From: "Jo-Ann Lassiter" <J.LASSITER@easternbk.com>
Date: Thu, 22 May 2003 16:48:21 -0400
Subject: So Ends My Life by Jo-Ann Lassiter
Source: direct

	TITLE: So Ends My Life
	AUTHOR: Jo-Ann Lassiter 
	EMAIL ADDRESS: Jolassi555@cs.com 		
	
	DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Post anywhere. 
Thanks. 
	SPOILER WARNING: None
	RATING: PG-13
	CLASSIFICATION: S, A 
	KEY WORDS: MT, MSR
	DISCLAIMER: This story is based on 
characters created by Chris Carter and Ten 
Thirteen Productions. Characters used without 
permission. No infringement intended. 
	SUMMARY: When Mulder thinks he's dying 
and goes to Scully for help, she kicks him 
out. Can their partnership--and Mulder's 
life-- be saved?
	THANKS: To Jan Lentz and Gerry Hill for 
the beta. :)

Apartment of the Assistant Director
Saturday, January 9, 1999
3:06 a.m.

"Walter Skinner?"

Skinner strained to read the digital numbers 
on his alarm clock, groaning when he saw what 
time it was. God damn it, he'd finally 
dropped off to sleep after a bout of insomnia 
only to be awakened less than an hour later. 
"Yes, this is Walter Skinner," he growled. 
"Who is this?"

"This is George Washington Memorial Hospital. 
I have a Fox Mulder here..."

Skinner blew out a breath. "What's he done 
now?"

A sound of irritation reached his ears. 
"Look, Mr. Skinner. I don't know what this 
guy did, but he was very reluctant to give me 
your name and number. I had to promise him I 
would only call you if it was an emergency."

Skinner felt his skin prickling. "And is it?"

A sigh. "He didn't think so, but I consider a 
ruptured appendix something of an emergency."

The A.D. felt like a first-class asshole. "Is 
he going to be all right? How is he?"

"They just took him in to surgery. He's in a 
lot of pain because of the peritonitis."

Skinner nodded. He remembered seeing a man 
down with a burst appendix once in Vietnam. 
Big John Garrett was the toughest marine he'd 
even seen, and he'd cried like a baby. "Will 
he be all right?" Skinner repeated, a little 
softer.

"He should be. I don't actually work here--I 
treated him in the ambulance, but the guy was 
so terrified that he might bother someone..." 
Strangled laughter reached his ears. "His 
appendix burst, he got sick and threw up, and 
he kept apologizing. He was crying and 
apologizing to someone named Scully. Do you 
know where we can reach him?"

"Her," Skinner corrected automatically.

"Ah," came the response. "That explains it, 
then."

"Explains what?"

"When he called 911, Mr. Mulder insisted that 
he would meet the ambulance outside--"

"Outside? It's a blizzard out there!"

"No kidding." The voice was pure sarcasm. "He 
also insisted that we arrive silent. No 
siren."

Skinner was confused. This made no sense. Why 
would Mulder meet the ambulance downstairs? 
Why wouldn't he let them come up to his--

"Can you tell me where you picked him up? Was 
it an Alexandria address?"

"No, sir. We picked him up in Georgetown. Is 
that his girlfriend's address? Could he have 
had a fight with this Miss Scully?"

Skinner closed his eyes. "It's possible." 
Jesus, what could have happened that Mulder 
would not have awakened Scully--even at the 
expense of his own life? "I'll... He's at GW, 
you said?"

"Yes, sir." The voice had a little more 
control over itself now; the tone held a 
little more respect.

"I'll be there shortly. Where can I find Mr. 
Mulder?"

"He's in surgery right now. If you go to the 
admitting desk, they'll direct you as to 
where you can wait."

Skinner took a deep breath. "I'm going to 
pick up his partner, and be right there. 
Thank you for calling."

"Sure thing." The man hung up.

Feeling a little shaky all of a sudden, 
Skinner lowered himself into the nearest 
armchair, then punched in Scully's home phone 
number.

"Scully," her sleep-filled voice answered.

"Scully, this is Skinner."

"Yes, sir?" She sounded more alert now.

"Get dressed. I'm picking you up in fifteen 
minutes."

"What? Why? What's going on?"

"Mulder's in the hospital."

"Mulder? What?" He heard sounds of bedclothes 
rustling and floorboards creaking, then a 
door opening. "Mulder can't be in the 
hospital. He's on my couch."

"I don't think he is, Scully," Skinner said 
gently.

"What? Of course, he is. He's right th..." 
Sounds of frantic searching reached his ears. 
"Mulder?" Doors opening. "Mulder!" When she 
came back to him, there were tears in her 
voice. "Where is he, sir?"

"GW. I just got off the phone with the 
ambulance attendant."

"The ambulance attendant? Why did the 
attendant call you?"

"I don't know. The blizzard maybe. The 
hospital might be short-staffed." Skinner's 
own take, though, was that the man was simply 
concerned and offended by how Mulder's 
friends obviously meant so much to him, yet 
he was so afraid to bother them even when 
suffering so badly. He'd apparently wanted to 
personally deliver the news of Mulder's 
distress to those uncaring souls. Skinner 
felt like a piece of shit. "Scully, if Mulder 
was staying there, why didn't he call you for 
help?"

He heard her sharp intake of breath. "He did. 
He came to my bedroom door, and I told him to 
get out. I... my God... I told him that I 
didn't care if he was dying, to just get out 
and leave me alone." Tears were in her voice 
when she continued. "He'd... We'd been out 
chasing down a lead that didn't pan out. I 
was cold and wet and tired and we were 
arguing, and then it got late and his car was 
buried... I told him he could sleep on the 
couch but that under no circumstance was he 
to wake me. I was so angry..." She broke off 
in a choked whisper. "How did he get to the 
hospital?"

"Ambulance."

"But I didn't hear--"

"He wouldn't let them come up. He met them 
outside."

"But the sirens... I didn't--"

"He wouldn't let them use the siren."

"Oh, God. Oh, Jesus, God, what did I do?"

"Scully..."

"How is he?" she asked suddenly. "They got 
him there in time, right?"

He didn't say anything for a minute. Mulder 
was alive, but in pain that might very well 
have been avoided.

"Sir?" He could taste her panic, and that 
wasn't making it any easier.

"He's in surgery, Scully. His appendix burst 
on the way to the hospital."

Silence.

"Scully?"

"I'll be waiting downstairs."

She hung up.

**

5 hours earlier
Apartment of Dana Scully
Outside

Mulder pulled up at the curb and loosened his 
fingers from the death grip they held on the 
steering wheel. Closing his eyes, he released 
a sigh of relief. They'd made it back to 
Scully's in one piece. Now he had to drive 
home in this; it was not a trip to which he 
was looking forward.

The sound of the passenger door opening and 
then slamming brought him back to his other 
problem. Scully was royally pissed. At him. 
Again.

Of course, she had every right to be. He 
should have known better than to give 
credence to an anonymous tip left on his 
answering machine. He also might have waited 
until the snow had let up. But really, how 
could he know that what was predicted as 
"flurries" would turn into a full-blown 
nor'easter? Even the forecasters hadn't seen 
this one coming, so was it his fault that 
they'd been caught in the middle of it?

He blew out a breath as he exited the car. It 
certainly was his fault. They'd arrived at 
the rendezvous at the appointed time and had 
nothing to show for it, except that they were 
cold and wet and Scully was angry with him. 

He caught up with her just as she was 
inserting her key in the door to her 
apartment's lobby. "I'm really sorry," he 
said, hastily removing his hand from her arm 
when he caught the look she was giving him.
"Fine," she said. "Now go home." Opening the 
door, she slipped inside. Mulder followed. 
She glared at him like he was a worm in her 
apple. "What are you doing, Mulder?"

He tried to look as pitiful as possible, 
which wasn't too hard; he didn't feel well, 
and he was beginning to experience the aches 
from that spill he'd taken earlier. "Can I 
come up for a few minutes? Just to dry off a 
little?" The shiver that shuddered through 
him was totally involuntary and impressed 
even him with its intensity.

When she reached out a hand, Mulder was all 
set to lean into it to accept whatever 
comfort she was offering. But the palm 
flattened, and the hand kept him at arm's 
length. "No."

There was no mistaking that here was a "no" 
that meant exactly that. This was no "yes" 
coyly shrouded as a "no" in some coquettish 
attempt at refusal while really wanting to 
accept. This was definitely a, "get the hell 
out and don't come back," flat out, "NO!"

Mulder met her eyes then and was surprised to 
find not anger, but a bone-deep weariness 
etched into her features. Holding her gaze, 
Mulder slowly nodded his head.

Then he left.

**

Apartment of Dana Scully
Inside

Scully kicked the door shut and threw the 
deadbolt. Slipping her boots off, she placed 
them by the door to dry and padded into her 
bathroom. Too tired to think of anything but 
immersing her frozen body under a stream of 
hot, steamy water, she turned on the shower 
tap, peeled off her clothes, and stepped 
under the spray. Then she just stood there, 
letting the water flow over her.

After a few minutes, her brain thawed enough 
to allow the thought of actually washing 
herself to formulate. As she began to feel 
less like Mrs. Frosty and more like Mrs. 
Spooky, she discovered that she felt a little 
bad for Mulder. He did look truly miserable, 
standing there dripping and shivering in her 
doorway.

Well, he should be halfway home by now; in 
another ten minutes he'd be as toasty warm as 
she was feeling.

She finished her shower and dried herself 
off, then frowned. No PJ's, no robe. That's 
what she got for rushing off at the drop of a 
hat during laundry day. Opening the door, 
wearing only a towel wrapped around her hair, 
she made her way into her bedroom and slipped 
into a pair of panties. Her eyes took in the 
selection of cotton and silk nightwear in the 
drawer, but she wanted the flannel ones, and 
they were still in the laundry basket.

Loosening the towel from her head, she walked 
into the living room while rubbing her hair. 
When she looked over to where she'd left the 
laundry basket by the door, she froze.

Mulder was not halfway home after all.

**

Dana Scully's Apartment
Outside
Ten minutes earlier

Mulder walked slowly back to his car, his 
head hung low. He couldn't blame her for 
sending him on his way. He was a total 
shithead. He should have called it quits when 
the wind picked up and the snow started 
falling faster. But not him. Oh, no. He had 
insisted that they proceed to the meeting, 
regardless of the weather. It was too bad 
their contact hadn't felt the same way--if 
he'd had any intention of showing up in the 
first place.

Well, at least Scully was home and, with any 
luck, a hell of a lot warmer than he was. 
Reaching his car, he shuffled around to the 
driver's side and stopped dead in his tracks. 
There was no driver's side. From where he was 
standing, there was no car, either. He did a 
one-eighty and caught sight of the snow plow 
as it successfully buried another car a block 
away.

Turning back to the mountain of snow formerly 
known as his car, he stared at it in dismay. 
It would take him a good hour to dig his way 
out, even if he had a shovel. That would be 
just about the time another plow would come 
by and re-bury him, according to his 
calculations. 

Returning to the sidewalk, he unlocked the 
passenger door and pushed the seat back 
before getting in. What should he do? Make a 
noble attempt at unearthing his car, or sit 
where he was and wait out the storm? He 
wondered how long he could last in his car 
and tried to decide whether he preferred 
freezing to death or dying of carbon monoxide 
poisoning. With a sigh, he resigned himself 
to the fact that he was about to make a very 
unwelcome guest of himself, and got out of 
the car.

Now that he'd relegated himself to facing his 
partner's ire, he hurried along the sidewalk, 
feeling only a little guilty about using his 
key in the downstairs lock. He was giving her 
a few more minutes of peace, he reasoned, 
before he barged in on her off-duty time once 
again. He also couldn't take one more second 
outside in the cold.

He shivered as he waited for the elevator. 
Truly sorry to have to disturb his partner, 
he was nonetheless eager to get out of his 
sodden clothes and into something warm. God, 
he hoped she wouldn't be too upset at his 
intrusion.

When the elevator arrived, he got on and 
pressed the button for Scully's floor. After 
an excruciating ten seconds during which it 
felt like the air conditioning was on full 
blast, Mulder practically leapt out of the 
car when it dinged to a stop.

Although he approached Scully's door with 
trepidation, he didn't slow his pace. Fear of 
freezing overruled fear of Scully. For the 
moment. He knocked politely and awaited her 
appearance.

When he heard no sound from within, Mulder 
began to wonder if she was even in there at 
all. Yet where would she have gone? He 
knocked harder.

After what he deemed an overlong amount of 
time, he pulled out his key ring. By this 
time he was shaking pretty badly, and it took 
several attempts to get that Gulliver-sized 
key into that Lilliputian keyhole. When he 
pushed at the door and it still wouldn't 
open, he nearly cried. Focusing all his 
concentration on reducing his shivering, he 
slid the other key home and unlocked the 
deadbolt.

This time, although the door opened and he 
gained entry, he wanted to cry again. For 
there stood Scully wearing only some flowery 
underthing, and he knew he was a dead man.

**

She couldn't believe it. She just couldn't 
get her mind to acknowledge the fact that she 
was standing in her living room, in front of 
Mulder, practically nude.

For a brief out-of-body second, she laughed 
to herself at the expression of pure shock on 
his face and wondered if the expression on 
hers was just as funny. Then she came back to 
her senses with the mortifying realization 
that Mulder was staring at her. At her 
breasts, to be precise.

Quickly shielding herself with the towel, she 
snapped, "What the hell are you doing here? 
And shut that damned door!"

Mulder blanched and stepped in, closing the 
door hurriedly behind him. He addressed his 
reply to the door, not turning back around. 
"I'm sorry. The snow plow came by, and..." His 
voice trailed off. "I knocked, but there was 
no answer."

She was incensed. "So you just came in? I did 
not give you that key--"

"I knocked for a good three minutes, Scully." 
His voice reduced to a near-whisper. "I was 
cold."

"Well, are you warm enough now? Because I 
certainly am." She stormed away from him, 
back into her bedroom, slamming the door. 

She stood in the middle of her bedroom for a 
minute, numb. Was she embarrassed? Most 
definitely. Was she angry? You bet. Could she 
forget it and pretend nothing had happened? 
Not in this lifetime.

Stalking over to her bureau, she seized a 
pair of cotton pajamas and pulled them on 
roughly. Finding her robe laying across the 
foot of her bed, she thrust her arms into it 
savagely.

She whirled around and faced the door. She 
really did not want to see her partner right 
now, but she needed to toss him out on his 
ear into the snow. It would be better to just 
get it over and done with before she really 
had time to reflect on how very mortified she 
felt.

Steeling herself for whichever version of 
Mulder she was about to encounter--chagrined: 
probably; repentant: certainly; amused: not 
if he wanted to live to see 40--Scully yanked 
her door open.

Mulder had not moved from his position by the 
door. There was a puddle at his feet, and he 
was noticeably shivering. Yet Scully could 
not find it within herself to feel sorry for 
him. It was his damned fault he was in the 
condition he was in. It was his damned fault 
she'd been in the condition she had been in. 
And it was his damned fault that he'd seen 
her naked.

"So... what, Mulder? They close the triple-x 
theater because of the storm?" She crossed 
her arms over her chest and glowered at him.

He turned around and started to take a step 
toward her, then looked down at his snow-
covered boots and aborted the move. He gave 
her what she had categorized as 'kicked-puppy 
look #2.' "Scully, I'm truly, truly sorry. I 
did knock, and loudly."

She tossed an accusing glare his way. "Then 
why didn't I hear you? I was only in my 
bedroom, and the door was open."

He shook his head. "I don't know. Unless..." He 
looked thoughtful for a moment. "I had a 
little trouble with the key. I suppose it 
took me a few minutes between the time I 
decided to use it and the time I actually 
unlocked the door."

She was still mad, but she knew he wouldn't 
intentionally invade her privacy; she had no 
recourse but to believe him. She sighed 
deeply. "Whatever." She gave him a suspicious 
look. "Why are you here? Why didn't you go 
home?" Like she had told him, she added to 
herself.

Mulder took a shaky breath, in relief that 
she didn't press him or to fortify himself 
for the story he was about to lay on her, she 
didn't know which. "My car," he said. "The 
snowplow came by and buried it."

She nodded her head slowly, turning toward 
the window but not really looking out. "I 
suppose you want to stay here?"

"Uh... yeah." She heard a soggy boot scuff her 
nicely-polished floor. "I didn't know what 
else to do."

She sighed. Tossing him out into the snow was 
fast becoming just a fond memory. "Fine. 
Sleep on the couch."

She heard him exhale deeply. "Thanks. Uh... can 
I--"

"Keep it low."

He coughed lightly. "I was going to ask if I 
could get something dry to wear."

She turned back around and studied him. Even 
after a forty-minute ride in the car, he was 
still soaked. She had to stifle a laugh as 
she replayed that spectacular fall of his--
feet going out from under him, falling flat 
onto his back and sliding into a puddle of 
dirty, slushy water. 

"Or I could strip right here, and we'll call 
it even." 

She sucked in a breath and stared at him. 
Just as she'd been about to overlook the 
entire incident, he brought it back full 
force and she relived that moment all over 
again. This time, though, she had the added 
bonus of knowing that he wasn't truly sorry 
as he'd said, that he was rather pleased with 
himself about the whole ordeal.

Well, fine. She was about to wipe that self-
satisfied smirk right off his face.

**

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

As soon as the words left his lips, Mulder 
knew they'd been a mistake. Even his most 
charming smile couldn't fix his horribly 
inept attempt at lightening an awkward 
situation. The smile faded from his lips, and 
he took a step toward her. "Scully--"

"Just shut up, Mulder, before you end up 
spending the night in your car." 

Oh, Christ. Instead of making her feel 
better, he'd enhanced her embarrassment. 
Could he be any more of a jerk? Nodding, he 
lowered his eyes to look at the floor. He 
felt sick, both physically and mentally.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Scully 
walking away. Was she getting  him something 
dry to wear, or was she going to leave him 
there in his wet clothes? He called after her 
retreating form in his most plaintive voice. 
"Scully?"

She stopped and spun around to face him, her 
face a mask of barely-controlled fury. "As 
much as I suspect you'd enjoy it, I don't 
think anything of mine will fit you."

He felt himself reddening. He regretted what 
he'd said, not only because it had made 
Scully angry, but because he'd made her feel 
bad. Now she was lashing out at him, and 
although he felt he deserved it, he really 
needed something dry to wear. "I meant men's 
clothing. Don't you have something from your 
brother or..."

She shook her head. "Nope. Nothing."

"A robe?" Hell, he'd wear some frilly 
dressing gown so long as it was dry.

She shook her head again. "Nothing that would 
fit you."

He regarded her for another minute, then 
lowered his eyes. She was being a bitch, but 
who'd made her that way? "Could I have a 
blanket, please?" he asked, quietly.

With her chin, she pointed to the closet door 
behind him. "In there." 

Hobbling over to the closet, he pulled open 
the door, surprised to find her linens up so 
high. He gasped when he stretched an arm up 
to the top shelf; a sharp pain in his side 
made him quickly retract his arm, and he 
grabbed whatever his fingers came in contact 
with, a light, airy blanket that held no 
promise of the warmth he so desperately 
craved.

Determined not to show any weakness, lest 
Scully think he was trying to play upon her 
sympathies, he nonetheless couldn't prevent 
himself from limping back to the couch. The 
pain in his right side was lingering, and he 
had no choice but to favor it.

Scully walked over to him, shaking her head. 
"You're going to want more than that skimpy 
thing." She indicated the blanket he held 
tucked under his arm. "If you hurt 
something," she said, and he detected the 
hint of a smile in her voice, "I'll be glad 
to fetch another one for you."

Properly chastised, he nodded. "Thank you."

Scully pushed the step stool up to the closet 
and took down two warm blankets and a set of 
sheets, then presented them to him.

"Thanks," he mumbled, accepting them.

She gazed at him curiously, and all he could 
think was that she looked torn. Finally, she 
frowned, sighing. "Seriously, though, Mulder, 
did you injure yourself when you fell?"

He was still standing in front of the couch, 
clutching the blankets to his now constantly-
shivering form. "I'm fine," he answered, 
determined not to burden her any more than he 
already had. When she looked content to stand 
there and study him for the rest of the 
night, he began to feel a little irritated. 
"Look, I'm sorry for making you go today, I'm 
sorry I saw you naked, and I'm sorry for what 
I said. But can we dwell upon my shortcomings 
later? You've had a chance to get warm and 
dry, but I'm cold and miserable and I hurt. 
Can you just please go to bed so I can get 
out of these wet clothes?"

For a second, she was stunned into silence, 
until her face screwed into a scowl. "Fine." 
She pivoted and stomped toward her bedroom, 
then turned back around, too quickly for him 
to hide the grimace of pain he'd given into 
when she wasn't looking. "Don't even think of 
waking me up," she said in a very low, very 
deadly tone. Then she showed him her backside 
and walked away.

**

As soon as Scully's door clicked shut, Mulder 
let out the groan he'd been holding in. 
Christ, what the hell did he do to himself in 
that alley? His side was really hurting. 

First things first, though. Before he could 
attend to any injury, he had to get out of 
his wet clothes. He was shivering nonstop 
now, and his teeth were chattering so hard he 
was giving himself a headache.

Quickly throwing off his wet jacket, in one 
swoop he pulled off sweater, shirt and t-
shirt and replaced them with a blanket. He 
toed off his shoes, looking down at his socks 
in dismay. Christ, it hurt to even move. 
There was no telling the pain he'd cause 
himself by doubling over in half to reach his 
socks. He decided to leave them, squishy wet 
though they were.

It took a good two minutes for frozen fingers 
to unbuckle his belt and another three before 
he could grasp the damned microscopic tab on 
his jeans to unlock the zipper. Not caring 
whether Scully walked in on him, he peeled 
down his pants and underwear and kicked them 
aside.

He frowned down at his feet. There was still 
the matter of the socks. Wincing just 
thinking about bending down that low, 
Mulder's eyes fell upon his clothing 
scattered throughout Scully's living room. In 
her current state of mind, leaving them where 
they were was not an option. He might also 
want to bear in mind that he'd have to wear 
them again tomorrow so it would be in his 
best interest to hang them to dry.

As he bit the bullet and bent down to 
retrieve his pants, Mulder discovered that 
doubling over wasn't the excruciating 
experience he'd expected it to be. Doubled 
over in half felt downright comfortable and a 
lot less painful than standing straight or, 
god forbid--Mulder shuddered just remembering 
his encounter with the closet--stretching.

Since he was in that position anyway, he 
pulled off his wet socks and slung them over 
one of Scully's kitchen chairs. Feeling like 
a hunchback, Mulder retrieved the rest of his 
clothes, draping them over the backs of 
chairs until her dining room reminded him of 
laundry day at Oxford when there were no 
available dryers. Christ. He'd better get his 
ass up bright and early before Scully got a 
look at that mess.

Grunting with each step, Mulder made his way 
slowly to the couch where he encountered the 
folded blankets and a set of sheets. He 
spread the sheet over the cushions, 
grumbling. She knew he'd injured himself. 
Would it have killed her to make up the 
couch? Besides, he would have been perfectly 
happy to sleep on the cushions. The only 
reason he was doing it now was-- 

As the thought came to him, he stopped in 
mid-tuck.

Jesus, he was afraid of her. Of incurring her 
wrath. Of displeasing her.

Lowering himself carefully to the cushions, 
he sighed, in relief and in resignation. If 
he didn't care so much about what she 
thought, it wouldn't hurt nearly so much when 
she hated him.

**

Scully listened to the sounds of Mulder's 
taking over her living room, and she fumed.

The gall of the man. First, he makes her go 
on a wild goose chase in a blizzard, then he 
barges in on her, sees her topless and lets 
her know in no uncertain terms that he'd 
found it highly amusing, then, in spite of 
all this she--sap extraordinaire that she is-
-tries to help him and gets her head bitten 
off for her efforts. He behaved as though he 
were the victim, not she.

For a brief second, she entertained the 
thought of intruding upon him while he was 
changing and catching him in a position 
similar to the one in which he'd found her. 
After another second's deliberation, she came 
to the conclusion that he'd probably enjoy 
it, and the only one who would be humiliated-
-again--would be her.

God damn, but that man was infuriating. And 
self-centered. She didn't miss how he'd 
turned her plight into his own little drama. 
"I'm cold and miserable and I hurt," she 
mimicked, repeating his words.

"Well, join the rest of us," she muttered, as 
she climbed into bed when the noise from the 
living room finally ceased.

She fell asleep determined not to fall into 
the trap in which she tended to fall of 
feeling sorry for him, since every time she 
tried to help him, she ended up feeling like 
a fool.

Well, he'd stung her one time--hell, more 
than one time--too many tonight. He could 
damned well take his pity party somewhere 
else. Doctor Dana "Bleeding Heart" Scully was 
off-duty.

**

1:17 a.m.

"Aargh!" 

Mulder cried out in agony after he'd vaulted 
himself to his feet. He'd been awakened by 
his nausea and he'd leaped up, intending to 
run into the bathroom to lose his lunch, but 
the intense pain in his side put any thoughts 
of 'running' out of his mind. 

"Oh, God..." He was going to lose it, right 
here, right now. On Scully's immaculate beige 
rug. 

Why the hell was her bathroom so damned far 
away anyway? He'd never make it there in 
time. Looking around frantically, Mulder's 
eyes alit on the closest receptacle in sight.

Literally holding in his guts, Mulder hobbled 
the few feet into the kitchen; he prayed that 
Scully was as fastidious about leaving dishes 
in the sink as she was about everything else. 
By the time he reached the sink, though, he 
didn't care if it was filled to brimming with 
her best china. He was dying, whether it was 
from pain or from the need to puke, it didn't 
matter. He was dying, of that much he was 
certain.

Oh, God, what had he done to deserve this? It 
hurt to walk, it hurt to puke. It even hurt 
to breathe. He gripped the edge of the sink 
tightly while he brought up everything he'd 
had to eat for the past decade.

When the nausea finally abated, Mulder turned 
on the tap, avoiding looking at the mess 
until most of it had washed away. He turned 
on the garbage disposal, not overly concerned 
at this point about waking his partner. 
Frightened though he was at that prospect, he 
was more frightened by the way he felt, and 
he wanted her to wake up and tell him he 
wasn't dying. Because he sure as hell felt 
like he was.

The nausea he was feeling was not caused by 
any mere injury he'd suffered as a result of 
tonight's fiasco. Something was wrong inside. 
Something was drastically wrong.

Still, if he was going to wake her, there was 
no reason to piss her off even more than she 
already was. Mulder rinsed and cleaned the 
sink area until he was sure it would pass 
Scully's inspection. It was the last thing he 
wanted to be doing, but he knew his partner, 
and no sympathy would be forthcoming if he 
didn't leave her kitchen as spotless as he 
found it.

Since at this point in their relationship she 
probably wouldn't appreciate his nudity, 
Mulder made his way to the couch for a 
blanket. He was feeling worse and worse as he 
carefully continued on toward her bedroom at 
his less-than snail's pace. The pain had 
localized in his right side, and he could 
feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat.

Upon reaching her door he hesitated, but only 
for a second. If he wasn't dying, then she 
could rail at him all she wanted. If he was, 
she should thank her lucky stars that he'd 
had sense enough to alert her so that she 
didn't stumble over his cold, lifeless body 
in the morning.

Resolve firmly in place, he rapped sharply on 
her door, then opened it partway. "Scully?"

In the eerie light reflecting off the newly-
fallen snow, he saw her stirring beneath her 
bed covers.

"Scully?" he called again, a little more 
urgently. He wanted desperately to crawl onto 
her bed, curl up into a ball, and be held in 
her arms.

"Mm... what?" she mumbled.

"Scully, can I come in? I need you to take a 
look at something." He hobbled a couple of 
steps closer.

Suddenly, she shot up in bed, and he nearly 
had heart failure, never mind stomach pains. 
"Goddammit, Mulder, I told you not to bother 
me!"

He froze in mid-stride at the look of fury on 
her face, until the momentary jolt of fright-
induced adrenaline faded, and the pain in his 
side flared up once again. Bringing his leg 
back carefully, he clutched at his side. "I 
know. I'm sorry. But I need you to look at 
something. I--"

"No." Her voice wasn't raised, but it was 
more deadly than if she had. "Get out." 
Delivered in an equally lethal tone.

"Scully, wait. I think--"

Her eyes narrowed. "What part of 'get out' 
didn't you understand?"

His heart started beating faster. Oh, God, 
she was going to blow him off. "Just take a 
look," he said in his most beseeching voice. 
"Real quick, then you can--"

"It's not enough that you drag me out into 
the worst storm of the year, then take off 
after..." She gazed at him curiously. "Just 
what were you chasing anyway?" When he opened 
his mouth to respond, she picked up where 
she'd left off. "...after whatever, leaving me 
behind *again* and now you want me to look at 
something else. No."

He was starting to perspire in earnest now. 
"It's nothing like that. It's--"

"I don't care. Whatever it is will have to 
wait for morning."

Christ. She just wasn't getting this. "You 
don't understand! It's me. I hurt--"

"I'm sorry that you fell on your ass, Mulder, 
but don't come here in the middle of the 
night and expect me to kiss it and make it 
all better. Not after what you did to me 
tonight."

Oh, God. He had to make her understand. 
"Scully, I--" 

"Mulder, I don't care if you're fucking 
dying. Get the fuck out and let me get back 
to fucking sleep. Think you can fucking do 
that?"

Blinking back tears, he nodded. "Yeah." He 
was angry now. "Fine." Let her trip over him 
in the morning. Serve her right. He turned to 
go.

"And I heard the damned garbage disposal! I 
don't know what you were doing, but you'd 
better not do it any  more!"

"Don't worry," he muttered, limping toward 
the door. "I don't normally puke when I'm 
dead."

"Well, there's a plus," she muttered, and he 
turned around to gape at her in disbelief. 
"Good night, Mulder," she said, sternly.

He was furious at her for dismissing him like 
he was an inconsequential gnat. More than 
that, he was devastated that her last memory 
of him would be that of an irritating little 
brother instead of the passionate lover he 
longed to be to her.

"Oh, don't give me the wounded puppy routine. 
You wore that out a long time ago." She 
pushed back in the bed until she was sitting 
up more fully.

Christ, she was getting ready to lecture him. 
He could barely stand as it was; now was 
really not the time for this.

"Scully, I don't think--"

"That's right. You don't think. How perfectly 
that sums up your entire existence." 

He pulled the blanket closer around him, 
huddling into its folds.

"You call me in the middle of a blizzard and 
expect me to come running. Of course, some of 
it's my fault because I do exactly that. You 
have no regard for anyone but yourself, 
Mulder."

He hung his head. "I'm sorry."

"No. You're not. Perhaps at this point in 
time, because you're tired and sore, you 
think you are. But you're not. Not really."

Her words stung, all the more because he 
feared that they were true. Meeting her eyes 
for what he knew might be the last time, he 
nodded his acceptance of her words. He 
wholeheartedly deserved the look of contempt 
she was giving him.

She was right to deep-six him. She would be 
much better off once he was out of her life. 
For once, he was going to do the right thing 
and just leave. No more coercion, no more 
deceit. No more dragging her out in the 
middle of a blizzard, or the middle of the 
night, or the middle of the ocean.

He gave her one last, sad smile and turned to 
go.

She muttered a, "Hmph," as she settled back 
under her covers.

Mulder walked slowly out of her life.

**

1:33 a.m.

Even though he'd decided to do the gallant 
thing and die without bothering Scully, 
Mulder felt he owed it to her to at least try 
to save himself. Or at least die somewhere 
other than on her premises. There'd be an 
investigation, after all, and forensics 
people pawing through her personal belongings 
would probably not sit well with her.

So deciding, he doddered to where he'd left 
his cell phone, fell into the chair beside 
it, and dialed 911. The operator was very 
calm and comforting, but a little put out at 
Mulder's request that the ambulance arrive 
without its siren blaring. And the poor woman 
was nearly apoplectic when he told her that 
he'd meet them outside.

"Mr. Mulder, you do realize that we're in the 
middle of a blizzard?"

He would have laughed if he didn't think it 
would expedite his imminent demise. "Yes. As 
a matter of fact, I'm painfully aware of that 
fact."

"Sir, it would be in your best interests if 
you stayed right where you are and let us 
come to you."

Sorely tempted to take her up on her offer, 
the picture of snow-covered ambulance 
attendants tromping all over Scully's rug in 
their dripping boots made up his mind pretty 
quickly. "Trust me, it'll be in my best 
interests for me to meet them downstairs."

"Will you at least wait inside until they 
pull up?"

It had always been his intention to sit in 
the lobby while he awaited their arrival; he 
had no trouble agreeing to her request. 
"Okay." He nodded. "I can do that."

He heard her release a breath. "Good." There 
was a momentary pause. "They're already en 
route, Mr. Mulder. With the storm, though, I 
can't give you an ETA of less than half an 
hour."

Mulder gave a humorless chuckle. "It'll take 
me at least that long to get dressed and get 
downstairs."

"Is there someone who can help you, or are 
you alone?"

Mulder hesitated only a second; a bitter pang 
of resentment colored his response. "No. No, 
there's no one here who can help me."

"Would you like me to stay on the line with 
you until the ambulance arrives?"

Until she'd asked, Mulder hadn't even 
considered it, but now that she'd posed it he 
couldn't imagine refusing. He swallowed hard. 
"Yes," he whispered. "I'd appreciate that 
very much."

"Then I'll certainly stay. I just need you to 
hold a few seconds while I notify my 
supervisor."

While he was on hold, Mulder used the 
opportunity to grunt and groan his way to his 
feet. Christ, it was almost a constant pain 
now, and his moving around collecting his 
clothes--still wet, he was dismayed to find--
wasn't helping matters. 

"Mr. Mulder?"

"I'm still here," he said, trying to suppress 
a moan and only partially succeeding.

"Try not to move around," she said softly.

"I have to get dressed," he said, and just 
the thought was enough to make him cry. He 
sniffled, then cleared his throat. "I'm... 
um, I have to put the phone down while I get 
dressed." He paused, not willing to beg her 
not to leave him all alone.

"I'll wait right here, Mr. Mulder. I'm not 
going anywhere."

Another swallow. "Right. I... Thanks."

"It's all right. Now go ahead."

Nodding at the phone, he placed it on the end 
table and picked up his boxer shorts. He 
thought he'd been in pain before, but until 
he lifted his leg to slip it into his shorts, 
he realized that that had been a mere 
bellyache. *This* was real pain. Pressing his 
hand into his side, hoping that if he pushed 
hard enough the pain would ease (no such 
luck), he staggered over to the couch and 
lowered himself carefully to the cushions. 
Leaning forward, he slid the underwear over 
his feet and pulled them up to his knees. He 
really didn't relish getting to his feet 
again, but there was no getting around it. 
Biting the bullet, he stood.

The pain took his breath away, which he 
considered fortunate because he most 
certainly would have cried out and awakened 
Scully if it hadn't. Fuck! Tears springing to 
his eyes, he grasped the waistband and pulled 
the shorts up. 

 Thank God he'd worn the cotton; they were 
very nearly dry. His jeans, however, were not 
even damp; they were sodden. There was no way 
in hell he was going to be able to muster up 
the strength to struggle into them, even if 
he wanted to, and he didn't. Tossing them on 
the arm of the sofa, Mulder slipped his t-
shirt over his head, relieved to find that at 
least one garment had escaped relatively 
unscathed. The sweater and shirt, however, 
joined his pants on the couch.

Given a choice between warmth and modesty, 
Mulder chose warmth. He just couldn't bear 
the thought of putting all that cold, wet 
cloth against his skin. Stumbling back to the 
phone, he picked it up. "Hello?"

"I'm here, Mr. Mulder."

"I, uh, guess I'm ready." Looking down at his 
bare feet, Mulder cringed thinking about 
putting his wet shoes on. Scully's lobby was 
carpeted, and it was heated. He supposed that 
walking over a few wet spots was preferable 
to having his feet encased in soaked shoes. 
And he simply could not get his mind to 
embrace the thought of the torture he would 
put himself through trying to maneuver them 
onto his feet.

"It's only been ten minutes, Mr. Mulder. Why 
don't you stay where you are until they're a 
little closer?"

Even though he wanted nothing more than to 
comply, Mulder shook his head. He knew that 
if he sat down now, he wouldn't be getting 
up, and he certainly wouldn't want to disrupt 
Scully's life any longer, would he? "Uh, no." 
He couldn't quite tamp down a moan as he 
started toward the door. "I 'd rather wait 
down in the lobby."

He heard her sigh, and immediately felt 
remorseful. He just had a knack, hadn't he?

"Mr. Mulder?"

He choked up at the concern in her tone. 
"Yes?"

"You really shouldn't be walking around, you 
know."

Nodding his head, he crept on. "I know," he 
said, a strangled cry escaping his lips when 
he reached for the doorknob. "Oh, fuck," he 
bit out, as the pain flared up, and he 
dropped the phone. He stared down at it, 
unwilling to stoop down for it. Although he 
recalled that bending hadn't hurt, he 
couldn't say the same about straightening up.

"Mr. Mulder? Mr. Mulder?"

When he heard the panic in that tinny voice, 
he gritted his teeth and retrieved the phone 
from the floor. "I'm here," he ground out. "I 
dropped the phone. I'm sorry." His apology 
was both for dropping the phone and for using 
foul language in front of the angel of mercy 
with whom he'd been blessed.

"Are you all right?"

"No," he whimpered. "The pain's getting more 
intense, and I..." He swallowed the bile rising 
in his throat. "I feel sick."

"Mr. Mulder, *please* wait where you are, and 
let them come to you."

"I can't," he sobbed. "I've already done 
enough damage for one day. I won't do any 
more." With all the strength he had left, he 
pulled open the door and staggered through; 
he couldn't help feeling he'd won a small 
victory when he didn't reset her deadbolt. 
"Besides, I'm already out in the hall, and I 
don't have a key to get back in." Pulling the 
blanket tighter around his shoulders, he 
congratulated himself for removing that 
option so permanently.

He shivered in the drafty hallway and began 
the long walk to the elevator, stopping every 
few seconds to catch his breath or lean into 
the wall when the pain became unbearable. 

"How are you doing, Mr. Mulder?" 

Her voice in his ear was a shock. He'd been 
concentrating so intently on putting one foot 
in front of the other that he'd forgotten why 
he was holding his hand to his ear. He 
thanked God that she was still with him.

"Doing okay," he wheezed, pressing into the 
wall to keep from screaming out. His eyes 
scanned his immediate surroundings, and he 
was surprised to find himself about three 
feet from the elevator. "I'm... at the elevator 
now." He pressed the "down" button. 

"Good." He wanted to smile at the pleased 
tone of her voice. "How's the pain?" she 
asked, softly. "And the nausea."

"Both still there." 

"I'll bet."

The elevator came, and he shuffled into it, 
pressing "L" and then collapsing against the 
nearest wall. "I'm inside the elevator now."

"Very good," she said. "Mr. Mulder, when you 
get to the lobby, I want you to unlock the 
door, then find a chair and stay there. Let 
them come to you. Does that sound 
reasonable?"

All he could think was that Scully would kill 
him if he left the downstairs door unlocked. 
It was bad enough he hadn't reset her 
deadbolt; this latest travesty would be the 
final nail on his coffin. "Uh... I don't think 
I should. The outside door is supposed to be 
locked at all times." Scully made sure he 
would obey that rule before she gave him the 
keys to her new place.

"Don't you think this once could be an 
exception?" she asked softly. "After all, no 
one's likely to be out on a night like this, 
and it *is* pretty late."

Mulder considered the logic of her statement 
until an image of Scully's livid face took 
its place. "Um... I'll be fine. I can open the 
door when they get here. I don't want to take 
the chance of leaving it unlocked when I 
leave."

Another long sigh came over the line. "I 
really do wish you'd think of yourself, Mr. 
Mulder."

Mulder had to swallow hard at the memory her 
declaration evoked. "That's the trouble," he 
said. "I think of myself too much. I think of 
how things affect me, affect my life, with no 
regard for how they're affecting anyone 
else." How they're affecting Scully, he said 
to himself.

"That just makes you like everyone else," she 
said, and he could tell that she really 
believed it. The elevator stopped, the doors 
opened, and he stepped out. "Are you in the 
lobby now?"

Trying not to grunt out his reply, Mulder's, 
"Yeah," came out breathless.

"All right. Don't talk. Just concentrate on 
walking."

Mulder did just that and nearly cried in 
relief when he spotted red light flickering 
on and off the walls in the lobby. "It's 
here," he puffed out. "It's pulling up now."

"Oh, thank God." Her relieved exclamation 
threatened to choke him up. At least someone 
cared, he thought.

Reaching the door, he waited until the 
ambulance stopped and the attendants got out. 
When they were at the door, he unlocked it 
and limped out, shivering as his bare feet 
sank into the snow. "The door," he gasped, 
straining to reach behind him, as they took 
his arms. "Make sure it's locked, please."

The hand gripping his right arm loosened, and 
he heard a rattling sound. "It's locked." A 
kind-looking face loomed before him. "Let's 
get you in the ambulance so we can take a 
look at you. All right?"

"Yeah," he breathed, allowing himself to be 
lead to the back of the vehicle.

The man on his right opened the door, hopped 
up, and reached back for his arm. "Is that 
the 911 operator on the line?" he asked. "May 
I speak with her?"

"Oh. Sure." Mulder released the instrument to 
the attendant. "I'd like to talk to her 
before you hang up, though."

"You bet, Mr. Mulder." The two men helped him 
into the ambulance, gently pressing him down 
to the gurney. He couldn't prevent a cry of 
pain when the other man straightened him out 
once he'd lain down. He'd been straining to 
hear the one-sided conversation on his phone, 
but everything faded out except for the roar 
in his ears and the rapidly-increasing 
nausea.

Closing his eyes and breathing shallowly 
through his mouth, Mulder managed to get the 
bile to recede to a more manageable level. 
When his hearing returned to normal, the 
concerned tones of the attendant finally 
penetrated.

"...hear me? Mr. Mulder?"

"Yeah," he mumbled. Looking up, he was 
surprised to find that an I.V. had been 
started, and an oxygen cannula had been 
attached to his nose. He wondered how long 
he'd been out of it. "Sorry," he murmured. 

"Nothing to be sorry about," the same man who 
always spoke said. Mulder heard the engine 
turn over and felt the ambulance pulling out. 
"I'm about to disconnect from 911. Do you 
still want to talk to her?"

The motion was making him sick, and while he 
was reluctant to open his mouth, Mulder felt 
the strong need to thank his angel of mercy. 
He nodded, and the man held the phone to his 
ear, an act for which Mulder was eternally 
grateful. "Hello?" he managed to croak out.

"Mr. Mulder? Alan tells me you're in good 
hands. I'm glad everything worked out for 
you."

Mulder desperately wanted to tell her how 
much he appreciated her help, her support, 
and, most importantly, her role in lessening 
the feeling of abandonment Scully's dismissal 
had instilled in him. He owed this angel more 
than he could ever express. "I wanted..." he 
got out before he had to clasp a hand over 
his mouth.

"Whoa!" The attendant jerked the phone away 
from Mulder and grabbed for an empty 
container. "Gonna be sick?" he asked.

Mulder nodded frantically, tears springing to 
his eyes as he pictured himself vomiting all 
over the interior of the ambulance. A vision 
of Scully's sink came to mind, and he 
struggled to remember if he'd cleaned it 
sufficiently. God, he was such a thorn in her 
side. He couldn't blame her for kicking him 
out of her bedroom. She never should have 
even allowed him to stay over. She should 
have thrown his ass back out into the storm 
without giving him the chance to leave her 
apartment in the state he'd left it.

The attendant rolled him onto his side, and 
he retched into the emesis bowl being held to 
his mouth. Why hadn't he stayed away from her 
apartment? Why hadn't he stayed away from 
her? He brought her nothing but misery, as 
evidenced by his latest attempt at levity. 
*"Or I could strip right here, and we'll call 
it even."* God, had he really said that to 
her? Had he really been so clueless? So 
callous?

"I'm sorry, Scully," he sobbed, between 
bouts. "I'm sorry. Sorry."

The strain of bringing up his insides was 
causing the pain in his side to flare to an 
intolerable level. "Oh, Christ," he cried, 
bringing his knees up to his chest in an 
attempt to ease the pain.

"All done now?" the attendant asked.

Mulder nodded. 

The man cleaned his face and helped Mulder to 
settle more comfortably on the gurney. "We've 
got a few minutes before we get to the 
hospital. Do you think you can answer a few 
questions? It'll save you from having to 
answer them in the hospital."

"I think so." Mulder was still fighting the 
nausea, and the pain was getting to be almost 
too much for him, but he knew that by getting 
the preliminaries out of the way now, he'd 
get his pain meds all the quicker.

Alan asked him the usual medical-related 
questions, and Mulder answered them to the 
best of his ability. How he missed Scully's 
help in this area! His eyes stung at that 
thought, and he thrust it from his mind. 
Until the attendant asked who should be 
notified. 

Who indeed? He seriously considered giving 
Byers' name, then decided to avoid the gunmen 
altogether. Knowing Scully was his normal 
contact, they'd be sure to ask questions he'd 
rather not answer. Yet who else was there?

"Wife? Girlfriend?" Alan asked. 

Mulder shook his head. 

"You're an FBI agent, right?" 

Mulder nodded. 

"What about your boss? Save you a call in the 
morning," he said, grinning.

Mulder considered. He didn't like the idea of 
bothering Skinner at home for a non work-
related problem, but he supposed *someone* 
should be notified in case he died.

"Walter Skinner," Mulder told the attendant. 
He recited Skinner's home and cell phone 
numbers. "Please don't call him unless it's 
an emergency, though. If I'm still here on 
Monday, I'll call in to work myself. Please 
don't bother him just for this."

Alan frowned. "Mr. Mulder, you're very sick. 
You should let someone know that you're 
here."

Mulder hesitated, and was about to relent 
when he heard a string of obscenities about 
the storm and the driving conditions from the 
front seat. He shook his head. "No," he said. 
"Not unless it's a real emergency. I'll be 
fine on my own."

The attendant heaved a sigh. "Okay." He gave 
the agent a stern look. "But you're far from 
fine."

"What..." Mulder broke off until he could 
recover his breath as a particularly strong 
spasm rocked him. "What's wrong..." He closed 
his eyes and gritted his teeth against the 
now-constant pain.

"You've got a hot appendix," the attendant 
said, suddenly very interested in taking 
Mulder's vitals.

"Oh," Mulder whispered, as he watched the man 
scoop up the connection to the hospital and 
begin to talk worriedly. And then, though 
he'd been certain it couldn't have gotten 
much worse, the pain increased tenfold.

*I'm dying,* Mulder thought, as he felt 
himself blacking out. *I'm dying, and Scully 
hates me.*

It somehow felt a fitting end for a sorry 
existence.

**

Saturday, January 9, 1999
5:56 p.m.
Mulder's Room
George Washington Memorial Hospital

Scully sipped half-heartedly at her lukewarm 
coffee. It really was excellent coffee; 
Skinner had brought it to her a half hour 
ago, and although he mentioned the name of 
the place where he'd gotten it, Scully 
couldn't recall it. She supposed she had 
other things on her mind.

For the hundredth, or maybe the thousandth 
time, Scully replayed her last conversation 
with Mulder in her mind. Had she really said 
those things to him? She had never considered 
herself a vindictive person, but... well, the 
evidence "spoke" for itself.

Her eyes watered as she looked at her 
partner. What if he'd died? What if he'd died 
and taken that memory of her to his grave? 
She didn't want his last impression of her to 
be that of a cold-hearted bitch. Granted, 
he'd brought most of it upon himself, but 
she'd been absolutely wrong to tell him... 
God, the man *had* been dying. She recalled 
the look on his face now, and closed her eyes 
as she recognized the real fear she'd failed 
to notice in her anger.

Mulder had been scared to death. He'd been 
sick and he'd come to her for help, and she'd 
turned him away. She hadn't even given him a 
chance to explain. She had taken his words 
and twisted them to fit the scenario she'd 
expected of him. Shaking her head, she opened 
her eyes and gazed down at her partner.

She really ought to have known better. Mulder 
was nothing if not unpredictable. Take now, 
for instance. Any normal person would be 
tossing her out on her ear for what she'd put 
him through, but when Mulder opened his eyes, 
he smiled and said, "Hey, Scully."

She took the hand that wasn't encumbered by 
the IV and brought it to her lips. "We never 
do anything the easy way, do we, Mulder?"

Her partner's smile faded as he gave a slow 
shake of his head. "Still mad?" he croaked 
out.

Scully moved closer to the bed and held his 
hand tightly to her chest. "Scathingly so." 
She sat down carefully on the edge of his 
bed. "But not at you."

His face creased into a frown of puzzlement. 
"I'm sorry for what I said."

She brushed a hand through his hair. "Me, 
too."

"I don't mean to hurt you," he said.

Tears stung her eyes, and for once she didn't 
try to hide them or stop them. "Oh, Mulder, I 
did." She wiped a hand across her cheeks. "I 
was so mad at you, and I was glad you'd hurt 
yourself."

He nodded sadly. "I'm such an asshole."

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "You 
are," she said, and it came out as half-
chuckle/half-sob. "Sometimes you really are."

He smiled, and she was surprised when his 
eyes suddenly filled with tears. "I thought I 
was dying." A self-conscious laugh escaped 
him. "After you... after I left your bedroom..." 
She saw him swallow hard, and felt her own 
throat tighten along with his.

"You called 911," she prompted him.

Another uncertain laugh. "I knew you'd be 
pissed if I died in your living room."

She stared at him in shock. Although he'd 
tried to present it as such, she knew he was 
only half joking. Did he really think that's 
all she'd feel at his passing? Irritation and 
minor annoyance? "Yeah," she laughed, 
mirthlessly. "All those people tracking in 
snow when they came to get your body."

He was staring at her incredulously, and she 
thought she'd finally managed to shock him. 
"I had the very same thought!" he exclaimed, 
and her heart plummeted to her feet. My god, 
what must he think of her?

"I was kidding," she said, quietly.

He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "I'm 
sorry about the clothes all over the place, 
and I borrowed a blanket..." He looked around 
the room. "I don't know where--"

She didn't give a flying fig about the 
blanket. "Mulder, it's okay." She pictured 
him struggling down her hallway, in pain, 
wrapped only in a blanket. "I'm so sorry," 
she whispered. "I'm so sorry I made you feel 
that you couldn't wait for the ambulance 
upstairs." Her throat closed up, but she 
forced herself to continue. "I'm ashamed of 
myself, and I'm appalled at what I put you 
through."

Mulder nodded slowly, studying her. She was 
certain he was considering her apology; she 
wondered if he might not be re-evaluating his 
friendship--his partnership--with her. God, 
she'd almost killed him. If he wasn't 
thinking about breaking them up, maybe she 
should.

Had their roles been reversed, she'd no doubt 
that Mulder would never have brushed her off 
without at least hearing her out. Even if 
he'd been furious with her, he would have 
done everything in his power to ensure her 
safety.

Scully looked down at her hands, unwilling to 
gaze into those appraising eyes any longer. 
Unwilling to see the exact moment when he 
came to the only decision to which he could 
come.

"I'll understand if you want to rethink our 
partnership." She swallowed with difficulty. 
"I know how important it is for you to work 
with someone you can trust, someone--"

"I trust you." His soft utterance brought her 
up short, and whatever else she'd been about 
to say was forgotten.

Tears she thought she had brought under 
control pooled in her eyes. "How can you?" 
she asked, her eyes darting to his face and 
then back to her lap. "How can you possibly 
trust someone who basically told you that if 
you were going to die, go ahead and do it, 
but don't bother me about it?"

Mulder's sharp rasp of a laugh caused her to 
meet his eyes. In them, she found no anger, 
no disappointment, no betrayal. "Scully..." He 
took her hand in his. "You didn't know. All 
the evidence pointed to my trying to wheedle 
a little late-night sympathy out of you. I 
wouldn't have believed me, either."

She gripped his hand and shook her head. "You 
can afford to be generous. You didn't send 
your partner--your very sick partner--out 
into a snowstorm wearing only a blanket."

He shivered. "Yeah..." he said in a whisper, 
and as a haunted look grew in his eyes, he 
turned them on her. "You know the thing that 
hurts the most, Scully?" he said in a 
terrible, soft voice.

Her eyes filling with tears, Scully shook her 
head. She'd hurt him in too many ways to 
choose just one.

Mulder let out a bitter laugh. "I know I 
rationalized this not more than a minute ago, 
but..." His voice choked up, and he swallowed, 
then took a shaky breath. 

When his eyes began to fill with water, she 
squeezed his hand, not so much to encourage 
him to continue as to brace herself for 
whatever he was about to say.

His eyes met hers then, and she wanted to 
crawl under the nearest rock. "...I thought I 
was dying, Scully." His eyes were boring into 
hers. "I really thought I was dying." His 
breathing took on that hitching quality a 
small child gets when he's trying to recover 
from a bout of crying. "And you didn't..." A 
sob cut off the rest, but before Scully could 
apologize, before she could try to comfort 
him, he forced out, "You didn't *care.*"

She closed her eyes, unable to bear the 
accusation in his any longer. She felt the 
tears trickling down her face, and she didn't 
try to hide them. It was then, though, that 
she realized something important. Opening her 
eyes, she took Mulder's wet face in her 
hands, brushing at his tears with her 
fingertips.

"Oh, no, Mulder," she said softly, urgently. 
"Please, never think that I didn't care." At 
his confused expression, she went on. "I 
didn't listen to you, and I should have." She 
caressed his face tenderly. "I am truly sorry 
for that." She looked into his eyes tenderly. 
"But if I'd for one second thought that there 
was something seriously wrong with you, I'd 
have carried you to the hospital on my back 
if I had to. What I'm most sorry for..." Her 
gaze drifted down to his lap. "...is that I 
didn't believe in you. Didn't trust that you 
weren't trying to bullshit some late night 
sympathy out of me. If I'd listened to you-
really listened to you-I'd have looked at 
you. And your eyes would have told me, your 
eyes would have shown me how scared you 
were." She dropped her hands to her lap. "But 
I didn't." She watched as a lone tear dropped 
onto the bedspread. "And I'm so, so sorry."

She suddenly felt herself pulled into a 
surprisingly strong embrace, down to Mulder's 
chest. "I was so scared I'd never see you 
again." He was crying into her hair, his body 
trembling beneath her. "You hated me. I was 
going to die, and you hated me."

Stunned, it was a few moments before she 
could respond. She lifted her head so that 
she could see his face. "You didn't really 
think that, did you?"

He started crying harder and tightened his 
hold, and she knew that he did.

She soothed him for a few minutes while she 
gathered her thoughts and he gathered himself 
back together. When he was finally quiet, she 
let herself relax into his arms. "If I'm ever 
going to hate you, it's going to be for 
something truly heinous... something evil and 
merciless, something you did without 
remorse." She raised her head to look into 
his eyes. "I know you, Mulder. It'll never 
happen, and I'll never hate you." Pulling out 
of his embrace, she framed his face with her 
hands. "Can you accept that?"

He blinked, then nodded.

"Good. Now... will you remember that?" She let 
her hands drift down to his shoulders.

His lips quirked. "I'll try."

She smiled. "And I'll try not to be so 
sensitive."

He nodded and said softly, "One of these days 
when I make a stupid remark to make you feel 
better, it won't have the opposite effect."

Recalling all too vividly her embarrassment 
at his comment in her apartment, she raised 
an eyebrow. "That was supposed to make me 
feel better?"

He shrugged. "In theory," he muttered. "Me 
dropping my pants, shivering with cold..." He 
stopped, as if waiting for her to deliver the 
punch line.

She stared at him blankly, failing to get the 
joke.

Mulder stared at her as if her brain had been 
replaced by a very nice cabbage. "Me? Cold? 
Naked?"

She shrugged, still not getting where he was 
going.

"I was cold, Scully. *All of me* was cold."

"That's not funny."

"Damned straight, it's not funny. To me. But 
to you..." He shrugged. "I just thought, 
picturing it might make you laugh."

"Picturing you standing naked in my living 
room, freezing your..." She looked up at him 
quickly, and he nodded, a pained look on his 
face. "That would be funny?"

"Obviously, I miscalculated." His mouth 
twitched into a smile of chagrin. "But we 
already knew that. Anyway, I hadn't said it 
to embarrass you, or to make fun of you. It 
was a thoughtless thing to say, and I 
apologize."

Looking into his eyes, seeing only sincerity 
and not a small bit of anxiety, she smiled. 
"Accepted." She thought of how much he'd had 
to suffer because of a stupid 
misunderstanding. "If you ever do anything 
like this again, though..." Her eyes swept over 
the room and the machines to which he was 
hooked up.

He nodded . "It wasn't intentional," he said, 
softly. "At first, I thought it was from, as 
you so eloquently put it, 'falling on my 
ass.' But when I..." He stopped and looked away 
guiltily. "When I woke up sick..." He met her 
eyes, a sheepish look in his. "I cleaned it 
up."

She nodded. "I wouldn't worry about it. You 
were sick; I'm not going to come down on you 
for that."

He breathed in, then let it out slowly, his 
gaze drifting down to his hands.

"Hey..."

He looked up.

"While you might know how much I love a neat 
apartment, I hope you know that I love you 
more." Placing her palms on his cheeks, she 
cradled his face gently. "I'm pretty damned 
pleased that you're still alive. Screw the 
apartment."

His eyebrows climbed up into his forehead. 
"Scully! I don't believe I've ever heard that 
word come out of your mouth!"

She gave a laugh of disdain, cringing 
inwardly as she recalled the much more 
colorful language she'd subjected him to in 
her bedroom that night. "Mulder, I'm a 
sailor's daughter. 'Screw' is mild compared 
to the rest of my naval vocabulary."

"I wasn't talking about that word," Mulder 
said quietly.

"Well, then--" She stopped abruptly when she 
realized the word to which he was referring. 
Well, she meant it, dammit, and she wasn't 
about to back out now. Letting her gaze meet 
his, she allowed a smile to ripen and grow on 
her face.

Mulder's eyes widened. She supposed he'd 
expected her to offer some lame explanation 
as to what she *really* meant, that she 
didn't mean it the way it sounded: the way he 
had taken it. Her smile let him know that, 
oh, yeah, he'd gotten it right.

A great big, sappy smile came over his face. 
"Wow," he said.

**

Tuesday, January 12, 1999
7:37 p.m.
Mulder's Apartment

The faint scent of flowers, the soft brush of 
lips across his cheek, and the gentle press 
of a palm to his chest was the way Fox Mulder 
wanted to awaken the rest of his life. "Hi," 
he mumbled, without opening his eyes.

"Hi," came his partner's quiet reply. "How 
are you doing?"

"Okay," he said, opening his eyes just in 
time to catch the barest raising of her 
eyebrow, a challenge to his reply. "Better," 
he amended. "Still sore, still tired, but I 
can get around a little better."

"You haven't been pushing yourself, have 
you?" She lowered herself onto the end of his 
mattress, close enough to touch a hand to his 
forehead and cheeks. "Any fever?"

"No and no." He laid his hand over hers where 
it rested on his face, then turned his head 
to place a soft kiss to her fingertips. "I'm 
still somewhat in shock, though, that I can 
do this." The feel of her fingers against his 
lips as he spoke sent a chill up his spine.

"I do hope that you'll get over your shock 
soon," she said, tracing his lips with her 
fingertip. "I have designs on these lips." 
She pressed her lips to his. "I have designs 
on other parts, too."

He let his hand slide from hers until it was 
resting on the back of her neck. "I recover 
quickly," he said, smiling. "You know that."

"I'm counting on that." She slid closer to 
him on the bed, laying her head on his chest, 
then sitting up with a sigh.

"Hey!" he protested when she pulled out of 
his arms.

"Sorry," she said. "Another few minutes like 
that, and I'll be asleep." She smiled 
resignedly. "I came here to check on you, 
give you help with whatever you need, not to 
use you for a pillow."

"I'm good. I'm fine," Mulder said, quickly. 
"I don't need anything. I ate. I peed. I took 
a shower. I'm set for the night."

"Oh." She looked disappointed, and he had to 
smile.

"Please, Scully," he said, spreading his 
arms. "At this point in time, my greatest 
ambition is to be your pillow."

He held his breath while she appeared to mull 
this over, fascinated by the mix of emotions 
his announcement provoked: surprise, 
amusement, affection and, finally, concern. 
Her brows knitted together, and Mulder knew 
what that signified; he cut her off before 
she could speak.

"I'm fine. Really. You won't hurt me." He 
took her hand in his. "You couldn't."

She looked uncertain. "Mulder..."

"Please? I've been..." He stopped, hesitant to 
reveal how needy for her he was. "I've been 
dreaming of this." He cleared his throat. 
"Um. Literally." He watched as his thumb 
rubbed over the back of her hand. "Your eyes 
were closed, your hair was mussed..." Looking 
up and meeting her eyes, he smiled at the 
memory. "It was breathtaking. You were 
breathtaking."

Her eyes filled with tears, and he knew she 
was about to cave. "There is nothing I would 
enjoy more than waking up in your arms, 
Mulder."

He knew what that tone signified. "I sense a 
'but' coming."

She nodded. "But it's too soon. I can be a 
restless sleeper. And you're not well enough 
for the amount of abuse I can inflict upon 
you."

He felt his heart speed up and... other parts... 
react to her words. He squirmed, rearranging 
his legs under the covers. "Christ, Scully. 
Don't talk like that. Do you want me to pop a 
stitch?"

She shook her head. "Oh, no, Mulder. I 
certainly wouldn't want you to pop..." Scully's 
eyes drifted down to the source of his 
current discomfort. "...a stitch."

While Mulder was delighted at this new, 
playful side of his partner, he felt his face 
heating up. "Not my best attempt at diverting 
your attention, is it?"

Her eyes were serious when they met his. "Why 
would you want to do that?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Habit, I guess. It's usually 
not... acceptable."

She nodded, then let her hand fall onto his 
thigh, dangerously close to ground zero. "It 
was always okay," she said, softly. "Just the 
fact that you tried to hide it told me that 
it was unintentional. I could never fault you 
for your body's unconscious responses to 
stimuli." She smiled, a curious mix of 
shyness and sultry that absolutely fascinated 
him. "You might be surprised to find out that 
I was flattered by it."

His eyes widened. "Really."

She nodded. "You're a very attractive man, 
Mulder; I've seen the way women look at you. 
And for you to get that way because of me..." 
She shrugged, smiling sheepishly, then looked 
at the bedspread.

He was staring open-mouthed when she glanced 
back at him. Capturing her gaze, he asked, 
"You're kidding. Right?"

She knit her brows. "What? No."

He shook his head. "How many times did you 
notice, Scully? Once? Twice? Three times? 
Because if you knew how many times it 
happened, you wouldn't look surprised right 
now."

She frowned. "It was more than two or three 
times, Mulder." She looked annoyed. "Try 
twenty or thirty."

Mulder stared at her a moment, then blinked 
lazily. "Try two or three *thousand.*"

Scully laughed. "Mulder, that's-"

"The truth, Scully."

She shook her head. "Mulder, we haven't even 
known each other for that many days."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Who said I was 
limited to one a day?"

She wouldn't be deterred. "And I don't see 
you every day of every year."

"Not by *my* choice," he said quietly.

She took his hand in hers. "That can change." 
She smiled. "I think it may have already."

Mulder looked down at their hands, then up 
into Scully's softly smiling eyes. "Has it?"

Her face lost a little of its glow. "Don't 
you want it to?"

He grasped her free hand with his free hand. 
"Scully, I wanted it five years ago."

She tilted her head in question. "So that 
would be a, 'yes?'"

He wanted to shout it from the rooftops, but 
he nodded slowly and said softly, "That would 
be a yes."

She kissed him, a soft pressing of her lips 
to his, one in which he could feel all the 
love she felt for him. "I have one condition, 
Mulder," she said, pulling back a little, and 
Mulder felt his euphoria fleeing.

Condition? A deep ache of disappointment shot 
through him. He'd always felt love should 
never have to be negotiable; you either 
accepted a person or you didn't. If there was 
one thing that should be unconditional, it 
was love. Like his love for Scully was. Like 
he'd assumed hers for him would be.

Could he meet her condition? Did he even want 
to? He guessed the real question was, did he 
love Scully enough to accept whatever she was 
willing to offer, even though he felt 
cheated, felt the bitter pang of grief that 
Scully had "conditions" to be met in order 
for her love to be given. Trying not to let 
the tears in his heart reach his eyes, he 
asked,  "What condition would that be?"

Laughter was dancing in her eyes, and he knew 
he'd just been had. "The 'condition' is for 
my pillow. I require my pillows to let me 
know if they feel the least discomfort at any 
time during the period of contact."

His laugh came out as more of a sob, and he 
had to swallow the lump that had formed in 
his throat. "Sure. Yeah. Okay."

Scully's eyes showed apology and tenderness  
when she framed his face with her hands. 
"Mulder," she said in her no-nonsense voice, 
"I have conditions for lots of things, but 
not my love for you." She waited until his 
eyes locked with hers. "Got it?"

He was still trying to recover from the rapid 
change of emotions. His mouth open, he nodded 
dumbly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, dropping a light 
kiss on the top of his nose. "You're not the 
only one who can miscalculate, you know."

He grinned, feeling more like he'd felt 
before her 'joke.' "That's actually good to 
know. I'd hate to be the only one displaying 
flashes of ineptitude in this relationship."

Scully snorted, and Mulder's eyes widened in 
surprise that she even knew how to make such 
a disgusting--and, consequently, endearing--
noise. "You have absolutely nothing to fear 
in that department, partner," she said. "You 
will be amazed and astounded by the many and 
varied methods by which I can screw up."

Although he hadn't thought it possible, 
Mulder felt his love for her increase until 
he was certain his puny heart would never be 
able to contain it all. "Scully, that has to 
be the best thing you've ever told me."

Tilting her head and quirking an eyebrow, she 
asked, "The best?"

His grin was lopsided. "Well, the best non-
declaration of undying love."

She yawned through her smile, eyeing his 
chest. "Did the pillow take his medication?"

Mulder nodded. "The pillow has even shaved, 
should it become necessary that the facial 
area of the pillow come into contact with the 
more... ah... sensitive areas of the pillowee."

Scully sighed. "Not tonight, Mulder." At the 
disappointment he knew must be displayed on 
his face, Scully smiled softly and said, 
"Soon. I promise." She kissed him gently. 
"When you're all healed."

He held his arms out to her, and she lowered 
her head toward his t-shirt-clad chest, then 
stopped about two inches away. "What's 
wrong?" he asked.

"Are you cold?"

He wasn't quite ready for this switch in 
gears. "Huh? No."

"Would you mind, then?" She gripped his 
combed cotton undershirt at the hem.

He caught up fast. "Hell, no." He raised his 
arms so she could ease the shirt over his 
head. The slight twinge he felt in his side 
reminded him that he was still recuperating 
and that she was right to want to take it 
slow.

"You okay?" she asked, smoothing a palm from 
his collarbone to his belly button.

"Yuh, huh," he answered. Twinge? What twinge?

"That's good."

As she tried to suppress a yawn, Mulder 
gently lowered her head to his chest. "Sleep, 
Scully," he whispered, pressing his lips to 
the top of her head.

He heard her chuckle. "Am I making your dream 
come true, Mulder?"

Oh, yeah, he sighed to himself. "All of 
them," he murmured. "You make all my dreams 
come true, Scully."

**

Wednesday, Jan. 13, 1999
10:16 a.m.
911 Dispatch Office
Georgetown

"Marion?"

Marion Harvey looked up to find her 
supervisor standing before her desk, a vase 
filled with red roses in his hands; he had a 
big smile on his face. "These were just 
delivered for you."

The matronly woman couldn't hide her surprise 
even if she'd tried. "For me?" she asked, 
thinking to herself how original that line 
was.

"Here okay?" He indicated a spot in the 
middle of her desk and placed the vase down 
carefully. "There's a card," he said, looking 
like he knew a secret she didn't. "You might 
want to read it." He started to move away, 
then turned back. "I know you haven't been 
here long, but I want you to know you're 
doing a fine job," he said softly. His eyes 
drifted to the flowers, then back to meet her 
eyes. "Good work."

After he left, Marion gave her attention to 
carefully removing the cellophane from around 
the flowers. Reaching for the envelope with 
shaking hands, she removed the note card 
inside. It read:

"On a snowy night, you gave aid and comfort 
to a frightened man. Thank you for giving 
both of us a second chance."

It was signed: Dana Scully. 

The End

Feedback gratefully accepted by Jo-Ann at 
Jolassi555@cs.com 


48