the doctor takes his leave. I don't respond to the platitudes he leaves me with. I know he speaks them by rote; he knows that I know too much for them to provide any comfort. We silently agree to just let them go.
I am left alone with my worry now. I don't want to leave this treatment room, because I know Detective Curtis is out there. We have no answers yet; no explanations for what happened in that house, what Mulder's role might have been in it, what may have led Mulder to play a role in it. I don't want to face him yet. I can't.
"Do the words Orenthal James Simpson mean anything to you?" Mulder's question reverberates in my ears. What was he saying? That he thought he did it. That the circumstantial evidence is overwhelming. That he killed that couple. Suddenly I realize--it was at that precise moment, after he listed the mounting evidence as he was making his point, that he lost his spark. He overwhelmed himself with his own predicament. And that's when his composure and will to fight deflated like a balloon.
But why would he be involved in this? It doesn't make any sense. Why was he here in Rhode Island? Is there a connection to his childhood, or are the locales merely a coincidence? There are too many questions that need to be answered, evidence or no evidence. For starters, what would his motive possibly be?
The fact that what we learn in this hospital may supplant any need for a logical motive is not a possibility I want to consider. It sends a chill of dread down my spine when I allow the thought in my mind.
I know Mulder would tell me to leave, to start investigating. He'd tell me that is how to get him out of this, and he'd probably be right. But every time I close my eyes I hear him cry out and see him lying on the ground before me, clutching his head. I can't banish the terrifying image, and it is that image which keeps me in my place. Everything else can wait.
+ + + + +
When Mulder returns he doesn't acknowledge me at all. No smile, no words, no nothing, even though he has been gone close to two hours. I realize he hasn't said two sentences to me since we arrived. He climbs back on the gurney, and curls up on his left side, with his back to me.
I get up and walk around to face him, the clicking of my heels on the tile floor announcing my approach. The head of the bed is raised somewhat, and his gaze is set on some unseeable point far off in front of him. Or maybe behind him--back in that cottage. But he doesn't look deep in thought. Lost is more like it.
"How'd it go?" That's how we do these things. I won't ask him what he's feeling, what he's thinking, because he won't tell me anyway. We dance around it, both of us now adept at interpreting each other's answers about things concrete to arrive at things emotional.
"Okay." Only this time Mulder isn't dancing, even with me leading.
"Did they inject you with anything, Mulder?" I take his hands in mine, ostensibly to look for an injection site on his arms. And while I do turn them over and inspect them, that's not really why I do it. When I'm done I settle his hands back to the bed, but I don't let go, and he doesn't pull away. This is how we do these things.
"No. Why?" He's looking at me now.
"I was just wondering if they used a contrast medium for the CT scan, that's all." They may still, if necessary.
He shakes his head dejectedly and looks beyond me once again. "They tried to make me have another one."
During the EEG; I expected as much. "With strobe lights?"
He nods. "And by trying to make me breathe fast." He shrugs. "I couldn't do that." He says it as if his body's inability to provide the desired physiological response is some sort of personal failure.
"It's okay. Lots of people can't make themselves hyperventilate." I don't know if what I'm saying is true, but I do know that it doesn't matter anyway. "It didn't happen again, though?"
He shakes his head. I don't know if that's good or bad. If they'd been able to trigger another seizure, they might be better able to determine the cause. But if they couldn't, maybe it was just a one-time thing; a singular "event" that won't happen again. Which would be wonderful news physically, but terrible legally.
He's damned either way, I realize.
I reach forward and gently brush the skin below his temple and run my fingers through the hair there. He looks at me quizzically. "The paste they used to attach the electrodes for the EEG was still in your hair," I lie. He nods and doesn't protest.
Such intimate, comforting physical contact is forbidden unless invited between us. It's always been that way, and I'm sure I started it. I know I try too hard to seem always in control. I know I resist letting people in; showing my weaknesses. Even with Mulder, even after all these years. And Mulder has followed suit. So instead we'll brush an imaginary hair off a jacket as an excuse to touch a shoulder. We'll check for needle marks when we know there will be none. We'll lie and say there's something in your hair. And the funny part is, I'm sure we're both in on the deception. But for appearances sake, for the sake of our own dignity, we keep playing the game. And we're good at it.
"Curtis say anything?" As I suspected, his mind is on what we saw in that cottage. I'm sure it has been on nothing else. I wonder what kind of brain activity that EEG showed.
I shake my head. "I haven't spoken to him. I thought I'd wait until we know something."
"If there's something to know." He finally pulls back the hand I am still holding, and I let him.
+ + + + +
I listen to the neurologist, and within seconds I realize that by the time he is done going through all the tests they have performed, he is going to say they haven't found anything.
No significant metabolic abnormalities except the slightly low blood sugar. The doctor jokes that it's nothing a glass of juice won't cure. Electrolytes, kidney function, liver function, every function all within normal parameters. White blood cell count normal; no infection. Preliminary tox screen clear.
The CT scan showed no abnormalities. But given Mulder's presenting complaint of seizure, it is deemed "inconclusive," not normal.
The EEG showed no abnormal brain function that they could tell. It measured no seizure activity at all, despite the stimuli he was subjected to.
Mulder has sat up, cross-legged in the middle of the bed, to hear this. His expression does not divulge his reaction to the news at all. Instead he just speaks two words.
Now what. His voice is dull, uninterested almost. Defeated.
An MRI, the neurologist says, gives a much better picture of the structures of the brain than a CT scan. Have you ever had one, Agent Mulder?
And he's gone again.
+ + + + +
There's a clock on the wall behind me, and I'm wearing a watch on my wrist, yet I still pull Mulder's watch from my pocket to check the time. Just for an excuse to hold it. My mom would probably say for good luck, but it's more than that. It's a connection.
He's been gone for 90 minutes, and should be back soon. I see the neurologist walk by outside and chase after him.
"What if the MRI is inconclusive, too?" I ask.
The doctor grins at me. "I don't need to tell you that we still don't know what makes the brain work the way it does, and therefore we often don't know what happens to make it break down. The MRI may very well be inconclusive. And if it is, we'll take it from there."
"Take it where?"
"I don't like to anticipate before I have all the facts."
"What about a lumbar puncture? Cerebral angiography?" I cannot believe I am suggesting two invasive and painful procedures for Mulder. But there has to be an explanation, and we have to find it. And if he is admitted here, then he won't end up in jail.
"I'd repeat the MRI with a contrast medium before I'd put him through an angiogram. I don't use them to diagnose. A spinal tap is a possibility, but his white count is normal; he's showing no signs of an infection at all. And the tests show no lesions on the brain. I'd be more inclined to observe him; hook him to an EEG overnight and see if the event repeats." He looks at me kindly. "It possible, too, that this was an isolated occurrence. It might never happen again. Think positive."
But we both know that people with isolated seizure events generally don't lose 36 hours of their life beforehand. The "event" I witnessed wasn't the first one. I'd bet on that.
+ + + + +
Mulder returns from the test agitated, nervous. I assume it is from the noise and the claustrophobia of the MRI. He'd refused a sedative when offered, and had no doubt spent the whole time fighting his own desire to escape.
That's what I think is causing it, until the neurologist comes and tells us that the MRI, too, was "inconclusive."
You mean normal, Mulder counters.
That's what he means.
"Then I'd like to leave," Mulder tells me.
"Mulder, you can't. There are still tests," He cuts me off.
"I've had enough tests. You aren't finding anything."
The doctor steps in, thank God. I've never been able to reason with Mulder about his health. "True, Agent Mulder, we haven't found anything. Yet. But there are other things to check, and we would like to admit you and observe you for a bit to see if it happens again. If it doesn't, great. If it does, you'll be here and we'll be able to figure out what to do for you."
Mulder has gotten off the gurney and is standing at his full height--several inches taller than the neurologist. I know why he's doing this. He wants any psychological advantage he can gain. And he wants to show that he's not helpless; not a patient any longer.
"There's no aneurysm, no raging infection, no tumor, nothing that could drop be in a second, correct?" He is using my words against me. I'd said that phrase this morning in my attempt to get him to seek immediate medical attention. He knows I will remember. I look at him and realize that my head is cocked to one side, as it often does when I disapprove. He sees, and our eyes lock momentarily. His look is level, and clear, and determined.
"Preliminary results indicate you are correct, Agent Mulder, But there are still more tests we should run to further rule them out." The doctor is in a difficult situation. So far the news is all good, so he can't--or doesn't want to--paint an alarming picture in an attempt to make Mulder stay. But that would be the only reason he might stay.
Mulder looks at the doctor, then at me, and finally shakes his head. "No. I need to find out what happened, what I did, and that's not going to happen in here. Where are my clothes? Scully, go tell Detective Curtis that I'll be out in a minute."
When he does these types of things he still has the power to shock me. He is basically choosing an interrogation room or a jail cell over a hospital room. He still doesn't know what is wrong with him, and he doesn't seem to care. I know he is preoccupied with what he might have done, but those answers can wait. They must wait.
"Mulder, do you realize the possible repercussions if you do this?"
You could go to jail. You could drop dead.
I give voice to neither.
He gives me the look he always does when he thinks I have asked an incredibly stupid question for which the answer is painfully obvious. I'm actually relieved to see any recognizable reaction from him. "Of course I do. The answers aren't in here, Scully." He makes a sweeping motion to encompass the hospital room. "I'm leaving."
Apparently he'd been doing some thinking while in the MRI gantry, and he's intractable despite the neurologist's best efforts.
The doctor leaves to get the papers Mulder must sign to indicate he
is leaving against medical advice, and Mulder goes behind a screen to dress.
As he does he tells me to examine the bodies, and he'll go with Curtis.
There is a spark of the man I know returning. He has chosen a course and
committed himself to it, as he always does. I find this reassuring, despite
the fact I'm sure he's making a foolhardy decision.
I'm like a broken record, telling him he's taking a great risk, that
just because we haven't found anything wrong yet, it doesn't mean there's
_nothing_ wrong, only that we haven't found it. But he's heard it already.
He dismisses me with a nod as he ties his boots. He signs the papers and looks at me one more time. "If I did what we think I did, then what's happening in here," he touches his temple, "doesn't matter worth a damn. Examine the bodies, Scully. Help me that way."
He turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, stunned. But after a moment I realize that this is the course the man I know would choose, and I should take comfort in that. There are still answers to be found and despite what I may think, the ones Mulder feels he needs most right now are the ones I might be able to provide by doing what he asks.
I need to examine the bodies.
<<The End>>