From: Buc252@aol.com
Date: 31 Jul 2003 19:23:19 -0700
Subject: xfc: NEW: Solitude 1/5 by Mary Kleinsmith
Source: atxc

Solitude Part 1/5
By Mary Kleinsmith (Buc252@aol.com)

Category:  MT, MA, MSR, SA, ST, and probably some others I've
forgotten 
Rating:  R, for intense situations, violence, and blood
Spoilers:  Nothing major, but takes place in late S6/early S7
Summary:  What's left when the most important person in your life is
suddenly  gone? 
Archive: Yes, anywhere, especially MIJ, Ephemeral, and Gossamer
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, and Maggie Scully belong to Chris
Carter  and 10-13, with magic added by David and Gillian.  I'm only
borrowing them.  
Feedback:  Please, please, please, please, please,
please, please? 
Author's Notes:  Thanks to Sally, Mindy, and Laura for
the beta, and to Laura  for also keeping me going; you were always
there when I needed somebody with  whom to talk out a plot bunny.  And
to MacGyver, for inspiring the story; I  freely confess certainly
similarities to an episode of that series, which also  doesn't belong
to me. If you'd prefer to read this story all in one part, you can
find it at my  site at: http://mary-buc252.freeservers.com


Solitude
By Mary Kleinsmith (Buc252@aol.com)

"Six nights in a row on this lousy stakeout, and still nothing.  I'm
telling  you, Mulder, one more day . . . no, one more hour, and I'm
going to lose my  mind."  

"Maybe this will be the night, then.  Anyway, I think you're just
afraid to  be alone in the same car with me."  It was said in jest,
but Scully knew there  was a hint of truth there.  Not in her fear,
but the implied feelings.

"Sure, Mulder.  I just couldn't keep my hands off," she said as they
drew to  a stop and her partner shut off the engine.  They were
reasonably well hidden  - easily dismissed as a parked or broken-down
car.  "It wouldn't be so bad if  it weren't so damn cold," she
commented.  The temperature was reaching  freezing the last few nights
- very unusual for late spring.  "So what do you say?  I 
brought cards, we could play gin."

"You know I can't win without cheating," he smiled, but there was no
real  humor in it.  This tension had been growing each night of the
stakeout.  She knew  Mulder was skirting closer and closer to a topic
that she really didn't want  to get into.  Especially not on duty, and
hopefully not at all.  She should  have known it couldn't stay buried
forever.

"We could talk.  About us," he suggested in a quiet voice.  Tentative.
  Almost frightened.

"There's nothing to talk about, Mulder.  Nothing at all."

"But Scully . . ."

"We've been together for seven years, Mulder.  You're my best friend. 
You've  been my best friend for a long time."

"Maybe too long."  

Was she going to lose him over this?  She knew the fear showed in her
face.  

"Don't worry, I didn't mean it like that.  Can I help it if I want
more?" he  asked quietly, knowing what her only answer would be.  "And
not from someone  else - from you."

"You want something I can't give, and I'm sorry.  Look, we've always
been  there for each other.  From the very beginning.  Isn't that the
most important  thing?"

Mulder turned from her, suddenly captivated by something outside his
window.   "You think you know me so well . . ."  

She felt the need to say something, but she didn't know what.

"It's okay," he added.  "No use ruining a beautiful friendship,
right?"

"Mulder . . ."

"We'd better get back to work."  He checked the clip in his gun,
keeping his  view on the building they were surveilling, but his voice
was thick.  With  tears?  Shed or repressed, she'd never know, and she
knew he'd never tell her.   Or let her see how she'd hurt him.  She
knew it, but what was there to do?   Suddenly. . .

"There he is."  Mulder was out of the car almost before she heard him,
leaving her behind by a further distance than she knew was safe.  His
left arm moved  over his face as he ran, chasing the UNSUB.  Wiping
the snowflakes away, she  told herself, knowing it was a lie.

Pulling her gun, she tried to push their conversation from her mind;
she  couldn't have it distracting her.  As she ran, she watched the
door through which  the suspect had retreated and had slammed behind
him.

The distance between them grew as she lost her footing on the icy
pavement,  her heels sliding for purchase, but Mulder plunged ahead
blindly, finally  reaching the door.

He tried the knob, but it held, then spent only a moment studying the
door  before he tried to kick it in.  And then, he made his biggest
mistake. . . .   The door gave away on the second impact of his foot,
but instead of taking  cover, he stood in the doorway.  It was a
target the UNSUB wasn't about to miss.

"Mulder!" Scully screamed as she simultaneously heard the blast. 
Probably a  .45, her mind registered automatically as Mulder fell
backward.  By the time  she was at his side, his chest was covered in
crimson.

"Mulder!"  He didn't respond.  The radio they'd been issued for
keeping in  communication with the other agents was in her hand
without conscious thought,  her thumb pressing the "talk" button. 
"Unit Five, Officer down!  Repeat,  Officer Down!!  Send an
ambulance."

"What's going on, Scully?" a disembodied voice said through the
radio's  speaker.

"We spotted the suspect, who retreated back into the building.  He . .
. he  shot Mulder. . ."

"We're converging on your position as we speak," the disembodied voice
of the  agent in charge said.  "Stay down, and don't get yourself shot
tending to  him."

How dare he not think of Mulder at a time like this, she thought as
she  examined her partner's wound.  He'd taken a blast right of center
in his chest,  probably not through the heart, but there could
definitely be arterial or lung  damage.  So concentrated was she on
him that she almost didn't hear the  ambulance screech to a stop so
very nearby.

"C'mon, Mulder.  You're going to be okay."  

Then his voice, a mere whisper, drew her vision to his face.  "Scully
. . ."

"It's okay.  You're not going anywhere."

"Didn't see . . ."  His lips grew slack, blood pouring from one corner
of his  mouth, as the paramedics pounded up beside her.  They took
over, and she let  them, sitting back and watching, knowing his
chances.  Knowing that they  weren't good.

Before she knew it, they'd loaded Mulder onto a gurney, his face
covered with  an oxygen mask and heart-monitor leads securely fastened
to his chest.  

"I'm going with you," she managed, running to catch up with them and 
forgetting, for the moment, the ASAC waiting for her report.  

"Stay out of the way," she was warned, and she complied, squeezing
into a  corner of the passenger compartment of the ambulance and
making herself as small  as possible, struggling to pay attention to
all the medical information she  was hearing.

"BP 70 over 30."

"Pulse is 140."

"Respiration's barely noticeable, we're going to have to put in a
tube."   Then he shouted to the driver.  "How far out from the
hospital are we?"

"Five minutes!" The driver called back through the small window.  

"Make it three, he's crashing on us!"

The heart monitor went crazy at that moment, emitting a steady squeal
that  ripped right through her soul.  One paramedic ripped the mask
from his face,  replacing it with an ambu bag which he used to push
air into Mulder's lungs.  In  rhythm, the second began compressing
Mulder's chest, fighting to maintain a  hold when his clasped hands
slid in the blood soaking the place where he needed  to be.

Mulder was dying.  She prayed it wasn't true, but her rational mind
couldn't  deny the evidence of her senses.  And the worst part was, it
didn't have to  happen.  On any other day, it wouldn't have happened. 
But Mulder wasn't  thinking straight.  He was distracted, and
careless, and it got him shot.    

"Because of me," she whispered for her own ears only.  Not that
anybody was  paying attention to her at that moment anyway.

She'd just closed her eyes, not able to watch any more, when the
ambulance  drew to a sudden stop and the doors were jerked open.  She
followed timidly,  brushing aside a woman with a clipboard asking for
information and staying at  Mulder's side as they shoved the gurney
into an Emergency Room cubicle.  A nurse  pulled the bloody shirt
further aside as the doctor stepped up to examine the  situation,
snapping on sterile gloves as he did so.

"Okay, stop," he instructed the paramedic performing CPR.  He watched
the  monitor, but there was no change - just the horrible, screeching,
squealing  sound.  She couldn't stand its accusatory tone, and covered
her ears.  

"Charge the paddles to two-fifty joules," he ordered.  A nurse handed
him the  paddles while another placed pads on Mulder's chest.  

"Charged."

"Clear!" he ordered.  She knew the procedures as well as if she'd been
performing them herself, but she realized she'd never have been able
to do so in  this case.  

The cardiac monitor's display jumped, and there was a beep, but then
it  settled back to the same squeal.

"Three hundred," he ordered, repeating the procedure with the same
results.

"Again!"

They repeated the action, but after the agonizing-looking jolt, his
body was  frighteningly still.

"Again!"

And a fourth time, with the same results. A nurse handed him a large
needle  without having to be asked, and he administered the injection
directly into  Mulder's heart.

"Once more!" he demanded when the drug was in.  "Three hundred."

The paddles were put into use one more time.  The monitor continued to
scream.

"Again!"

The action was repeated, but there was no new result.  The doctor
sighed  heavily, setting them down.

"Call it," he said, looking at the clock.  "Time of death, nine
fifty-three  p.m."

Her eyes clouded with tears, tears of guilt and loss, as she fled the
room.   She was out the ER entrance doors before anybody could say
three words to her.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Skinner arrived at the hospital within ten minutes of the ambulance's
arrival, having been notified by the members of the stakeout
immediately.  They'd  managed to tell him of the injury, but he'd
forgotten to charge his cell, and it  had gone dead before he could
get the details.  Dammit, just once couldn't  Mulder stay out of
trouble?  He'd been told Mulder was brought here, but hadn't 
been informed of any of the details of his injury.  Probably slipped
on the ice  and sprained an ankle, he thought, marching through the
waiting room.   Surprisingly, nobody intercepted him as he made his
way to the treatment areas.  

It wasn't hard to find his agent, despite the medical personnel
swarming  around him with somber faces.  One nurse was removing a
respirator from his  throat.  Removing it?

Another nurse raised the sheet, and his stomach dropped as he realized
that  she intended to cover Mulder's face with it.  He couldn't be . .
.

His thoughts were interrupted by a blip.  Then another, that drew the
nurse's  attention.

"Doctor!" she called, and a man at the back of the cubicle turned
around to  the sound of another blip.

And another.

And another.

Finally, they settled into a steady rhythm, and a gasp game from the
blue  lips.

"He's back!" the doctor exclaimed in shock.  

"But you already called it," the nurse exclaimed.  "Five minutes
ago!"

"Well, tear up the paperwork, 'cause he's still with us."

Skinner couldn't believe what he was hearing.  Mulder had been dead,
but was  back.  He'd been clinically dead for five minutes.  Didn't
that mean . . .

The nurse voiced his thoughts.  "There's going to be brain damage,"
she  stated seriously, catching the doctor's eyes with her own,
oblivious to the fact  that somebody was listening in.

"We'll just have to hope that it's not too severe," he said, but it
was clear  by his expression that he knew the likelihood of that was
very small indeed.   "Check his vitals, make sure he's stabilized, and
let's get him to the OR.   We don't need him bleeding out on us right
after miraculously getting him  back."

"Will you do the surgery, Doctor?" one nurse asked.

"No, this one is too touchy for me.  Call Surgical and get their best
person;  I want him to have every chance we can give him."  The nurse
nodded and left,  walking past Skinner as if he didn't exist.  But
then, she was definitely in  a hurry.  "As for me," the doctor said to
the remaining staff, "I'd better go  talk to the family."

That was Skinner's cue to get back to the waiting room, where he
really  belonged.  He was there just a moment before the young doctor
stepped out.

As usual in a busy hospital, the waiting room was fairly full.  "Is
there  anybody here for Fox Mulder?" he asked to the crowd.

Skinner stepped forward, extending a hand.  "Assistant Director Walter
Skinner, FBI.  I'm Mulder's boss."

The doctor looked around, seeming to search the waiting room.  "Dr.
Eugene  Patterson, nice to meet you.  Is there anybody else I should
wait for?  I  understand a woman came in with him . . ." 

"Yeah, his partner, Dana Scully.  They told me she rode in the
ambulance with  him, but I'm not sure where she is now.  I expected
her to be here," Skinner  puzzled, looking around.  "I'll update her
when I find her - maybe she's in  the Ladies Room or something.  Can
you tell me my agent's condition?"

"Well, Mr. Skinner, there really isn't much I can tell you yet." 
Skinner  sighed as the doctor continued.  "The bullet entered the
right upper quadrant at  high velocity.  It definitely hit the lung,
compromising his breathing on that  side, but we can't tell yet what
other damage has been done.  He coded on the  way in, and while
resuscitation efforts were eventually successful . . ."

"What?"

"Look, I'm going to be as up front as I can.  He's in surgery now, and
you're  looking at a prolonged recovery.  And he went for some time
without oxygen  moving to his brain.  Too long a time."

"You're worried about brain damage," Skinner stated.  

"In a word, yes.  There's really no telling how much or how little
could have  been done.  That'll have to wait until he wakes up."

"When do you expect that to be?"

"I can't say; the surgeon will know more when he's finished.  If you
want,  you can go wait in the Surgical Waiting Room on Six.  We can
have the ER clerk  direct his partner there when she shows up."

"Thanks," Skinner said.  "I'll wait here for a bit, then go on up.  I
really  don't want Scully hearing any of this from a stranger."

"It'll be a few hours before they're finished anyway."  He laid a hand
on  Skinner's shoulder, an unusual occurrence.  Most people seemed to
avoid physical  contact with the AD, and he usually liked it that way.
 "Hang in there.  He'll   need the support of his friends."

"He'll get it," Skinner whispered to himself as Patterson walked away.
 He'd  be sure of it.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Jogging was never her "thing" for getting exercise, but she wasn't
exercising  now.  Scully ran and ran and ran, oblivious to the curious
onlookers or the  shortness of her breaths.  Mulder had been seriously
hurt plenty of times  before, but this was the first time where she
was sure, absolutely sure, that it  was her fault.

She'd rejected him, hurt him.  And he'd been distracted.  His mind
hadn't  been on the job, and it had gotten him killed.  If only she'd
been able to give  him what he wanted.  If only she'd insisted they
wait to talk about it until  they were off duty.

Finally, not even sure how far she'd run in her blind dash, she
stopped,  slumping down against the nearest wall.  She didn't notice
when her panting turned  to sobbing.  Thanking God for the fact that
nobody seemed willing to  interfere these days, she sobbed herself out
until there were no more tears to be  shed.  Then she rose on
trembling legs.

She needed to get away.  She couldn't be here.  Not now.  Maybe not
ever  again.  She'd caused the death of the best friend she'd ever
had; for this, there  was no forgiveness.  Not that Mulder had anybody
left to forgive her anyway.

Skinner would make the arrangements.  A hero's funeral, as Mulder so
surely  deserved.   Maybe her mom would attend.  The Lone Gunmen would
surely be there.   The people mourning him wouldn't need to be
reminded of the person who  failed to keep him safe.  Oh, they'd never
know what she'd done - what had happened  to make Mulder so careless
that he'd make the mistake that cost him his life.   

Reaching into the pocket of her trench coat, she finally found her
phone.   Speed dial only took two button pushes.

"Hi, Mom?  I need the keys to the cabin."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

It had been hours, and Mulder was still in surgery.  Skinner paced,
sick of  sitting.  Besides, several others had come to wait with him
who could use the  seats much more than he could.  

Several other agents who had been on the same stakeout were also
there, the  ASAC feeling particularly bad about what happened.  He had
no cause, Skinner  assured him.  

The one thing he'd been unable to stop thinking about was Scully. 
Interviews  with the hospital staff assured him she'd been there, come
in with the  ambulance, and left soon thereafter.  One nurse reported
she'd actually been  running, but they couldn't substantiate that. 
The cab company that frequented the  area hadn't picked up a fare, and
Scully and Mulder's car hadn't been reclaimed  at the scene of the
shooting.  

It was as if she disappeared off the face of the earth, and that just
wasn't  like her.  He was used to seeing her hovering over her partner
when he was  hospitalized.  Scrutinizing every fact, double-checking
every treatment . . .   Where the hell was she?

He had no time to think about it further as a doctor who looked too
young to  be a surgeon approached in wrinkled scrubs.  At least he had
the courtesy not  to come out covered in blood.

"Are you Mr. Skinner?"  At his nod, the surgeon continued.  "I'm
Donald  Asgard; I operated on your agent.  Can we sit down?"  He
motioned to some of the  seats that had been vacated when everybody
stood upon his entrance.

Skinner nodded again and the two men sat, a bevy of others gathered
around  them.  

"Firstly, and most important, Agent Mulder is alive and stable. 
However, he  is in intensive care and will remain there for several
days at best.  The  bullet entered the right upper quadrant, striking
a rib and breaking it.  From  there, it appears to have ricocheted,
puncturing the lung and damaging a major  artery before finally coming
to a stop near his spine."

Skinner rubbed his eyes.  His spine?  What else could go wrong?

But the doctor read the look.  "Don't worry, there was definitely no
spinal  involvement.  There'll be a slight bit of swelling for a few
days, but it won't  impair him at all.  We went in, removed the
bullet, stitched up the artery  and the other bleeders, and fixed the
lung and re-inflated it.  There's a chest  tube in now to help it stay
that way, but he's still comatose."  

"How long do you think he'll be unconscious?"  He knew it was the
wrong word,  but he couldn't bring himself to say Mulder's true
condition.

"We really don't know.  I'm sorry.  If his brain wasn't deprived of
oxygen  for too long - if there was no damage done to keep him
comatose - he could  awaken any time in the next twelve to twenty-four
hours."

To be continued in part 2


Solitude Part 2/5 (continued from part 1)


"Can I see him?" 

"Yes, you can sit with him for a bit.  Keeping vigil can be an
exhausting  task, so I'd recommend taking frequent breaks.  Get some
sleep, eat, change  clothes, shower.  I'm sure your friend wouldn't
want you getting sick while you  wait for him to awaken."

Skinner rose docilely and followed the woman in white.

As much as he'd been prepared for what he'd see in ICU, it still took
him off  guard.  Mulder was covered in tubes and wires, a myriad of
machines  surrounded him, each doing their own job.  He'd seen them
before for the most part, but  this was the first time he'd witnessed
them all being used at once.  It was  an ominous sight.

"Talk to him," the nurse said as she checked his IV.  

"I've heard that so many times.  You really think he can hear me?"

"What harm could it do?" she said with a shrug.  "Certainly no one
here will  judge you for it."

"Better to be safe than sorry, is that what you're saying?"

"In other words," she agreed as she left the cubicle.

Skinner smiled, feeling a little lighter.  "Come on, Mulder," he
whispered  after the silence got to be too much.  "You've got to prove
them wrong once  again.  It won't be the first time; you always did
have a tendency to buck  authority."  

There was no response, not that he expected one.  "What happened out
there?"  he asked, as much thinking to himself as asking Mulder.  "You
were never one  to make that kind of mistake.  You're one of the best
agents I've ever seen,  Mulder.  What made you do something so
foolish?  So reckless?"

"I know, I know.  You're probably thinking that Scully can file the
report on  this one.  Well, she can't this time - I need a report from
you.  So you've  got to come back, whole and healthy, and give it to
me, Mulder."

Looking down at his hands, Skinner's thoughts turned inward.  No
longer  speaking to the comatose man in front of him, he whispered,
"where the hell did she  go?"  He'd seen Mulder hurt more times than
most agents experience in an  entire career, and the one thing on
which he could always depend was that she'd be  there.  Supporting
him, treating him, making sure he got the best medical 
care possible, and even cajoling him to fight when  he had no more
fight left in  him.  He wouldn't respond to just anybody either, but
she had a magic with  him, a certain touch, that kept him going.  Made
him try harder, longer, and more  desperately to get back to one
hundred percent than he would for any  therapist, doctor, boss, or
even friend.

What could possibly have driven her from his side?  For he felt
assured that  she was driven away.  She'd never leave of her own free
will.  The only  possibility would be a desire for revenge - to go out
and get the man who had shot  Mulder.  Could she possibly not have
heard that the other members of the team  got the shooter as he was
fleeing from the scene?  It was possible, he decided.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Scully considered herself fortunate; she'd been able to pick up the
keys to  the Scully family cabin before Maggie headed to the airport
for her flight to  visit Bill, Tara, and Matthew.  Of course, she'd
seen that her daughter was  upset, and grilled her endlessly about
what had happened to put Dana into such a  state; her mother had been
convinced that it was just overwork and tension,  and that some time
alone in the middle of nowhere was exactly what she needed.  

Now, keys sitting on the seat beside her, Scully drove through the
darkness.   Oh, it was more than the darkness of the night, but the
darkness of her life,  now that Mulder was gone from it.  Yes, she had
other loved ones.  People who  would even go to the ends of the earth
for her.  But she could do nothing for  them except spare them the
danger of being around her.  Her friends get hurt  . . . that's all
there was to it.  And she really didn't want any company 
anyway.  She'd caused the death of her best friend.  The best friend
she'd ever  had.  How could she go on with her life after that?

The drive took hours, although she'd lost track of the time and
couldn't say  exactly how many.  Taking only what was already in her
car - an overnight bag  - her personal needs were the last thing on
her mind.  Mulder was gone, and it  was her fault.

And worse yet, since his death, she'd come to realize that it wasn't
even  based on the truth.  She'd told Mulder that she didn't love him
- not like a  woman loves a man.  But now she realized that she did .
. . <had> loved him.  And  her fear of her own feelings, her own
affections and emotions, had cost the  life of the man she loved.  

As she approached a winding curve bracketing a canyon, she
contemplated just  letting the car take her over the edge.  She'd be
with him again, and if there  were apologies in the afterlife, she'd
make sure that he had hers most  sincerely.  But her own guilt
wouldn't allow it. It was too easy . . . too simple  and painless. 
Scully had never been one for self-flagellation, but she felt 
she'd never been so deserving of it.

Yes, the cabin was the right place to be.  And if somebody found her,
then  she'd find another place.  She couldn't be around people . . .
didn't deserve to  be.  And that would be her punishment.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Six days, Walter Skinner thought as he entered the ICU cubicle yet
again.   Six days, and there'd been no change in Fox Mulder's
condition.  He was suddenly  filled with a new appreciation for what
Scully had gone through in Alaska;  those weeks of waiting for Mulder
to awaken from the retrovirus while she waited  by his side,
overseeing his medical care.  Skinner couldn't even do that 
much; what he knew about medicine could fill a thimble with room to
spare.  He  wished she was there.

But she wasn't.  They'd looked everywhere, finally putting out an APB
for her  and her car, but even that was to no avail.  If several
witnesses hadn't seen  her leaving the hospital, he would worry about
her safety - that she'd been  hurt in the shootout as well - but that
was not the case.  His superiors had  refused to allow him to expand
the search, including the media and local police  departments; they
said they were not going to make a spectacle of the Bureau 
for an agent who left of her own recognizance and was not proven to be
in any  danger.

All he could do was keep the APB active - whatever she was doing,
wherever  she'd gone, she was in danger by doing it alone.  And
knowing how close the two  agents were, she probably wasn't going in
as level-headed as she should.

So, in her absence, he placed himself in the position of overseer for
the  wounded agent.  Mulder had no one else.  His parents were dead,
his sister long  since missing and presumed the same.  And with
Scully, his partner and only  other family, missing, he took it upon
himself to take on the role.  

He'd thought about contacting the Lone Gunmen days ago, and while they
seemed  to be loyal friends, he just couldn't see what help it would
be.  ICU wasn't  a place where visitors were easily permitted; his
badge and position alone had  afforded him the freedom to sit here
hour after hour.  When Mulder's position  improved, or degraded, he'd
call them, he figured.

He wondered briefly if that had been a mistake.  The Gunmen may not
have been  able to help here, but their computer and hacking abilities
might be able to  help locate Scully.  Perhaps that's what they should
be doing while he sat  vigil in the ICU.

Considering the options, he rose to momentarily leave Mulder's bedside
and  use a pay phone.  It was a number he couldn't remember by heart,
but had tucked  away in his wallet for just such an emergency.

"Lone Gunmen."  He wasn't sure which one it was, as he hadn't talked
to them  on the phone often enough to know.

"This is Walter Skinner.  I need your assistance."

Suddenly, he was on speakerphone, and three voices spoke at once.

"What's happened?"

"What did they do this time?"

"How can we help?"  

He was right - they were good people to have on your team.

"I'm at the hospital; Mulder's been hurt in a shootout."

"I'm sure Scully will have him fixed up quickly," one voice
suggested.

"I wish she could.  She's missing.  I need you guys to try to track
her."

"Some bastard kidnapped her?  What was the case they were working
on?"

"She wasn't taken against her will; it appears she just left."

"Agent Scully would never leave Mulder while he's injured," another,
more  even-toned voice commented.

"Well, this time she did.  I have several witnesses who saw her leave
the  emergency room while Mulder was being treated.  From there, she
seems to have  vanished."

"I'd never believe it . . ."

"What do you want us to do?"

"Track her in any way you can.  Airlines, busses, trains, her car. 
Track her  credit cards, her bank records.  I don't care, just tell me
where she is."

"You got it," said a voice, certainly Frohike's this time.  "How's
everything  going there?"

"Mulder's holding his own, but that's about all I can say at the
moment.   Call me on my cell when you know something.  The number is
555-3824.  If I'm in  with Mulder, you'll have to leave a message, but
I'll check them every quarter  hour.  I need to know where she
disappeared to, guys."

"If it's possible, we'll find out."

Both sides of the conversation hung up without a goodbye.  

"Let's hope it's possible," Skinner whispered to himself as he
returned to  ICU.  

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

The seventh day dawned bright, the sunshine even making its way
through the  meager ICU windows to cast a beam over Skinner's face,
waking him.  It didn't  happen every night, but this wasn't the first
in the past week where he'd  awoken at Mulder's bedside.  

Once again, he prayed that there'd be some kind of change.  Even if
things  turned sour, at least it would be something.  At least Mulder
would be freed  from this.  He realized how uncharitable some people
would be if they could read  his thoughts, but Mulder was a man of
action; he wouldn't want to lie here in  a vegetative state for the
rest of his life.

As he was staring at his agent, contemplating the situation , a very 
young-looking doctor entered Mulder's cubicle.  Skinner immediately
began to rise,  giving the physician the opportunity to be alone with
his patient.  However, the  man laid a hand on his shoulder,
preventing his rising.

"Just stay put, Mr. Skinner. I'll only be a minute."  

"Excuse me," Skinner said quizzically.  "Have we met?"

"No, but I was fully versed by the ER doctor.  I'm a resident
neurologist,  Doug Joaquin."
He allowed Skinner to study him for a moment.

"Awfully young to be a neurologist, aren't you, Dr. Joaquin?"

"Not as young as I appear, and please don't start calling me Doogie
Howser.   I get enough of that from the nurses."  His smile was warm,
and he chuckled.   Even if he didn't care for the nickname, he
obviously held no grudges.

"I think I can control myself," Skinner nodded.  "So, what d'you
think?" he  asked, his eyes moving to the man in the bed.

"Well, so far, his brain waves are okay.  The damage wasn't severe
enough to  affect that, but otherwise, we can't know until he wakes
up.  When that  happens, we'll put him through a battery of tests to
be sure everything is working  okay.  His chest surgeon will come in
and check his own work, so I can't really  speak for that."

"Any idea how long?"

"Before he regains consciousness?"  Skinner nodded silently.  "It's
hard to  say.  His brain waves are such that he could wake any minute.
 Or he could be  out for days yet.  It's all up to Agent Mulder."

"Think he can hear us?"  Both men looked from each other to Mulder.

"Well, if he can, he'd better listen to his doctor and wake up soon. 
I'm not  known for being the most patient doctor in the hospital."

"I'm not the most patient of bosses either, Doctor, and Mulder knows
it.  So  he'd just better . . ."

At that very moment, eyelids fluttered, and then opened, blinking in
the  brightness of the ICU lights.

"Mulder!" Skinner exclaimed in shock.

"AD Skinner, your authority over your agents is quite remarkable,"
Joaquin  joked.  "How do you feel, Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder's hazel eyes grew wide, the expression in them frantic, but he
didn't  answer.

"Mulder, the doctor asked you a question," Skinner said with more
force, but  he couldn't shake the terror in those eyes.  

"Agent Mulder, can you hear us?" the doctor asked.  Mulder nodded
once,  slowly.  "Can you understand us?"  He nodded again.  It was
obvious the message was  getting through.
"Can you speak?  Try to answer me verbally."

Mulder's mouth moved a bit, his lips parted, but no sound issued
forth.  This  went on for almost a minute before the patient looked
down at his hands,  shaking his head.

"That's okay, Mr. Mulder.  Don't try to force it.  Let's try something
else,  shall we?"  He dug in the breast pocket of his smock, removing
a small pad of  paper and a pen, which he handed to Mulder.  He took
them with no problem, but  with quite a bit of weakness from his
injury.

"Okay, now I want you to write down your name."  

Fox Mulder put pen to paper, as he'd done a thousand times before. 
But this  time, the words didn't form.  He managed a few awkward
lines, but nothing that  could be misconstrued as letters by any sense
of the word.  Finally,  frustrated, he put down the pen.

"That's okay, Mr. Mulder.  We'll work on that."

Mulder's eyes moved from the doctor to Skinner, and somehow, the AD
knew  exactly what his agent wanted to know.  "What's wrong with him,
Dr. Joaquin?  He  deserves to know."

The doctor let out a heavy sigh, and sat on the edge of his patient's
bed  where he could address both men, but he paid more attention to
Mulder.

"You were shot, Agent Mulder, and we nearly lost you.  You know that
much,  right?"  Mulder nodded; he'd figured out that much.

"What you may not know is how close you came to dying.  You're going
to be  all right now, but it was close.  You actually <did> die.  And
during that time,  the oxygen flow to your brain was reduced or cut
off entirely.  Now we're  going to have to give you some more tests to
confirm my suspicions, but I think  what's happening here is that
you're suffering from a condition - a version of  brain damage -
called Broca's Aphasia."

"Aphasia?  That's when you can't talk, right?" Skinner asked.

"In this case, yes.  There are a few different kinds.  He can
comprehend us  talking, but he can't speak.  And while he can't write,
I'd be willing to bet  he can read."

Skinner took the newspaper from where he'd laid it at the foot of the
bed.   "Can you read this?" he asked, showing Mulder the article on
his own shooting.

Mulder nodded, and wrinkled his nose in an expression he got when the
press  saw fit to reveal him to the world.  Yes, he could read.

"So what do we do?" Skinner asked the question Mulder could not.  

"Other than the tests to confirm my diagnosis, there's not much we can
do  about it right away.  You have a lot of healing to do yet, Mr.
Mulder.  And once  you're feeling a little bit better, we'll get you
started on some speech  therapy.  The good news is, there's a pretty
good chance we can get you back to  normal, but I'm not going to kid
you, you have a great deal of work ahead of you.   It's going to be a
tough fight, but we should be able to get you talking  again."

"How is that possible?" Skinner asked as Mulder nodded that he had the
same  question.

"The brain is a very adaptable organ, Mr. Mulder.  Part of it was
damaged by  the lack of oxygen, but most of it is fine, which is
obvious from your ability  to move, comprehend, recognize your
coworker and the world around you. With  the proper therapy, we can
train a new part of your brain to take over control  of the speech
center.  Some of this will happen automatically.  In the next 
few hours, you'll probably manage a word here or there, but let them
come -  don't force it."

Both men nodded this time.  "Okay, now outside of the Aphasia, you
have a  very serious bullet wound to your chest, and it's important
that you stay in bed,  rest, let yourself heal, and not try to sit up
beyond a 45 degree angle.  We  don't want too much stress put on that
chest."  

Mulder's eyelids began to droop, and both men knew they'd taxed him
enough.   "I'll let you get back to sleep, Agent.  You need all the
rest you can get."

The doctor left in silence, but Skinner stayed at Mulder's bedside. 
"Can I  get you anything?" he asked him just before he dropped off.

The patient weakly lifted an arm, bringing his hand to a place high on
his  chest, almost to his neck.  He traced the shape of a cross once,
then again.  It  confused Skinner - he'd never thought Mulder was
religious.

"Do you want me to call a priest?" he asked. Mulder rolled his head
from side  to side in a tired "no".  And then it occurred to him what
Mulder was doing.   It was a cross . . . Scully's cross.  He wanted
Scully.

"We're working on it, Mulder.  You do your part, and I'll do mine." 
Mulder's  eyes closed, and Skinner prayed that by the time he woke
again, they'd have  Scully at his bedside.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

The limited supplies stocked in the cabin had been used up for days. 
The  bottled water was exhausted just that morning, and she knew she
should do  something about it, but she just couldn't care.  More than
just thinking she deserved  it, she found that, without Mulder in her
life, she couldn't bear to imagine  going on.  

She'd loved him, but simply loving him hadn't been enough.  Not enough
for  him, and it had gotten him killed.  She laughed bitterly at the
thought that he  was looking down on her now.  What would he be
feeling in the afterlife?   Bitterness at her refusal of him.  Of
their - dare she say it - romantic feelings?   Or forgiveness for the
misguided soul she now knew she'd been.

No point in pondering, she thought.  Where would it get her?  It
wouldn't  bring him back.  As for the rest of her pitiful life, what
was there worth  thinking about?  A job she couldn't bear to go to?  A
family who loved her but felt  sorry for her, too?

She'd lain down on the bed, feeling tired and worn out.  Realizing she
was  probably emaciated from lack of food, she considered for a second
going to town  for supplies, but when it came down to it, she just
couldn't be bothered.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Mulder was watching television when Skinner entered the room after
having  gone out for some dinner.  It was an awkward position to be
in; the care taking  of Mulder - and he did require taking care of, it
seemed - had befallen on him.   For the life of him, he couldn't think
of anybody else now who would do it.

Except for Scully, of course. He clearly remembered his call into the
task  force assigned to locate the missing agent.

"This is Skinner, give me an update."

"I'm sorry, Sir, we've come up with nothing.  We've searched her
apartment,  work, talked to a few friends. Even stopped at the place
where she works out  and usually shops.  Nobody's seen her."

"Any luck in locating her mother?"

"No, nothing there either, Sir."

"What about her brothers?"

"Ummm . . ."  Clearly, the agent hadn't looked into that aspect, which
was  confirmed a moment later.  "We haven't tried that yet."

"Look, Thompson," Skinner had said in exasperation.  "This is the damn
Federal Bureau of Investigation, not a penny-ante private detective
agency.  If you  or anybody on your team thinks they can do a
half-assed job and still keep it,  they're dreaming."

"But, sir . . ."

"No, buts, Agent.  Get on it immediately if not sooner.  I want
another  report by nineteen hundred hours, and I want to hear that
somebody has spoken with  at least one of her brothers by then!"

"Sir, that's only two hours!"

"Are you questioning your assignment, Agent?  Because if you are, I'm
sure I  can get you reassigned."  He didn't have to say that the new
assignment  wouldn't be a pleasant one; if the agent couldn't tell
from his tone, then he was in  the wrong business.

"No, Sir, not at all.  We'll get right on it."

"You do that, Agent."

The call had ended abruptly.  Skinner hadn't bothered to say anything
more;  nothing more was worth saying.  Besides, the Gunmen had given
him that much  information two days ago.  It was embarrassing that the
Bureau couldn't do better  than the hackers.

Now, it was time to address more immediate concerns.  The injured
agent was  lying at a slight incline, watching as the television
blared a commercial for  athletic shoes.

"What're you watching?" he asked.

"Ball game."  It came out so easily and clearly that it stunned the
Assistant  Director.  Could it be . . .?

"Oh, yeah?" he said, taking a seat.  "Who's playing?"

There was no answer, and while Mulder's eyes and, obviously, brain
were  working feverishly, he couldn't manage the words.  And the more
he tried, the more  frustrated he got.

"Never mind, they'll say in a minute, I'm sure.  Hey, but at least
your  speech is improving some."

Mulder nodded, but his brow was wrinkled in a frown.

"What is it, Mulder?"

The patient's face was a study in concentration for a moment before he
stubbornly said, "Scully."

Sighing, he knew that he owed the man the facts about his partner.  If
it  distressed him . . . well, it was his right to be distressed. 
Skinner would have  demanded no less if the situations had been
reversed.

"She got through the shooting just fine, but she disappeared after the
ambulance arrived at the hospital.  One of the nurses said that she
ran out of here  after you were pronounced."

Mulder raised an eyebrow to ask the question he knew he'd have to face
eventually.  "Yes, Mulder.  You were clinically dead for several
minutes before you  came back on your own.  I guess you weren't ready
to go just yet, huh?"

"Talk?"

"Yes, it's likely that the Aphasia is due to the amount of time you
went  without oxygen, but the doctor assures me that it'll come back."
 It worried him  that he'd had to repeat what the agent had been told
once before.  Then the  patient managed a word that Skinner had never
anticipated.

"Maggie."

"It seems that she's gone on vacation.  We've checked her house and
the  airline shows her flying into LAX sometime later on the day you
were shot.  She  took out a rental there, but that's the last we can
trace of her.  We're still  looking, and we're hopeful that, when we
find her, she'll know where Scully  went.  If nothing else, she's got
to come home eventually."

Mulder nodded, looking thoughtful, and Skinner wondered what was going
through that astute mind of his.  

To be continued in Part 3


Solitude Part 3/5 (continued from Part 2)

"So, have you had your dinner?" It was only 5:30, so it was hard to
guess.

Mulder nodded with a grim expression, picking up his glass of water as
if in  example.

"Liquid diet?"  A nod.  "Well, I'm sure that's just until you're
healed  enough to have something more substantial.  Would you like me
to ask the doctor  about it?  Maybe I can smuggle you a burger."

"Pizza."  There was no mistaking that word, even though it was spoken
hesitantly, as all the words he managed were.

"We'll have to see about that.  I don't imagine it would be doctor 
recommended even for the healthiest of patients."

Mulder actually smiled at that, and it occurred to Skinner that it was
the  first smile he'd seen from the man since he'd awoken.  Just then,
the game came  back on.  "Ah, the Knicks.  I should have known,"
Skinner said, sitting back.   "Mind if I watch with you?"

The answer was basically no answer, as Mulder turned up the volume and
sat  back to enjoy the game. It was a momentary distraction, Skinner
knew, and they'd  damn well better find Scully soon.  Mulder would
only believe the excuses for  so long.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Skinner had gone to the restroom and taken the opportunity to check
the  voicemail on his cellular around 6:30 p.m.  There was an urgent
message from  Thompson.

"We have something on the mother, Sir.  Call me and I'll give you the
details.  We'll probably have spoken with her by then."

He quickly disconnected and re-dialed Thompson's cell, which was
answered on  the first ring.  The junior agent must have been holding
it, just waiting for  his call.

"Thompson."

"Yes, Thompson.  It's Skinner.  What've you got?"

"We got ahold of Scully's brother Bill's wife.  He's apparently out on
maneuvers with the Navy.  She said that her mother-in-law was there
visiting, but  was out meeting with some old friends.  We're due to
try her back at six  o'clock; that's when she told her she'd be
returning to the house."

"Anything more?"

"We asked about the car, Sir.  It seems that Mrs. Scully had always
wanted to  drive the Pacific Coast Highway, so she rented a
convertible and drove from  Los Angeles to San Diego rather than
flying there directly."

Maggie Scully, driving down the highway with the top down and the wind
in her  hair was something Skinner couldn't picture for the life of
him, but wished  he could.  Heck, he wished he could picture <himself>
doing it.  But hair was  an issue these days, he thought to himself
with a smile.

"Give me the number, Thompson.  I'll make the call and let you know
what I  find out from her."

"Sir, are you sure?"

"Yes, Agent.  I know the woman, and I don't want her alarmed
unnecessarily."

Thompson provided Skinner with the number, which he scribbled on a
piece of  paper towel before hanging up. 

He'd already been in the restroom long enough for Mulder to get
concerned, so  he returned to the agent's bedside first, only to find
he'd fallen asleep.   Leaving the room quietly, he made his way to the
foyer where the reception  would be clearer, he was certain, and where
he wouldn't get the evil eye from the  medical staff.

He dialed the number and heard it ring three times before it was
finally  picked up.

"Scully residence."

"Yes, this is Assistant Director Skinner at the FBI.  To whom am I
speaking?"

"This is Tara Scully."

"Mrs. Scully, I'm your sister-in-law's boss.  Does Margaret Scully
happen to  be there?"

"Yes, she just got in.  Hold just one moment and I'll get her."  The 
nervousness in the woman's voice was evident, but whether it was in
fear of bad news  or over simply speaking to a member of the law
enforcement community - and a  high-level one at that - Skinner wasn't
sure."

"Hello, Mr. Skinner," Maggie said politely, but the fear in her voice
was  clear.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Scully," he greeted, realizing that it was only
3:30  where she was on the Pacific coast.  "I'm sorry to bother you
while you're on  vacation, but . . ."

"But what?  Is it Dana?  Is she hurt?"

He owed her honesty, he realized. Nothing less.  "No.  Well, we don't
really  know.  She's been missing for a week now, and we were hoping
that you'd know  where she would have gone."

"When exactly did anybody see her last?  Have you spoken to Fox?"

"She was with Mulder, on a stakeout a week ago last night.  Something
went  wrong and he was shot.  She rode to the hospital in the
ambulance with him, and  then seems to have disappeared.  It looks
like she just walked off."

"Dana would never have done that.  How is Fox?"

"It was a close call, and we almost lost him, but it looks like he's
going to  make it," he reported, not sure how much information Mulder
would want his  partner's mother to have.  "Did you see her after that
night?"

"She stopped by the house - it must have been late the same night -
and asked  to borrow the keys to the family cabin.  She seemed upset,
but she wouldn't  say . . ."

"Can you tell me the location of the cabin?  It's vital that we make
sure  she's okay; I'm sure you understand."

"Absolutely," she agreed, giving him not just the address, but
directions to  the cabin as well.  "Mr. Skinner, call me when you hear
something, please."  

"I will.  I'm sure it's nothing," he said, trying to ease her mind,
but she  knew better.

"Dana would never be anywhere but with Fox if he was hurt.  No, I know
something is up with my daughter.  I need to know that my baby is
okay, Mr.  Skinner."

"I promise.  I'll let you know either way."

They said their good-byes and he disconnected the call.  The address
she'd  given him was two hours away and in the middle of nowhere.  No
telephones,  either.  The only question was whether he should send a
team up there or go  himself.  Undoubtedly, a team could get there
faster than he could, especially if  they called in local law
enforcement.  But did he want his agent exposed to  strangers when he
didn't know her situation or condition?  No, going up there 
himself was the only way.  

Returning to Mulder's room, he scribbled a note telling the patient
he'd gone  home for the night.  Mulder was recovering from a critical
injury; he needed  to concentrate on that.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Skinner couldn't believe the beauty of the area where Maggie had sent
him.   Having grown up in the city, he was no expert, but the rural
area that housed  the Scully cabin was as close to paradise as he
could imagine.  Trees towered,  grassy meadows flowed over hill and
dale, small animals cavorted among the  plants . . . It was almost
enough to make him forget the very serious reason for  his excursion.

Almost.

He wished the circumstances weren't so dire, and prayed that, when he
got to  the cabin, he would simply find Scully curled up with a stack
of novels and a  cord of firewood.  He wouldn't even begrudge her
that; it was hard enough to  be an agent for the FBI, but it was even
harder to do it with as single-minded  a partner as Fox Mulder. 
Mulder was a great agent, but the fact was that he  could try the
patience of Mother Theresa.

Checking the readout on his cellular, he breathed a sigh of relief
that the  reception was still clear.  He'd made sure there was an
ambulance crew standing  by within a few minutes' drive, and the
cellular company had guaranteed that  the towers would pick up a
signal from the cabin.  He had all his bases  covered.

What could possibly have happened? He wondered.  He'd never dreamed
that  Scully would leave her partner's side when he was injured, but
their relationship  - good or bad - when off duty was their own
business.  However, she'd  disappeared before the case was finalized,
and that <was> his business.  And very  uncharacteristic for Dana
Scully.  

The only thing he could think of was that she'd wanted to get away for
a bit  and been abducted or hurt, or even killed, by one of their
enemies. Scully and  Mulder had ruffled more than a few feathers in
the Consortium and had enough  convictions to present a myriad of
possibilities for who might want to harm  her.  Would he find her
dead?  Or only a vacant cabin?

As he was mulling over these thoughts, he came upon what had to be the
narrow  dirt road that Margaret Scully said would lead to the cabin. 
It was a rough  path, reminding him of just how long it had been since
he'd last seen a  restroom, but it seemed selfish to think of such
things now.  After about a quarter  of a mile, he caught sight of
Scully's car, parked haphazardly out front.

Dust flew as he braked to a stop, jumping out as soon as he slammed
the car  into Park.  

"Scully!" he called, and heard the shout resound through the peaceful
silence.  "Scully!"

Nobody came, not that he really expected them to.  If it was as simple
as  coming to greet him, she surely would have heard the vehicle
approach.  Dust on  her car told him that it had been quite some time
since it had been moved,  possibly since she'd first come here.  She
obviously hadn't been out socializing.

He knocked on the door hesitantly, repetitively, and finally tried the
knob  when he got no response.  It turned freely - the door was
unlocked.  That  worried him more than anything else.

The cabin wasn't very large.  It took but a moment to scan it with his
eyes  before he moved to the only adjoining room.  While the first
room he'd entered  had been a living area/kitchen combination, this
was a bedroom.

And on the bed, still and very, very pale, lay Special Agent Dana
Scully.

"Damn," he whispered, yanking out his cell and hitting speed dial. 
"This is  Skinner.  Get the ambulance up here immediately."

He sat down on the edge of the bed, the lack of motion in her body
worrying  him even more when she didn't react to his presence. 
"Scully?" he said,  checking for a pulse.  It seemed weak, but then,
he was no expert.  "C'mon, Scully.   Wake up."

He tried shaking her slightly, but she may as well have been comatose
for all  the reaction he got.  Hell, he didn't know for sure that she
<wasn't>  comatose.  What could have left her like this?

Checking her arms and legs and any other exposed skin, embarrassed at
the act  of doing so, he found no marks, scars, cuts or bruises.  No
injury that he  could see, which left only illness.  Or something
internal, he told himself,  thinking of the close call they'd had with
her cancer.  Was it possible?

Two men with a wheeled stretcher broke into the cabin before he could
ponder  the question much longer.  Making way for them, he jumped back
and watched as  they worked efficiently, checking vitals, starting an
IV, and preparing her  for the ride to the nearest hospital.  He
wished they were close enough that  they'd be taking her to the same
one where Mulder was, but it was just too far.   Perhaps, later, when
her condition had been identified, and stabilized, they 
could think about transferring her.

"I'll follow you," Skinner said simply as they pushed the gurney into
the  ambulance and climbed in behind it.

"She's stable," they told him with grim smiles.  "It'll be okay.  Are
you the  next of kin?"  At least they had the graciousness not to ask
if he was her  father.

"No, I'm her boss.  Her mother's out of town, but I'll contact her." 
He  paused, torn between wanting to let them be on their way and
wanting to know  what's going on.  "Is she . . ."

"We don't know yet.  The doctor will be able to tell you more."

Nodding, he helped them close the rear doors, then raced to his car so
as not  to lose them.  This was a foreign area; he'd never be able to
find the  hospital if he didn't follow.

It was a fifteen minute drive before they pulled into the hospital,
and  another five while he found a parking spot and could rush into
the ER.  By that  time, Scully was in a treatment room and being seen
to by the medical staff.  He  wanted to go in, be with her, but was
stopped by a man in white.

"Sorry, you can't go in there."

"That's my agent; she shouldn't have to be alone."

"She's not alone," he reassured.  "These are great people here,
they'll take  good care of her."

He nodded again, realizing he'd doing that a lot lately.  It's
something to  do when there's simply nothing to be said.

So he waited.  He realized that it must not be as bad as he'd feared
when a  doctor approached him less than fifteen minutes later.

"You came in with Dana Scully?"

"Yes, I'm Assistant Director Skinner.  How is she?"

"It appears, Mr. Skinner, that your agent is suffering from severe 
dehydration and malnutrition. I'd estimate that she hasn't eaten for
at least four days,  and hasn't had any fluids for one to two.  She's
in no danger now that she's  here, but she needs to be on IV fluids
and intensive nutrition replacements  for awhile.  How did she end up
like this?" he asked incredulously.  "Because if  she did this to
herself, some counseling may be in order."

"I really don't know, doctor, but be reassured.  If she needs help,
she'll  get all of it she can use and then some."

"Good.  They're going to move her up to 302, so you can head up there
if you  want.  I'd estimate she'll awaken in two or three hours.  Just
as long as is  necessary to replenish the worst of her nutritional
deficiencies."

"I want to be with her when she wakes up.  She's bound to be
disoriented."

"That's not only acceptable, I highly recommend it," the doctor smiled
as he  took his leave.

Skinner's eyes fell on a pay phone nearby; he really should call
Mulder, he  thought.  But the first thing his agent would want would
be to talk to Scully -  something impossible at the moment.  Or,
worse, he'd try to climb out of his  own hospital bed just to be at
the side of hers.  Neither was an acceptable  option, given the
circumstances.  So rather than make the call, he strode to the 
elevator.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Mulder awoke slowly, his eyes blearily opening to take in his room. 
It was  starkly empty, even of the most annoying medical staff who
seemed insistent on  constantly jabbing and poking him.  

Thank God, he thought.  Although things could have been a whole lot
better.   The chair beside his bed stood conspicuously empty, vacant
of either his boss  or his partner.  His partner . . .  Where was she
now, he wondered.  

Probably as far away from you as she could get.

He heard the words so clearly in his mind - now if he could only say
them out  loud.  But that was going to be a while in coming, he knew. 
And in the  meantime, he had nothing to do but to heal, perform his
therapy, and contemplate  the rest of his life without the woman who
<was> his life.

Dammit, why couldn't he have kept his mouth shut?!  But no.  He just
<had> to  admit the truth.  The damnedable truth, and now he'd driven
off his friend  and partner because he wanted more.  More than she had
to give, so instead of  ending up with a partner he was unrequitedly
in love with, he was going to end  up alone.

There was only one answer:  he had to find her.  Find her, apologize,
and beg  to restore what they'd had, no questions asked, and no
strings.  He was damn  sure that she wasn't going to come to him.  He
looked at the phone; that was  useless, too.  He couldn't call her if
he couldn't speak, right?  He couldn't  even write her a damn letter.

No, he knew what he needed to do.  Pushing himself into a sitting
position,  he groaned as a knife ripped through his chest.  Not that
this was going to be  easy.  

His first priority was getting rid of the tubes.  Thankfully, they'd
removed  the chest tube already, because he had no idea how he'd have
gotten rid of  that.  But the IV was easy enough.  Hell, he wished he
had a dime for every one  he'd pulled himself, and debated whether it
was more than he'd had removed the  medically proper way.

Once the IV was disposed of, he slid carefully to the edge of the bed,
lowering unsteady legs until his feet touched the floor.  A draft
across his back  reminded him that clothing was going to be an issue. 
Presuming, of course, that  he had the energy to get farther than the
front door, which was going to be a  test in and of itself.  

But sitting there, mulling it over and trying to find excuses why he'd
fail  wasn't going to help any.  He had things he had to do, and
nothing was going to  stop him.  Shuffling to the closet for his robe,
he repeated it to himself.   Nothing would keep him from Scully. 
Nothing.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

The last thing Scully remembered was falling asleep at the cabin, a
feeling  of weightlessness enshrouding her form.  She looked forward
to her death,  sincere in the belief that Mulder would be waiting for
her on the other side.  He  was her center - nothing else mattered.  

She never expected to wake again, and yet that seemed like exactly
what was  happening.  Her eyes were blurry at first, but it didn't
take long for her to  focus, not just her eyes, but her mind as well. 

Skinner, of all people, sat at her bedside, and the pinch in the crook
of her  elbow was an IV, she was certain.  The sun shone brightly
through the window,  uncaring that the world had lost one of its most
wonderful defenders.  It  wasn't fair, she thought.  It should be
pouring rain in mourning for her partner.

She didn't realize the tears had begun again until Skinner stood,
using a  tissue to wipe them gently away.  It was an act of sympathy
and gentleness she'd  never expected from her stern boss, but she was
grateful for it just the same.

"It's going to be all right, Scully," he said, still trying to catch
the  cascading tears on the tiny piece of limp paper.  

"Why did you have to find me?" she sobbed, assuming correctly that
only  Skinner or her mother cared enough to come looking.

"We found your mother in California.  She told me that you'd borrowed
the  keys to the cabin and gave me directions," he said, incorrectly
presuming that  she'd meant to say "how," not "why."

"You should have left me there," she stated.  

"Scully, what the hell did you think you were doing?  When I found
you, you  were almost dead!"

"Only counts in horse shoes, Sir," she said with a grim twitch of the
corner  of her mouth.  

"Do you have any idea how worried we've been?"  He scolded, sounding
like a  parent reprimanding an errant child.  "Your mother, me. . . .
Mulder. . ."

"I know what happened to Mulder.  Why do you think I wanted to go
away?"

"Do you know how hard it was for him when he awoke and you weren't
there?  He  counts on that - on you -- when he's injured.  He relies
on it."

She doubted she was hearing him correctly.  No, she must still be
groggy.  "I  wanted to be with Mulder," she said.

"And you will be, as soon as the doctors say you're well enough."

She wasn't sure if it was the grogginess that was wearing off ,or if
it was  simply a puzzle to be solved, but something at that moment
made her question.

"I'll be well, but Mulder will still be dead," she stated, her eyes
still  streaming.  "How can I be with him then?"

Skinner's eyes grew as big as saucers at the implications.  It all
made so  much more sense now!  She really thought her partner was
dead.  

"Scully," he said, sitting on the edge of her bed, "he's not dead." 
She  looked at him as if he were from mars.  "He's not!  You left too
soon; he came  back to you.   But by that time, you'd gone.  He's been
worried sick about you  ever since he woke up!"

"It's not possible. . ." but the truth was, she was afraid to
believe.

"Yes, it is.  They revived him.  Or he revived himself.  Whatever. 
The point  is that his recovery will never be what it can unless
you're there. You give  him incentive.  A goal."

She still couldn't believe it.  He was alive.

"What's his condition, Sir?"  She suddenly felt much more awake.

"I won't lie to you, it was close.  He has a serious chest wound
that's going  to take some time to heal, and . . ."  He seemed
hesitant to say it all.

"And what?  I have a right to know."

"He went for several minutes without oxygen to his brain.  As a
result, he's  suffering from something called Broca's Aphasia. 
Because of that, he can't .  . ."

"You're telling me that he can't speak, and he can't write.  How is he
communicating?"

"Well, he can manage a word here or there.  Otherwise, we've been
trying to  stick to yes or no statements so he can just nod his head. 
He doesn't seem to  have any problem understanding what we're saying;
he just can't reciprocate in  kind."

"That's a characteristic of the aphasia," she said, pulling at her
lip, deep  in thought.  "He probably can read, too."

"Yes, he can."

"Sir, I've got to get to him," Scully said, pushing down the blanket
on the  bed and moving to rise.

"Yes, you do, but not just yet," Skinner said, standing over her,
blocking  her way.  "First, you have to regain your strength."

"I'm strong enough now!"

"You're strong enough when the doctor assigned to your case says you
are, and  not a second before.  Once he's given his permission, I'll
take you to Mulder  first thing, I promise.  But the first step is
eating."

At just that moment, an orderly came in with a meal tray.  It was 
unappetizing, bordering on disgusting, including a chalky can of
nutritional supplement  drink, but she sat up and dug into it with
vigor.  The sooner she ate, the  sooner she'd see Mulder.  And she
<needed> to see Mulder very badly.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

To be continued in Part 4


Solitudes Part 4/5 (continued from Part 3)

If anybody realized that the scrubs-clad man wasn't a medical
practitioner,  they didn't make comment on it as Mulder made his way
down in the elevator and  out the front door.  He'd traded his
hospital gown and robe for the outfit in  a closet he'd found near his
room, lucky to have emerged unseen at a time when  the nursing staff
was helping other patients.  

His first stop had to be his own apartment.  He'd need to get his
spare gun,  just in case she was in any danger, and more normal
clothes wouldn't hurt  either, he realized.  

God, it hurt.  Pain sliced through his chest as he raised a hand to
hail the  cab.  Fortunately, they'd incarcerated him in one of the
more metropolitan  hospitals in the city, where finding a method of
transportation, despite being  too injured to drive, would be easy. 
He could admit that he was too hurt to  drive; any doubt of that fact
would have been washed away the first time he moved  an arm, or a
shoulder.  Changing into the scrubs had been sheer torture, but 
there were more important things than creature comforts.

"Where to?" the cab driver asked, looking back at him.  He tried to
say the  words, but they refused to pass his lips.  "C'mon, buddy.  I
ain't got all  day."

A flash of inspiration struck Mulder, and he quickly reached for his
wallet.   Fortunately, it had been placed in the bedside table, and
he'd found it  before making his escape.  With trembling fingers, he
opened to his driver's  license, showing it to the driver.

"What're you, mute or somethin'?"  Okay, it wasn't exactly accurate,
but it  was close enough, he thought as he nodded.  "You wanna go
home?" the man asked  when Mulder continued to point to the address on
the card.

With a sigh of relief, Mulder nodded yes.  

"Okay, you got it, pal.  We'll have you home in a jiffy."  

Sitting back in the seat, Mulder was tempted to just stay there
forever.  The  walk from his room to the curb had taken more out of
him than he'd ever  dreamed possible.  He wasn't sure he could move
another muscle, but he had to.  He  had to find Scully, or at least
find out what had happened to her.  His own  life meant nothing
compared to hers.

"We're here, Mister!"

He must have dozed off, he realized, when the time passed seemingly in
an  instant.  Looking over the driver's shoulder, he read the meter
and handed him  the appropriate cash.

"Hey, are you gonna be all right?" the driver asked him as he slowly
and  painfully made his way out of the back seat.  "You sure I can't
take you back to  the hospital?"

Mulder shook his head no, but realized that he still required the
cab's  services.  The driver was, thankfully, perceptive, because he
somehow read the  agent's body language.  "Do you want me to wait for
you?"

After answering yes and deciding the man seemed honest enough, he gave
him an  extra five for the wait and made his way upstairs.

The scrubs were more painful to take off than they to put on, and
Mulder was  exhausted by the time they were a pile on the floor.  He
looked longingly at  the pillow.  How easy it would be to lie down
there and drift off into slumber,  away from the pain and the worry. 
But he couldn't afford to rest on his  laurels while Scully was out
there, in God-knew what kind of trouble.  Gritting  his teeth, he
donned a pair of dress pants - they were looser than his jeans - 
and a button-down shirt that was easier to put on.  

Normally, he'd carry his billfold in his back pocket, but there was no
way he  was going to stretch his chest muscles like that, so he slid
it into the  breast pocket of the shirt, then went to his desk to
scoop up his address book.   He eyed the desk chair, wanting to sit
down so badly . . .

Faster than he expected, he found himself back in the cab, the driver
smiling  at him.  "Where to now?"

Showing him Scully's address in the book, he sat back for the ride
from  Arlington to Georgetown.  The rhythm of the tires sliding over
cement quickly  lulled him back to sleep.  

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"Okay, I've eaten my meal like a good little girl.  Now take me to
Mulder."   She was brooking no argument, that much was clear.

"Let's talk to your doctor and get him to sign your release papers. 
If  you're up to ordering me around, you must be strong enough,"
Skinner smiled.  It  was surprising him how his feelings towards this
woman had changed over the  years.  He felt that Mulder cared for her,
as did he, but it was different all the  same.  They may have fooled
themselves and each other for a long time now,  but he knew the truth:
 the love they held for each other was very real, and not 
at all like partners.

Fortunately, Scully wasn't nearly the patient that Mulder had always
proven  to be in the past.  She sat back patiently until the physician
and nurse  arrived, allowed her blood pressure to be taken and her
heart listened to, until the  doctor declared her fit enough to leave
if she insisted.  And she <did>  insist.

"If I sign your release papers," the doctor said, "you have to assure
me that  you'll continue to rest. Eat regularly and well. Don't let
yourself get this  run down again."

"I promise, I'll behave.  Now can I go?"

"Yes, you may.  But I want you to see your doctor in a week, or come
back  here, for another check.  Just  to make sure everything's back
to normal."

"Oh, it will be, Doctor," Scully promised with more vigor in her voice
than  he'd heard in a long time.  "Now if you'll all excuse me. . ."

Skinner and the staff exited the room, closing the door to give her
the  privacy she'd want to change.  By the time she opened the door,
looking pretty much  back to normal, he was the only one left in the
hall.  

"I don't suppose anybody brought my car back from the cabin, did they,
sir?"  she asked, walking beside him.

"It's waiting for you at the Bureau garage."

"Good.  If you could just drop me off there . . ."

"Not so fast, Agent Scully," he said, using his best authoritarian
voice.   "You may be well enough to be out of the hospital, but I'm
not convinced that  you're ready to drive."

"But, Sir. I need to . . ."

"And you'll be able to do everything you need to.  You just have a
chauffeur  for the indefinite future.  Now where do you want to go?"

"First?  The hospital, to see Mulder."

"I should have guessed," Skinner said, smiling, as he escorted her
into his  car.

The drive went quickly, but still took longer than Scully would have
liked,  her thoughts on her injured partner the entire way.  Glancing
over at the  console, she saw that they were already at 70 miles per
hour.  Still, it wasn't  fast enough.

"Relax, Scully," Skinner said, and she was struck by how different her
name  sounded from when it came from Mulder's lips.  "We'll be there
before he's had  a chance to turn his nose up at what they bring him
for lunch."

She couldn't help but grin.  "Well, can you blame him, Sir?  It may be
nutritious, but it's far from palatable."

"I've been in the hospital, and I've been in the army.  Trust me when
I say  that it could be a whole lot worse."

"I remember very well from when I was in Alaska - you'll get no
argument from  me, Sir."

She tried to keep up her end of the small talk, but her mind, and her
heart,  just weren't in it.  All her concentration was centered on the
man they were  going to see.  The man, she could finally admit, that
she loved.

Finally, Skinner steered the car into a parking space in the
hospital's lot.

"It's room 425," he stated as they bypassed the registration and
visitors'  desk.  As agents of the FBI, they weren't required to check
in.

Scully knew this hospital well  - Mulder had been in it more than once
before  - and she had no problem making a bee-line for the elevators
that would take  her upstairs.  

What she didn't expect, when their ride ended, was to have the doors
open to  such confusion.  Utter chaos seemed to reign, with medical
staff rushing to  and fro, one conversation overlapping another. 

"Why do I have a feeling that Mulder has something to do with this?"
she  said, rushing forward through the craziness.  She grabbed the
first person who  seemed to be in any kind of authority.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing, ma'am.  If you'll excuse me . . ."

"No, that's not acceptable.  I'm an agent with the FBI and I'm a
medical  doctor.  Now tell me what the situation is!"

The woman, an older nurse with a stern expression, was instantly
contrite.   "I'm sorry, Agent.  It seems that . . . well, a patient
has been misplaced."

"Misplaced?  You mean you <lost> someone?"

"Well, we're not sure. Maybe the Bureau can help.  He was there in his
bed  one minute, and gone a few minutes later when they went to
deliver his lunch  tray."

"Could this patient have just gone out for a stroll?"

"No, I don't believe so, ma'am.  He was badly injured, and still on a
lot of  painkillers.  He had a chest injury."

The final piece clicked into place for both Scully and Skinner. 
Cripes,  Mulder does it to them again, she thought.

"This patient.  He wouldn't happen to be named Fox Mulder, would he?"

"Yes, you know him?"

"He's my partner; we were just on our way to visit him.  How long has
it been  since anyone's actually seen him?"

"A little over an hour."

"He won't be in the hospital anymore," she told the nurse.

"But he was in no condition to walk . . ."

"It doesn't matter what his condition was. If he had it in his head to
leave,  he'd find a way."

"But . . ."

"Look, just write him off as AMA, and I'll get him back here, either
to stay  or to sign the appropriate forms.  There's no need to tear
the hospital apart  searching, because I'm sure he's not here."

"Very well, ma'am," the woman said, but the concern in her voice was
evident.

"Don't worry," Scully said, smiling slightly.  "None of this was your
fault.   And I'll make sure that he's okay."

"Thank you, Agent.  Doctor," she modified.  With a matching smile, the
woman  walked away.

"He was very concerned about you," Skinner said once they were alone. 
"The  fact that you hadn't come to see him. I got the impression that
he thought  you'd been grabbed or maybe left him over something he
said.  What <did> he say?"

"Nothing that I shouldn't have said a long time ago."  She left it 
intentionally cryptic.  No need for Skinner to know anything until
they'd really talked.

"So, you want me to take you to your place?  That's probably the first
place  he would go looking."

"No, I don't think so," Scully said, pulling at her lip again as they
re-boarded the elevator.  "He'd be hardly dressed to go running
around.  You said he  was aphasic, right?"

"Yes.  I don't think he's mastered a grand total of five words so
far."

"So he wouldn't be able to ask the Gunmen for help.  He'd have to take
a  cab."

"Yeah, I guess."

"So how would he tell the driver where to go?"  

The light dawned in Skinner's face.  "He'd have his wallet, if he
thought to  take it from the nightstand in his room."

"Which would have his ID as well as his driver's license in it.  But
probably  not anything with my address.  He'd have to go home to get
that."

"To Hegel Place, then?" Skinner asked, smiling.  

"Yep."  By now, they'd made it to the parking lot.  "With any luck,
the  activity thus far would have exhausted him to the point that
he'll still be there."

"You really think so?"  He sounded doubtful.

"Think?  Maybe more like hope," she answered, climbing into the
passenger  side with no protest.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

As Mulder climbed from the cab, he motioned for the driver to wait. 
By this  time, they'd developed a rudimentary form of communication.

"Okay, Mr. Mulder.  I'll be here," the cabby said with concern in his
voice.

Mulder knew that he looked like hell.  Knew it, because he'd seen it 
reflected in the man's face and felt it in his very bones.  Every step
was a test, to  see if he could continue to put one foot in front of
the other.  He knew he  belonged in bed - wouldn't have argued the
point if he could have - but if  Scully was in trouble, that was his
priority.  When she was safe, he promised  himself, he'd return to the
hospital.

Grateful for the foresight that had allowed them to exchange apartment
keys  for emergencies, he slipped the one on his key ring labeled
"Scully" into the  deadbolt on her door.  Thankfully, it was still
locked.  Or maybe not  thankfully, since it probably meant she wasn't
here.  He was always on Scully's case to  lock the door once she was
inside, but it was something she couldn't seem to  get into the habit
of doing.

The apartment felt empty.  "Sssssssscully?" he managed to say, walking
doubled over, through the place.  Bedroom, bathroom, livingroom. . .
she wasn't in  any of them, nor was there any sign that she'd been
there recently.  Even a  slight film of dust sat on the appliances,
and the mail inside her door had piled  up.  She'd had the mail slot
installed so that the landlord could move her  mail from the small box
she had in the lobby on those occasions where she was  gone for
consecutive days on a case.

Re-locking her door as he left, he tried to think of where else he
could  check, but it was hard to think through the growing fogginess. 
If he could just  sit and rest for a few minutes . . . but he knew
that if he did, he'd probably  not get up again.  So he had no choice
but to continue on, but to where?

It suddenly came to him:  the Gunmen.  Surely they'd have a way to
find her.  If she was all right, but running from him, they could
trace her credit cards.   And if she had been taken or hurt . . .
well, they'd be able to track those  kinds of things, too.  

The knife slicing through his chest returned as he climbed back into
the cab.   God, it hurt, he thought as he panted, trying to control
the pain.  He  showed the cab driver the LGM office's address, and
they were off again.  

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"Thank God we thought to exchange apartment keys," Scully muttered as
she let  herself into Mulder's apartment, unknowingly echoing his
sentiment of  earlier.  

"Shouldn't we knock first?"  Skinner asked.  It was very likely that
Mulder  was in there, and he might not appreciate their breaking in.

"If he's in there, from what you told me of his condition, he's
probably  asleep.  No need to disturb his healing process - God knows
he needs it."

"Speaking of healing," Skinner said as they walked through the
entranceway.   "You look like you're about ready to drop yourself. 
Are you sure you don't  want to just sit and rest for a few minutes?"

"I will, but not until I know Mulder is safe."  She knew that it would
be so  easy to sleep right now. Not just rest or nap, but eight hours
of  uninterrupted bliss.  However, this was more important to her life
than mere sleep.  Hell,  this <was> her life.

She went directly to the couch, but he wasn't there, and the apartment
was  devoid of sound.  Even the sibilance of his soft breathing if
he'd been asleep.

"He's not here," she said with great sadness.  

"No, but maybe he was.  Why don't you sit, while I look around."  

She nodded tiredly, carefully lowering herself to the soft leather. 
She'd so  hoped to find him here.

Against her better judgment, she closed her eyes, listening to the
sounds as  Skinner made his way around the apartment.  She realized
she'd almost dozed  off when she was suddenly startled awake.

"Well, he was definitely here," Skinner said.

"How do you know?"

"Well, unless he's taken to wearing hospital scrubs in his off time .
. ."   He held up the pants and shirt.  "They were in a pile in the
bathroom.  His  closet door and two drawers in his dresser were left
open.

"He was in a hurry," Scully said, then felt her face fall.  "Or he was
too  tired and weak to bother closing them."

"I'm afraid the latter is more likely."

"Let me see. . ."  Scully held out her hand, waiting for Skinner to
place the  clothes in it.  Once he did, she immediately began to
search them, although  she wasn't sure for what.

Her instincts were good, though.  "Oh, God . . ."  She turned the
shirt  inside out, showing Skinner the small red stain on the inside
torso.

"He's bleeding," he said, although it was hardly necessary.

"All the activity . . . He could have pulled some stitches.  Overtaxed
himself."  Turning beseeching eyes to her boss, she repeated what
she'd been saying  all along. "We <have> to find him."

"We will, Scully."  He offered her a hand in rising, which she found
she  needed more than she realized.  

As she locked up the apartment, he asked, "where to now?"

"My place.  I'm sure he took an address book or something with him,
and  that's sure to be his next stop."

"Very well.  To your place it is."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

The area of town where the Gunmen had their office was, to say the
least,  decrepit.  Not the best neighborhood, but the rent was cheap,
and that was what  counted.  And the Lone Gunmen had enough security
to keep them protected even  in the middle of Harlem, Mulder thought
as the cabby pulled to a stop.

"Are you sure this is where you want to go?" he asked.

Mulder nodded his head, pointing to the alley that would lead to the
Gunmen's  door.

"Okay, if you insist," the driver said, shaking his head.  He watched
as his  charge exited the cab stiffly and painfully. It was obvious
the guy wasn't  doing all that well.  He was likely to drop at any
minute, so he kept his eyes on  him.  His walk was slow and measured,
each step obviously difficult.

He just blinked for a moment and glanced down at the meter, wondering
if the  guy really had this much cash on him.  He seemed honest, at
least, and since  he was hurt . . .

There was an audible thump, drawing his look back towards his
passenger, only  to see two thugs standing over him.  At least he was
sitting up on his own.

"Give us your wallet!" Creep #1 demanded, to which Mulder shook his
head.

"Dammit, don't be smart.  Give it to us now!" said Creep #2, drawing
back a  foot and kicking the passenger in the stomach.  "Think we're
too stupid to  recognize designer clothes?  You've gotta have some
bucks on you."

The man, Mulder, rolled in pain, but only the driver knew that he
wasn't  capable of answering his attackers.  

Reaching under the seat, he whispered to himself.  "Never had to use
this  before, but I guess there's a first time for everything." He
withdrew a small  pistol, carefully opening the door so as not to
create undue noise.

"Get away from him or I'll shoot ya!" he screamed, bringing the weapon
to  bear on the two thugs. 

"Oh, give me a break!" one of the attackers grumbled.

"I'm an ex-Marine, and I know exactly how to use this. Now get lost,
or get  dead!"

They seemed to believe his story, putting their hands up and leaving
the  alley with alacrity.

"Hey, are you okay?" the cabby said, kneeling down beside the man.  He
was  conscious, but obviously in agony.

After gasping for a minute or so, the man turned bright eyes to him. 

The question, "Better?" got him an affirmative nod, so he stretched
out his  hand.  "Help you up?"

The kind voice broke through the haze that had enveloped Mulder at the
first  kick.  This, for some reason, was a person he could trust. 
Reaching up, he  took the hand the man offered, using every ounce of
his energy to regain his  feet.

He was assisted back to the cab.  

"I'd better get you to the hospital," the cab driver said, but Mulder
shook  his head no.  Pointing to the address on his license again, he
insisted.  He  just wanted to go home.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

To be concluded in Part 5


Solitude Part 5/5 (continued from Part 4)

"He's not here, either," Scully sighed as she returned to Skinner, who
still  stood in her doorway.  

"I was sure he would have come here next."  The conundrum puzzled
Skinner, as  Mulder usually did.

"I think he did come here, Sir," she said.  "We just missed him."

"How do you know?"

"I just know.  Doors not quite how I leave them, things moved. . . 
Somebody  was here, and I'm betting that it was him."

"So, where do you think he'd go from here?"

She thought for a fraction of a minute, her eyes on the ceiling.  "The
Bureau, maybe.  Possibly the Lone Gunmen's office."

"That makes sense, but he'd also know that he'd never get past
security at  the office in his condition.  Besides, I already called
them to be on the  lookout, and to contact me if he showed up there."

"So that leaves the Gunmen.  I'll give them a call."

Skinner used her bathroom while she made the call.  

"Lone Gunmen."

"Langley, it's Scully."

She heard the click that indicated he shut off, the tape - a courtesy
they  always afforded them -  and then he was back on the line.

"Hey, welcome back, Agent Scully! What's up?  Frohike will be sorry he
missed  your call."

"At the moment, I'm looking for Mulder.  Have you seen him today?"

"He isn't in the hospital?"  Langley sounded genuinely surprised, and
she  felt her heart drop.  She knew before he said it that he hadn't
made it as far as  the Gunmen's office.  "Have you checked his
apartment?"

"Yes, he'd been there, but had come and gone.  He's in no shape to be
running  around the countryside," she said with great concern.  If
something happened  to Mulder . . .

"Agent Scully, you may not realize this, but Mulder wouldn't care if
he  killed himself while looking for you.  You matter to him more than
you know."

The words coming from the usually-flippant man felt more out of place
than  she could say.  "I know, Langley.  I know."  She tried to
repress the catch in  her voice, blinking away the tears she felt
forming in her eyes.  Clearing her  throat, she said, "let me know if
you hear anything, okay?"

"Will do, Agent Scully.  We'll get on it."

"Thank you."  

Just as she hung up the phone, Skinner emerged.  He stood before her 
uncomfortably, making her wonder if he'd delayed coming out of the
bathroom until she  could collect herself.  Unfortunately, the only
thing that was going to help  would be finding Mulder, safe and sound.
 

The feeling of helplessness washed over her, and suddenly, there were
tears  streaming down her face again.  As much as she tried to hold
them in, they only  got worse, and each attempt to regain control only
resulted in great sobs  that shook her entire frame.

She nearly didn't realize when AD Skinner sat down beside her, putting
a  strong arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his arms.  She
cried against  his chest until the exhaustion overtook her, finally
pulling away as she wiped  her face.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

"Don't be sorry, Scully.  Most of us search a lifetime for the kind of
love  you two share.  There's no shame in being afraid of losing
that."

She looked at him as if he were a stranger.  "You knew?"

"You've hardly been one to wear your heart on your sleeve, Dana.  And
Mulder,  while not as good at it, has never let it affect his work
performance, but  yes.  It's obvious to everybody who knows you."

"I never told him," she whispered.  "That's what started this whole
mess."

"How do you mean?"

"Mulder told me.  He finally had the courage to say it . . . but I
lacked the  courage to reciprocate.  I told him that he was just a
friend to me.  Nothing  more."

"It's not your fault, Scully.  You were scared."

"I was a coward.  And in being so, I hurt Mulder deeply."

"You'll make up for it when we find him."

"How can I make up for this?  The only reason he got shot was because
he was  upset over what I'd said.  How can I expect him to forgive me
for that?"  The  tears still came, but the sobbing had stopped.

"If you think that anything you could do could stop Mulder from loving
you,  you don't know him as well as you think.  He's lost too many
people in his life  to give up on you now." 

"I hope so," she said, wiping her face.  "But first, we have to find
him."

"If he didn't already know that your mother was out of town, I'd say
he'd go  there next.  But since he did know, I'm at a loss . . ."

"Let's go back to his place.  He's got to go back there eventually
when he  doesn't find me anywhere else."  Her eyes met those of her
boss', strong and  supportive.  "Presuming he's able."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

By the time Mulder made it back to his door, his knees were shaking
with  weakness.  The driver, who'd been kind enough to see him home,
had nearly insisted  on taking him to the hospital, but Mulder had
made it clear that he wasn't  going anywhere but upstairs to his own
couch.

He hurt.  Every inch of his body screamed out in pain.  Those areas
that  weren't actually hurt by the gunshot wounds or the beating he'd
taken were  affected by a traveling agony that radiated out from those
places.  

And not only that.  The weakness that was overtaking his body felt
more  intense than any he'd ever experienced.  It wasn't just his
injury that was doing  this, but something else.  For the first time
since leaving the hospital,  Mulder truly worried about whether he'd
be able to do this.  But then, if he  couldn't find Scully, was life
worth living at all?

Letting himself into the apartment, he moved to the couch slowly and 
carefully.  Sitting down, as welcome as it was, sent a bolt of
lightning through his  chest, and he gasped, trying to catch his
breath.  If only Scully were here . .  . She'd make it better.

Finally, he was able to sit back and relax; his body would let him do
nothing  else.  Closing his eyes, he prayed that, when he opened them
again, Scully  would be there.  As a partner, or as  a friend.  He
couldn't live without her in  his life in some way, and he'd take her
however he could have her.

He rested and floated, but knew he couldn't afford to fall asleep. 
Too much  remained to be done.  But he was so very, very tired. . .

Jerking himself awake some time later, he noted how cold it was in the
room.   Perhaps he'd left a window open somewhere, but he didn't care
to go looking  for it.  Besides, there was a blanket on the couch he
could use . . .

Reaching for the blanket, his vision encompassed his hands and arms. 
But  they looked strange.  Discolored.  He'd seen this type of
coloring before.

With a detached eye, he looked down at himself.  The color variation
on his  shirt was distinct.  Withdrawing his hands, he began to
unbutton his shirt,  pulling apart moist cloth.  His slowed brain
process finally let him figure out  what was going on.  He was
bleeding.  Badly.

Dammit.  As much as he hated going to the hospital, he knew now that
he  needed help.  That last attack in the alley had done some damage
that he couldn't  get over without medical assistance.

He made an attempt to stand, but didn't even clear the surface of the
couch  before he dropped back down again.  Since he'd arrived home,
he'd lost the  strength to even rise; he needed help, and he needed it
now.  Bleeding to death  alone in his apartment was not the way he
wanted his life to end.

The handset of his cordless phone felt like it weighed a thousand
pounds as  he hefted it from its spot on the coffee table.  Normally,
he'd call Scully in  such a situation, but it wasn't an option this
time.  Perhaps even Skinner was  a possibility, but now that he
realized what was happening, his strength was  seeping away faster
than the blood from his body.  He needed help, and 911 was 
only three digits.

Three digits that he couldn't seem to dial.  His anger at his own
inability  crested when he realized that, while the numbers were clear
in his head, he  couldn't get his fingers to dial them.  God, how
ironic, he thought . . .  Fox  Mulder, Oxford University grad and
verified genius, was going to die in his own  apartment with a
perfectly good telephone in his hands because he couldn't 
dial a simple three-digit number.  

Feeling himself sinking back, he felt like he was drowning . . . being
pulled  under the current of a raging river while something that had
him by the  ankles drew him into its icy depths.  He prayed that
Scully, wherever she was, was  safe, and that she forgave him for what
he'd done to their relationship and  for leaving before they were done
with their work.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Through a haze, Mulder could hear somebody calling his name . . . a
familiar  and beloved voice, but that was all he could hear.  The
tone, and his own  name, but his oxygen-starved brain was unable to
interpret all the words  themselves.  Then, two words rang out, loud
and clear:  "Hold on!"

He tried . . . he tried so very hard.  But there was nothing left to
grasp  onto as he floated away, nothing to allow him to gain purchase,
keeping him in  this world.  He couldn't even feel anything anymore,
and he wished, prayed, and  entreated to have some kind of human
contact just once more.

Somebody was apparently listening, because, suddenly, some of his
senses  returned. Pressure on his chest hurt unmercifully, but he was
no longer capable of  crying out.  A sharp sting on his arm, and then
on his neck as well, like  hornets attacking en masse.  Something was
covering his nose and mouth, stifling,  until, suddenly, the tightness
in his chest eased.  He could hear a bit  better, now.

"Mulder, come on.  Please, Mulder.  Fight it."

That was Scully's voice, no doubt about it.  Thank God . . . she was
okay.   Her voice was strong and sure, if worried.

"Excuse me, Miss.  We need to get moving."

He felt large hands lift him, moving him gently onto another flat
surface.   He was beginning to think he'd make it through this, when
the mask stopped  working.  He couldn't breath.  As much as he tried,
his chest grew tight again,  and he felt like he was choking.  

As the blackness closed around him, he only hoped that, for all the 
complaining he did about it, medical science could bring him back.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"He's crashing on us!" one of the EMT's said to his partner.  "Get me
an  endotrachial tube and an ambu bag.  Set the fluids to full open."

"Got it," his partner said.  Scully watched as they tipped Mulder's
head  back, inserting the tube in his throat to force him to breathe
while the fluids in  the bag flowed into the jugular stick in his neck
that had been necessary.   He'd lost so much blood, they couldn't
raise a vein in his arm, necessitating  the very difficult last-resort
form of IV.

"Mulder, you're not getting away this easily," she said, standing at
his feet  where she wouldn't interfere with his treatment.

"Pulse is faint, but still there."

"Tube's in.  Let's move him before this gets any worse!"

They rushed Mulder out of his apartment as quickly as was practical,
yet she  found herself impatient, wishing that the antiquated elevator
in his building  would move faster just this one time.  Every second
counted, and she knew it.

She didn't realize that she'd moved to join him in the back of the
ambulance  until one of the paramedics put up a hand.

"Sorry, it's going to be too tight back there."

"I'm a doctor."  That argument usually worked when Mulder was hurt,
but not  this time.

"I understand that, ma'am, but I'm sure you want your partner's life
to take  priority."

"C'mon, Scully," Skinner said, taking her by the arm.  "We'll follow
them in,  but we're going to lose them if we don't get into the car."

Docilely, she moved to the passenger side, only once she was seated
inside  realizing that, once again, she was covered in Mulder's blood.
 Fingering the  cross at her neck, she kept up a litany of silent
prayers the entire way to the  hospital, asking her God to save her
partner one more time.  For all the times  she'd told Him that she and
Mulder had unfinished business, today, it was ten  times as true as
anytime in the past.

She looked on with horrified eyes when she saw them unloading him. 
They were  performing CPR, their faces grim, as doctors and nurses
swarmed over them.   From her place in the car, she knew she'd never
get to him before they whisked  him away into a treatment room or
surgical bay.

"Please," she whispered.  "Please don't leave me again."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Too many hours passed too slowly, yet she was grateful that they did -
at  least Mulder was hanging in there.  

"Scully, why don't you lie down," Skinner suggested.  The waiting room
was  empty, and she could have easily stretched out over several
chairs.

"I'm all right."

"No, you're not, Dana.  Look, I can see you're exhausted.  I promise,
I'll  wake you as soon as they come out with some news."

"Maybe later . . ." was her only response.  Somehow, she felt that if
she sat  there, thinking about him, talking <to> him in her head, it
would help him  find the strength to fight his way back.  

She stared into space, realizing how worried Skinner was about her,
until  finally, they were joined by another person.  

"Agent Scully. . . Mr. Skinner. . . I was told you're here with Fox
Mulder?"

"Yes!" Scully exclaimed, standing to meet the man.  "How is he,
Doctor?"

"Well, all I can say is, he's got a hell of a will to live.  We had to
bring  him back twice on the table, but he hung in there while we
stopped the  bleeding and repaired the prior wounds, which had opened
up again.  We gave him five  units of blood and he's got another one
hanging now.  All in all, he's much  more stable.  We were able to
move the IV from his neck to his arm, and we've  settled him in ICU
for the time being."

"So he's going to be all right?" Skinner asked.

"Well, we don't know for sure yet, but I'd say he's got at least a 
fifty-fifty chance.  The recuperation is going to be extremely slow,
one injury coming  on the coattails of the other, but if he keeps
fighting the way he has these  last few hours, I'd say we can improve
those odds a little bit each day."

"What about oxygen deprivation?" Scully asked.

"We had his records sent over from the other hospital, and while he
wasn't  without oxygen long enough to suffer any additional brain
damage, if he makes  it, he'll still have to deal with the aphasia. 
As I said, Agent Scully, it's  going to be a tough recovery."  The
surgeon smiled at her.  "But, somehow, I  think that he's going to
have all the help he needs."

Scully smiled and blushed, nodding.  "Can I sit with him?"

"Absolutely.  Talking to him would help, too.  Just go on through to
ICU and  the nurse on duty will direct you."

"Thank you," she sighed, relieved to at least be able to see him
again.   "Thank you very much."

The scene was one she figured she should be used to by now - she was 
certainly faced by it often enough.  But never quite so seriously.

Mulder lay in the ICU bed, hooked up to more machines than she would
have  thought possible if she hadn't been a doctor and known exactly
what each piece of  equipment's purpose was.  Monitors, leads, IV,
catheter, and she was  concerned to note he was still on a ventilator,
but they wouldn't have him on it if it  wasn't necessary.  Hopefully,
they'd be able to remove it before he awoke for  the first time.

It had been so close . . .  I can't deal with losing him again, she
thought,  remembering how pointless her life had seemed the first time
she'd thought him  dead. But that was years ago, and many layers of
relationship had developed  since then.

Taking a seat in the chair, she sighed again, taking his hand.  "I'm
here,  Mulder, and I'm not going anywhere until you wake up and show
me those beautiful  hazel eyes.  But don't make me wait long, okay?"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

At three hours after surgery, the nurses finally convinced Scully to
eat the  sandwich, carrot sticks, and coffee they brought her.

At six hours after surgery, she lay her exhausted head down on the bed
beside  Mulder for "just a second to rest her eyes" and ended up
asleep.

At nine hours after surgery, she was awake again, and frantic that
she'd  missed something while she slumbered.  Thankfully, all that was
different was that  they had pulled out the ventilator.

At twelve hours after the surgery, after swearing to stay awake, her
patience  was rewarded with a sliver of hazel and white.

"I'm here, Mulder.  You're going to be okay, just relax."

The eyes widened, the question in them clear.

"No, you're not dreaming.  I'm here, Mulder.  And I'm not going
anywhere."

His forehead crinkled, most likely because he realized that he
couldn't say  anything back.

"I understand you can't say anything right now, but we'll work on it
when  you're stronger.  For now, why don't you rest. I'll tell the
doctor you've  awakened, and before you know it, they'll have you
moved into a regular room where  you can watch all the ESPN you want
and drive the nurses crazy."  She  hesitated, unsure whether he'd
remember this later, but she'd repeat it as many times 
as she had to.

"I love you, Mulder.  I'm sorry it took this for me to realize it."

Smiling weakly, he nodded his head, drifting off.  Just before he
succumbed  to the darkness, his lips moved, surprising her immensely. 
"Scully."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Four weeks later, Mulder walked out of the hospital under his own
power.  The  air was warm, the sun was bright, and despite residual
weakness, he was  beyond happy to be alive and in the world again.

Standing outside the doors, he stopped, tipping his head back to
absorb the  sun.  

"C'mon, Mulder, you're holding up traffic on the sidewalk," Scully
said from  her place beside him.  "It's not like I haven't taken you
outside in the  hospital gardens every day for the past week."  Her
smile was as bright as the sun,  matching his heart.

"Home?"

"Yep, that's where we're headed.  Bet it's going to feel strange after
so  long."

"Feed fish?"

"Yes, I've been feeding your fish.  But I'm going to stop if you don't
work a  bit harder at talking in complete sentences, buddy.  I don't
expect the man I  love to be lazy."

"W-w-will you s-s-stay?"  He hesitated a moment.  "P-p-p-please?"

"I'll tell you what," she said, wrapping her arms gently around his
middle.   "I'll stay for dinner, and if you behave and keep working on
your speech, < maybe> you'll convince me to spend the night."

"The anssssssswer to my prayers," Mulder said, kissing her softly on
the  lips.

"Don't get so cocky," she said when he released her.  "I don't think 
you're  ready to do much more than sleep for a week or so quite yet."

"I'll surprise y-y-you, Scully, j-j-just wait."

"How about surprising me by making it to the car first.  Then we'll
see how  it goes."

"Okay," he said, following her to the car.  "Scully?"

"Yes?"

"There is always the b-b-b-b-back seat."

"Mulder!"

The End