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From: skeeter@bcinet.net
Date: Sun, 04 Jul 1999 17:37:59 -0400
Subject: xfc: NEW! "Of Past Regret and Future Fear" by Robby Keofe (1 of 1)
Source: xfc

TITLE: Of Past Regret and Future Fear
AUTHOR: Robby Keofe
FEEDBACK: Please! skeeter@bcinet.net
RATING: PG-13
DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere! Just tell me first.
SPOILERS: An alternate ending to "En Ami."
CLASSIFICATION: SRA
KEYWORDS: MSR
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This isn't my typical style - it's something I did on
impulse in the space of about 25 minutes, so if it's horrible let me know
and I'll go back to my lighter stuff.
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and Company belong to Chris Carter,
1013, and FOX.
SUMMARY: What if CSM hadn't shot first?
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
OF PAST REGRET AND FUTURE FEAR by robby keofe
Part 1

She felt the bullet pierce into the unprotected flesh of her back, saw the
crimson blood splatter against the floor of the motor boat. Her blood,
dripping from her body as she felt her heart begin to pump faster, the
muscle unable to move enough oxygen to keep her alive. She fell forward,
her head slamming into the side of the boat, and she sensed her descent
into the unconscious blackness from which she may never return. She
welcomed it, unable to muster the strength to fight it, and recognized it
as an escape from the searing pain that radiated throughout her body.

Across the lake another gun fired, instantly killing Dana Scully's
assailant. The man reached for his cell phone, hoping it wouldn't be too
late to save her. As he waited for the call to connect, an icy feeling
reminded him that the nameless man that lay slain below him, whose blood
mingled with dirt as it pooled around him, would be the man responsible for
Scully's murder.

He felt a sudden pang of compassion shoot through him and he brushed it
off, unaccustomed to the feeling. He felt grief, perhaps premature, given
that he couldn't see her, but a lifetime of violence allowed for an
accurate mental image of Scully's condition; facedown in the boat, blood
gushing from her back, suffering as the inevitable approached.

He found consolation in the realization that she was probably already dead.

~*~

There was no trauma center in the immediate area, and more precious time
was wasted transporting her via helicopter to Philadelphia's Jefferson
Memorial Hospital. Jefferson was one of the finest medical establishments
in the country, and if she could survive until the chopper landed her
chances were better, though still not good; the bullet could've shredded
her heart, and it was impossible to assess the extent of the damage in the
field. She was resuscitated twice and the condition resulting from her
collapsed lung was worsening, though little could be done without a chest
tube. The hospital was used to this sort of thing, they saw it every day,
another GSW to add to the register; faceless no matter how hard the OR and
trauma staff tried to acknowledge that the victim was someone's parent,
someone's sibling, someone's child.

On her body they found her ID, thankfully protected from all the blood by
its plastic covering; the paramedics could never know how many times that
card had seen far worse substances than blood.

Scully maintained a slippery grip on her life, in surgery for thirteen
hours to repair organs razored by a bullet, which missed the spinal cord
and badly nicked the liver.

By time Fox Mulder reached the hospital, she'd been moved to post-op; if
she lived a few more hours they'd transfer her to the SICU.

Dr. Richard Leffler found Mulder in the waiting room, his head in his hands
as he sat on the couch.

"Mr. Mulder?" Leffler called carefully, and Mulder looked up, eyes
bloodshot with a greater expression of sadness than 25 years of trauma had
ever shown him.

"Yes?" Mulder choked, his voice barely audible.

"She's out of surgery, but she's listed in critical condition," Leffler
informed him carefully, his tone even and soft. He was practiced at
delivering the bad news; opportunities to do so seemed oddly common for an
institution of healing.

"When can I see her?" he whispered.

"We have to get her into the surgical ICU first, but she's currently in a
coma. We'll get a CAT scan as soon as possible."

Mulder nodded, unable to do much more; he no longer had the strength to
weep, or scream, or even move. He felt drained, sucked of all emotion,
vacant and empty as Scully lay dying.

"Is there anything else you'd like to know?" Leffler pressed.

Mulder shook his head wordlessly. There were hundreds of questions; the
extent of the damage, if she was in pain, if she would ever wake up. He
could never ask, as the answers terrified him far more than all the
possibilities.

Leffler exited the waiting room silently, leaving a motionless Mulder alone
on the couch.

The FBI had been notified, not Mulder, and it was Skinner that contacted
him. Mulder had been sitting with the Gunmen when his cell phone rang,
irate with the well-masked feelings that Scully had betrayed him for his
ultimate enemy.

If she died, it would be anger he could never forgive himself for.

Skinner's voice was soft, as tender as the gruff man knew how to be, and
Mulder remembered screaming for details, pleading with his boss to tell him
where she was, what had happened, why he wasn't called earlier. All Skinner
could tell him was that it looked bad.

The Gunmen stared as he broke down, sobbing hysterically as his mind
provided swirling images of how she'd looked the last time she'd been shot,
and his words to Skinner, that they may never see her alive again.

He drove to Philadelphia, finding it impossible to make flight reservations
and worry about rental cars and delays; he could not cope with sitting
still, waiting to taxi onto the runway, a problem that he always seemed to
encounter whenever he needed to get someplace fast. Instead he drove along
I-95, alone with his fear and profound sorrow, oblivious to speed limits
and the music playing on the radio. His fingers contracted against the
steering wheel, his whole body wracked with an uncontrollable trembling,
and in the moments of solitude he saw how truly alone, how lost, how dead
he was without her. He'd been here before, gazing down at an endless road
of anguish, but it never got easier. The more time he spent with her all
the more meaningless his time without her, even if it was only for the
night; each evening she left the office, and he'd count the hours until
she'd arrive again the next morning. Her absence became intolerable,
especially now, as he'd begun to find himself longing for something more
than friendship. He loved her, that was nothing new, but the soft kisses
and hugs they'd begun to share was. He was amazed at how much he loved to
kiss her, usually on the cheek, when they were at his house watching a
movie or taking a walk through the park. Since New Year's their
relationship expanded, and while it lacked a truly sexual nature it had
something perhaps better; simply holding her hand was enough to spark
levels of contentment and joy that he'd never experienced before. While
they weren't having sex, or even kissing with tongue, as the Gunmen liked
to so crudely remind him, the affection was the greatest thing he could've
hoped for; never before in his life had he felt so loved as when Dana
Scully nuzzled his shoulder, or kissed his temple, or snaked her arms
around him from behind when he was in the kitchen cooking them dinner.

It made him happy.

The previous winter allowed him to put many of the demons of his past
behind him. Now he could finally place faith in tomorrow, and he couldn't
imagine how the life he looked forward to could be so brutally taken away
from him. It was incomprehensible to him, how something so small and
insignificant as a piece of metal could mean the destruction of the only
happiness, the only hope, he'd ever found.

"Mr. Mulder?" a nurse asked as she walked into the waiting room.

"Yes?"

"We've transferred her to the SICU. You're family, correct?"

"Yes," he answered, without the slightest note of hesitation. She was his
family, his only family.

"Come with me," the nurse directed, leading him down the hall. Mulder
couldn't help but notice the doctors chatting and laughing, heading home
after a day's work to their families. Scully's case was one they saw every
day, routine to them; he wondered if they knew what it meant to be in his
place, or even if they once did, if they'd forgotten due to the monotony of
the knowledge that it was their job.

The lights in Scully's room were dim, and it was silent, with the exception
of the humming of the various pieces of equipment set up around her. A tube
was down her throat, wires were connected to her chest, and an IV protruded
from her arm. The scene was not a new one, but it stabbed nonetheless. The
nurse left, and Mulder pulled a chair to Scully's bedside. Her face was
bruised, purple and yellow splotches that leapt from her pallid skin, the
result of her fall inside the boat. She was pale, sickly, and he watched
her as the respirator pumped air into her lungs. He remained quiet,
watching for the slightest movement, anything that would tell him she was
alive inside the comatose shell. 

She remained still, ghostly pale.

He remembered the rosy flush of her cheeks after they'd chased each other
around the park at sunset, how she'd laughed when he tackled her and they'd
rolled around in the grass.

Tears flooded his eyes at the memory, and he began to weep.

End Part 1

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
OF PAST REGRET AND FUTURE FEAR by robby keofe
part 2

Fox Mulder woke from a fitful sleep to the rhythmic humming of the
ventilator, and with one glance at Scully's lifeless form the tears that
lulled him to sleep the night before returned.

Her eyes were taped shut.

It was a harrowing image, two strips of tape further marring her face.
Gingerly he touched her forehead, stroking the clammy skin with the side of
his thumb as his other fingers rested lightly in her hair, the action
purely a reminder that she was still there, that she was still Scully.

A group of doctors on a.m. rounds wandered in, wielding clipboards and
solemn expressions as they gathered around Scully's bed. Mulder's hand
returned to his lap.

"Why are her eyes taped?" he asked quietly, his hand moving by its own
volition to Scully's.

"Standard procedure, Sir," someone in the back of the group, likely a
student, answered.

"We're going to take her to CT later this morning to monitor brain
activity, and that will determine when she can come off the vent," an
older, silver-haired doctor in glasses and scrubs added.

Mulder felt a wave of relief at the doctor's tone, a renewed sense of hope
as the group glanced over her chart and left.

"Scully," he whispered, bending his head to kiss her hand, which hadn't
moved since the nurses placed it by her side the afternoon before.

"Good morning, Mr. Mulder," Julie, a blonde SICU nurse, called cheerfully
as she walked in to change Scully's IV bag. She'd given him tissues when he
couldn't stop crying the night before, and when visiting hours ended and an
aide tried to throw him out, Julie told her to leave him alone and brought
him a blanket.

"Good morning," he answered, his voice soft and tired.

"Did you sleep okay?" she asked warmly, ignoring the obvious. She checked
Scully's vitals, and he watched with interest.

"No," he responded, nothing bothering to lie, and the nurse slipped the
blood pressure cuff off her arm.

"There's a hotel across the street," Julie reminded him. It was pointless;
he wouldn't leave Scully. Nothing could take him from her bedside, and
there was nowhere else he wanted to be. 

"I'm fine. How does she look?"

"Her vitals are good," she told him with a slight smile.

"What does that mean?" he pressed, not sure he wanted to know.

"Her body's undergone severe trauma, Mr. Mulder, and - "

"Did you tape her eyes?" he interrupted. She frowned.

"No. Must've been someone on the later shift," she told him. He nodded.
"I'm taking my break in about fifteen minutes, if you'd like me to grab you
something from the cafeteria," she offered.

"No, I'm fine," he said softly. Julie squeezed his shoulder as she left,
the thudding of her clogs on the linoleum floor in time to the sounds of
the ventilator. "Oh, Scully," he whispered, laying his head down against
her arm again. "You have to wake up . . ." He meant to sound forceful, but
his voice cracked and shook. "Wake up," he pleaded, squeezing her hand.
"God, how are you supposed to wake up if you can't open your eyes . . ." he
whimpered, closing his own eyes so he wouldn't have to see the vent, or the
IV, or the tape on her eyelids, or the thoracotomy tube; he forced himself
to recall the weekend before, her face tense as she tried to repress
laughter at the Adam Sandler movie she deemed moronic, how he finally
resorted to tickling her to make her laugh. He remembered how he walked her
to the elevator, and how their usual goodbye kiss lingered a little longer
than usual, and how they were interrupted by the arrival chime of the
elevator. She'd given him a shy smile as she got into the elevator and the
doors shut. He grinned like an idiot as he walked back to his apartment,
his mind stuck on the goofy, cliched notion that this was the beginning of
something spectacular.

In a dim Philadelphia hospital room, Fox Mulder realized that it was more
likely the end.

~*~

Scully was scheduled for a CAT scan at 8:15.

At 7:55, three people fell onto the Speedline tracks, and as an impatient
Fox Mulder learned, to be shredded into pieces and come into the ER
carrying your own limbs gives you priority in the radiology lineup.

Apparently, potential brain death isn't as important, and Scully didn't get
into CT until 9:22. In her unconscious state, the delay didn't bother her,
but Mulder was left in the waiting room with a small child who'd fractured
her femur and cried incessantly. Just as he was considering clawing his own
eyes out so he'd have an excuse to leave the room, a radiologist entered,
carrying a large manilla envelope.

"Mr. Mulder?" the fair-skinned radiologist asked, raising his voice only
slightly over the small girl's screams.

"Yes," Mulder responded, walking to a far corner of the room behind the
doctor.

"I'm Dr. Forelli," he informed Mulder, unnecessarily since it was
embroidered in blue on his lab coat, in addition to the hospital ID tag
bearing his name and department clipped to the lapel.

He flipped on a florescent x-ray light and held the black film up to it.
There were small squares that Mulder suspected to be shots of Scully's brain.

"As you can see, there's a significant level of brain activity that should
put to rest any fears of brain death," the doctor informed him, gesturing
to things in the pictures that Mulder couldn't see, but he nodded anyway.
"The medulla is functioning normally, which is key in recovery of comatose
patients, and the cerebral region seems perfectly intact. There's nothing
here that would point to an extended coma or any threat of stroke."

"Then why is she still unconscious?" Mulder asked, his voice rough.

"As I'm sure you've already been told, there was liver damage, which was
repaired, I understand, but a GSW to the back resulting in a collapsed lung
places incredible stress on the body. It's almost like . . . a defense
mechanism, if you will, to remain in a state such as this while the body
heals. At this point, a full recovery is likely, but patience is of the
essence," the doctor finished, looking at him pointedly with large brown eyes.

Mulder glared at him.

"And there's no reason she can't come off the ventilator, now that we know
her brain is fine, but, of course, we'll keep O2 running and keep her in
the SICU," Forelli concluded, glancing back up at the x-rays. "The
thoracotomy tube's going to have to stay in for a few days, as well," he
added, referring to the tube embedded in her chest.

"Okay," Mulder murmured. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Forelli said politely, and pulled Scully's x-rays down
from the light. He walked through a set of swinging double doors, leaving
Mulder alone in the empty hallway to ponder what he'd said. He felt a small
smile twitch at his lips and he pushed it away, afraid to give in and grin,
a lifetime of loss peppering his bubbling joy with a biting reality. There
would be no greater pain than to submit to his hopes only to get them shot
down the moment he saw her.

Every time he looked at her he was shocked; he always expected to glance up
and see her awake, the hideous tape gone, smiling, the bruises disappeared
and that monstrous tube out of her throat. He wished for it, consciously
pleaded to God or whomever would listen to make her better.

Scully was returned to her room, and Mulder watched as Dr. Leffler, the
surgeon from the day before, took her off the ventilator and hooked her
onto external breathing equipment. Mulder stared at her intently for a few
minutes, then settled in the uncomfortable vinyl chair that played hell
with his back.

He scarcely noticed the pain.

Julie walked in on her bi-hourly vitals check, humming something vaguely
familiar as she checked Scully's temperature.

"You're allowed to talk to her, you know," Julie reminded him.

"I don't know what to say," he answered honestly. She looked at him sadly.

"It's good for them, to hear the voices of people they love."

"She doesn't love me," he said quietly, adjusting Scully's blue blanket; it
had become wrinkled when they moved her.

"I'm sure she does," Julie responded.

"She left without telling me a few days ago . . . she got shot and I didn't
know," he said, his eyes distant, laying his hand on top of Scully's.

"You're with the FBI, right?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

"You work together?"

"I'm family," he said quickly.

"Don't worry, I won't kick you out," she told him, smiling. "I don't know
you, but I want everything to work out for you."

"I just want her to wake up. Maybe she took off because she was angry at
me, I don't care. I don't care if she never wants to see me again. I just
want to know she's alright. I just want to talk to her one more time," he
murmured, swallowing as he squeezed her hand. No one said anything for a
moment, and for that Mulder was grateful.

"Well, I have to get back to work. But I can tell you she doesn't hate you.
She couldn't possibly hate you."

"Yeah, well, like you said, you don't know us," he said bitterly, wishing
she knew how horrible he'd treated her over the years, how unkind and
insensitive he could be. Julie nodded and stepped out of the room, off to
take endless blood pressures and change IV's and whatever else she did. He
felt badly for being so rude to her, but it couldn't touch the regret he
felt about Scully.

She could die and never know how sorry he was. 

She could die and never know that she was loved.

"Scully," he murmured. "You're fine. You're going to be fine. So you have
to come back to me, Scully. You have to wake up. You have so much to live
for, Dana Scully."

I think it's remotely plausible that someone might think you're hot.

"You have so much ahead of you."

Before I could only trust myself. Now I can only trust you.

"There's so much left for you to do, Scully."

Scully, what are you wearing?

"'The Blair Witch Project 2' is coming out."

It's good to put my arms around you. Both of them.

"They opened a new Cinnabon's in the mall, Scully, and if the thought of a
sugary, gooey cinnamon bun from the cinnamon bun king of the world isn't
enough to make you wake up, I don't know what is."

I'll be back soon, and we can build a tower of furniture.

"Have you ever been to Paris, Scully?"

Marry me.

"The Gunmen, Scully, you have to wake up so we can move you to a normal
room and they can come visit you - I can't imagine what kind of stupid
presents they'll bring you. Let's just hope Frohicke leaves his tux at
home. Remember last time, Scully? He came to the hospital wearing this
hideous red velvet tux, and, ohmigod, it was awful."

I'm just very happy to be standing here talking to you, that's all.

"They're screening 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' at that theater near your
house, and I know you like the book better, but have you ever seen it on
the big screen?"

Scully, you have to believe me. Nobody else on this whole damn planet ever
will. You're my one in 5 billion.

"The GAP at that shopping center in Alexandria is moving, and they're
having this huge sale. Everything's something like 75% off. Get up so we
can go hit it. C'mon, you love the GAP."

You make me a whole person.

"Steely Dan is coming to D.C. in about two months, Scully. I meant to tell
you, I got tickets about a week and a half ago."

I love you.

"C'mon, Scully, if you can twist your arm all the way around, you can come
out of a coma."

You were my friend and you told me the truth. Even when the world was
falling apart, you were my constant, my touchstone.

"You like Steely Dan! Scully, I know you have a copy of 'Can't Buy a
Thrill' somewhere in your apartment, everyone does. And I've seen 'Katy
Lied' in your CD player at least twice, so don't even try to fake me out."

Go ahead, Scully, keep me guessing.

"Scully, wake up. *Get up.*"

The only one I trust.

"Scully, please."

My constant.

"Wake up, Scully. You have to wake up."

My touchstone.

"Don't leave me, Scully."

You make me a whole person.

"Please get up."

I love you.

"Don't do this to me."

I love you.

"Scully, please," he begged, tears streaming down his cheeks, running his
hands along her arms, her shoulders, her face. He ignored the IV and the
bruises and machinery, ignored it for the need to touch her, to connect
with her in even the smallest way. If he could feel her, he hoped, perhaps
she could feel him. 

Mulder leaned over, his face millimeters from hers, whispering pleading
words of love and remorse.

A sudden, sharp series of beeps pierced the air, followed by a loud, steady
mechanical whine as Dana Scully fell into cardiac arrest.

End Part 2

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
OF PAST REGRET AND FUTURE FEAR by robby keofe
part 3

Mulder left the room as the code team worked, sinking into a hard plastic
chair in the hallway, far enough away so he wouldn't have to hear the
demands for adrenaline injections and listen as they zapped her chest. So
he wouldn't have to hear the shrill hum of the heart monitor as she
flatlined, the sharp sound that told him she was dead.

Dead.

Scully was dead.

She would never see another sunrise. She would never laugh again. She would
never walk into their basement office again, her heels clacking against the
floor, their rhythm even and soft. She would never again fall asleep on his
shoulder, her weight warm and slight against him, his cheek brushing
against her soft carmine hair whenever he turned his head. Everything he
hoped for her, everything he wanted, gone.

These were the thoughts that whirled in his mind as he pressed his face
into his shaking hands, these were the  memories and dreams that tortured
him as he sat alone in the sterile hallway.

"Mr. Mulder?" Dr. Leffler asked, sitting down next to him. Mulder said
nothing, simply lifted his head slightly so he could meet the doctor's
eyes, leaving his hands clasped over his mouth. "We got her back, but we'll
have to put her on the ventilator again."

"What happened?" Mulder whispered. 

"We took her off the vent early, Mr. Mulder, and it likely placed too much
stress on her respiratory system. We're going to give it another day or so,
see what happens. There's no reason to suspect any complications, like
brain damage or stroke, we just need to get her back on the ventilator."

"But she's alright now?"

"Yes," Leffler answered, not sounding as confident as Mulder would've liked.

"Why can't she wake up?" Mulder asked, his voice broken and low.

"It takes time, Mr. Mulder," Leffler responded, standing. "You can go back
in there now, if you'd like."

Mulder nodded, closing his eyes, wishing that he could melt back into the
week before, to a place without gunshot wounds and ventilators. When he
looked up again he was alone, both physically and figuratively, the sense
of emptiness that he had been fighting for days beginning to gnaw at him,
replacing optimism with despair. He wanted to believe, for her, but he felt
cracks forming in his resolve. It wasn't easy to see her like this, to talk
to her knowing she wouldn't respond, to watch days creep by without her.
Perhaps the most difficult of all was the bitter knowledge that these hours
could be her last ones, and for all the moments he spent at her beside, so
distant from her as she lay unconscious, he would never have a chance to
say goodbye.

~*~

On the third day at the hospital, the Gunmen called, and Mulder realized it
would be impossible to dodge the real world much longer. He'd almost
forgotten there was a world beyond these hospital walls; everything he
cared about was trapped within them.

"Hey, Mulder, how are you?" Byers asked, trying to sound lighthearted, but
Mulder picked up on his careful tone. He was the most tactful, sensitive
Gunman, and Mulder was grateful he'd been chosen to speak for the three of
them.

"Okay," Mulder answered, the generic answer easier than telling Byers he'd
been battling guilt and sorrow and contemplating taking his own life.
Thoughts of suicide weren't necessarily blatant ones, but abstract flickers
of consciousness born of midnight loneliness. He ignored them; he would
never give up on Scully, not when she needed him most.

"How is Scully?" Byers questioned gently.

"She's . . . she's on life support," Mulder said softly, his voice raw. He
knew the Gunmen had little information on Scully's condition, but he wasn't
about to elaborate; he didn't have the strength. Byers seemed to sense his
lethargy, fatigue stemming from sleepless nights and the inevitable Fox
Mulder self-torment, and he let the topic drop.

"We're feeding your fish for you," Byers told him, though at the moment
Mulder wouldn't have cared if the Gunmen decided to eat the fish themselves.

"Thanks," he said blandly. Mulder heard a strange ruffling sound as Byers
covered the mouthpiece and muffled voices in the background.

"Mulder? Frohicke wants to say hi."

"Fine," he murmured, resting his forehead against the safety bar running
along the side of Scully's bed.

"Hey, Mulder, it's Frohicke," Frohicke began nervously.

"I know," Mulder said, taking Scully's limp hand in his own.

"Can I say something to Scully?" he asked, sounding timid.

"Excuse me?"

"Could I say something to her?" he pressed.

"She really can't talk at the moment, Frohicke," Mulder barked.

"No, just put the phone up to her ear . . . please?" he said, and Mulder
sighed.

"Fine. Here she is." Mulder rested his elbow on her pillow and held the
receiver near her ear. Mulder was close enough so he could hear what
Frohicke was saying, and his brow furrowed at his words.

"Hey, Scully, it's Melvin. Frohicke. I just wanted to tell you that we're
all rooting for you down here. You have to stick around, because you're
like Batgirl. You know, running around fighting crime with your red hair
and . . . anyway, I love you. We all love you. And the Dana Scully Fan Club
will go to hell without you around, so you have to get better. And Mulder
loves you too, even though he's probably being a bastard right now and
saying all kinds of stupid stuff in an attempt to avoid telling you how he
really feels, but anywa-"

"That's enough, Frohicke," Mulder interrupted, bringing the phone back to
his own ear. "I'll talk to you later," he told him. Frohicke sighed.

"Hang on, Langley wants to talk to you. Bye, Mulder." More shuffling as the
phone changed hands. Mulder waited patiently, toying with Frohicke's words,
and wondering how a troll that never had a chance with her could be so honest.

"Hey, Mulder," Langley greeted him. "I just want to tell you that we're
already planning a welcome home party for Scully."

"Langley . . . I'm not sure you realize how serious this is," Mulder said
quietly, playing with Scully's hair as he forced the words from his mouth.

"Everything will be okay, Mulder," Langley insisted. "Hang on, I have to
go. Byers is throwing me off." Silence as Langley passed the phone.

"Mulder? Byers again."

"Hi again," Mulder joked weakly, closing his eyes. The men were silent for
a moment, and it was finally Byers that spoke.

"It'll work out, Mulder. It always does," Byers reminded him softly, the
layers behind his words bringing to mind all the battles they'd fought in
seven years.

In their relationship, nothing was for free.

"Bye," Mulder said simply, replacing the phone on the hook. "Oh, Scully,"
he murmured, smoothing her hair. "Seven years, Scully, and it's not going
to end like this. Do you hear me? Not like this. You deserve so much more
than this. The world is waiting, Scully," he told her motionless body. "I'm
waiting," he added, his voice a whisper.

~*~

Later that evening, Mulder ate a package of peanut butter crackers from the
vending machine down the hall, chomping on them while watching a dog show
on Animal Planet. It was the first food he'd eaten in days; he'd caved
after Julie promised to sit with Scully while he ran up the hall, stuck 65
cents in the machine, ran back to the room to check on Scully, ran to get
his crackers, then ran back to Scully's room. The whole process took less
than a minute.

"I think we have a new record," Julie teased as he came back into the room.
"I'm not even finished with her vitals yet."

"How's it look?" he asked, his voice soft and nervous, like always. He sat
down in his chair and stared at the crackers he didn't want while he
awaited her response.

"Actually, surprisingly good, given that little scare this afternoon," she
informed him, making a few notations on her chart. "I'm off. See you in the
morning," she said, then walked out of the room. He nodded as she left,
looking over at Scully, his pale and lifeless Scully that he loved beyond
words.

"We should get married," he whispered, running his fingers along her arm.
"I think I have this 'in sickness and in health' part down." He watched at
her, willing her to open her eyes and laugh, though the latter would be
impossible with that contraption down her throat.

Without that machine she'd be dead, he reminded himself. She'd be dead and
it wouldn't matter how much you loved her. Think of how she felt on that
boat - alone, scared, hurt, and wishing there was someone to hold her hand,
if only so she wouldn't have to die alone. Do you know how scared she
must've been? What kind of fear it is to know you're about to die? That
each breath could be your last, that these thoughts could be your last, and
that would be it, in mere seconds it's over forever? We go to bed at night
having accomplished nothing, and we're fine with that, because we know
we'll have tomorrow to fix things. How do you think Scully felt knowing
there would be no tomorrow? It was taken away from her because of you,
Mulder. The only thing she had was faith in a tomorrow that would never come.

"I never meant to hurt you," Mulder whispered, blinking away tears fueled
by a suffocating guilt. "And I don't know how to keep you safe, but you
have to believe that's all I want." He swallowed, jamming his palms into
his eyes. "No, Scully, that's not all I want. I want you to be happy. I'd
do anything to make you happy." He glanced up at the TV screen; dogs.
Scully loved dogs, one of the many things she was doomed to miss if this
was it, if all the wonders of modern medicine failed them. 

An ugly little Pomeranian came onscreen, and he turned to Scully.

"Look, Scully. Look. It's Queequeg, Scully, look!" he said exuberantly,
then really wished he hadn't made the Queequeg connection; he did not want
to point her in the direction of death. "It's Queequeg 2," he amended. "Not
the original. C'mon, Scully, open your eyes and watch the dog show with me.
You can pick out a dog. I'll buy you a dog and we can take it on walks
around the park with us. Though I always liked big dogs, Scully. What about
a Shepard or something? Or a Golden Retriever. They're smart, Scully. Of
course, your landlord probably won't appreciate a big dog in your
apartment, so we'll find a new place. My landlord hates me anyway. I'll
sleep on the couch, I don't care - I just want to be with you. In our house
with our Golden Retriever. I'll even get rid of the porn, did you hear
that? Anything you want, I'll do. You know that, right? That I'd do
anything for you. Anything. I'll do cartwheels naked in the street, just
say the word, Scully . . ." he rambled, an explosion of hidden emotion
bleeding into his words. "Scully, now. Look, open your eyes and watch the
dog show with me, please . . ." he pleaded, squeezing her hand and staring
at her intently. His hazel eyes were hopeful and glimmering with tears as
he willed her with every shred of his being to wake up, if only for a
second so he could whisper to her that he loved her.

Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, then opened wide, returning her to the
world that he feared she'd never see again.

End Part 3

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
OF PAST REGRET AND FUTURE FEAR by robby keofe
part 4

"Hey, Scully," Mulder murmured, stroking her cheek and grinning, trying to
appear calm and keep a handle on his excitement. "Welcome back to the land
of the living," he said softly, holding her gaze, trying to reassure her
with a bright smile. She stared up at him with frightened eyes and began
gagging around the tube, acting on the instinct to get the foreign object
out of her throat. "Scully, relax. Relax. They're going to take the tube
out in a while, but for now just relax," he coached her, taking her hand.
She squeezed his fingers weakly as she looked around the small room.
"You're at Jefferson in Philly," he informed her, answering a question she
couldn't ask. "In the SICU, but we'll get you out of here soon. God,
Scully, I'm so glad to see you open your eyes," he said, leaning closer to
her. "You have no idea how scared I was." His voice was quiet and pained as
he forgot that she did know, that she'd not only had to deal with seeing
her partner in a coma but a crumbling conspiracy as well. "I was so afraid
I'd never talk to you again," he whispered. She gestured to her throat, as
if to remind him that she still couldn't talk, and he chuckled. "Are you in
pain?" he asked, suddenly worried that she was in agony and couldn't tell
anyone. To his relief, she shook her head slightly to the side, all the
movement she could handle in her weakened state.

"Hello, Ms. Scully, I'm Dr. Leffler," the doctor said as he breezed into
her room. She waved weakly, wiggling her little fingers and looking so
tired Mulder's heart broke for her. Leffler seemed unfazed as he turned off
the vent, preparing to take the tube out of her throat. He detached the
oxygen tubes and wrapped his hand around the piece of plastic. "Okay, I
know you're a doctor so you're familiar with procedure here - when I say
go, take a deep breath and help blow the tube out. Ready . . . go!" Mulder
heard Scully struggle to inhale, then heard a hideous gagging as the tube
was yanked out. Mulder turned away from the sound, thinking it was easier
when she was unconscious and he didn't have to look at her eyes. "All set,"
Leffler assured her, slipping an oxygen mask over her head. Mulder heard
her gasping for breath, and he kept his eyes averted; he could not watch
her choking for air. It would give him a nervous breakdown, he was certain
of it.

Leffler lead him to the door, out of Scully's earshot. She held the mask to
her face, sucking down air as she tried to concentrate on the TV, anything
to distract her from the burning in her lungs.

"Why is she having such a hard time?" Mulder asked, his voice cracking.

"This is normal. She hasn't breathed on her own in days. She'll adjust in a
few minutes. We're going to keep a close eye on her, but now that she's
awake, you're pretty much in the clear."

"Thanks," Mulder mumbled. Leffler patted him on the back and walked out,
waving to Scully as he went. He's probably going to cut off the oxygen of
other innocent patients, Mulder thought bitterly.

He walked back over to Scully, who seemed to have her breathing under control.

"Sorry about Dr. Mengele just then," Mulder said weakly, eliciting a
struggling chuckle from Scully, followed by a wince of pain as her wounded
chest and back felt the vibration. "You probably shouldn't laugh, Scully.
Or talk. Maybe you should just sit there, totally still," he suggested, his
brow creasing with concern. She rolled her eyes, but through the plastic of
the mask he could see a smile, her dry, cracked lips curving into the grin
he was scared he'd lost forever. She held out her hand, her eyes timid, and
he grasped it with his own. He brought her smaller hand to his mouth,
kissed it, and moved their entwined hands to rest over his heart. She
rolled her head to the side, closer to him, and he smiled down at her.
"Don't move, Scully. Don't hurt yourself," he whispered, his free hand
pushing her hair off her face. Animal Planet was still on, and they watched
a special about clothes for cats in silence as Mulder ran his hands through
her hair. He saw Scully's eyes begin to drift shut as the show ended, and
he pulled her hand away from his and rested it on her stomach. Her eyes
snapped open, fighting the urge to sleep. "Go to sleep, Scully. You need to
rest," he told her, hoping to diminish the fear that if she slept she may
never wake up. She reached for his hand, attempting to bring it down to her
own heart, but he resisted. "No, Scully. I don't want to mess up your chest
tube," he said, gently pulling their hands apart. She lifted the mask off
her face to talk to him.

"Please?" she rasped.

"I, uh, I don't think you should touch that," he said, sounding worried as
he pushed it down over her mouth. She shoved it aside again, and batted his
hand away when he reached up to fix it.

"Please?" she mouthed, tears gathering in her eyes.

"I don't want to hurt you," he murmured, peeling her fingers off the mask
so he could adjust it on her face. She grabbed for it again, and he caught
her hand. "You really have to leave this alone," he told her, trying to
force her hand down by her side. She fought him, again pulling the mask away.

"I'm scared," she choked out, her voice raw. She snapped the mask back
herself this time, and as he recognized the nakedness in her eyes Mulder
felt something inside him begin to ache. She trusted him. It was his fault
she was here and still she trusted him. She was embarrassed, yes; Dana
Scully was not one to admit weakness, and this facet of her demeanor was
not lost on him as she closed her eyes, hiding from him in the simplest of
ways.

"Scully?" he said quietly. "Open your eyes. You're going to get better. You
don't have to be scared. Yesterday, though, yesterday you should've been
worried." He watched as a tiny smile crossed her face. "And you don't have
to be scared of me." Her eyes did open, exposed and vulnerable as she
pleaded without words for him to help her. Slowly he moved his hand to her
upper stomach, dodging the chest tube, unable to deny her anything. 

She watched his hand as it moved up and down as she breathed, and for the
first time he realized how extraordinary it was that she was breathing on
her own. 

He left his hand there, glad for whatever comfort it gave her, wishing he
could tell her that for all the times he'd let her down he would be there
now. He'd be there forever; all she had to do was ask.

~*~

In the morning the sky was blue, having shed the somber clouds of the days
before, and light flooded the small hospital room. Mulder left the blinds
open, wanting Scully to see the sunshine on the first morning of the rest
of her life, a morning that was truly cause for celebration.

When he turned to Scully, her head was tilted toward the window, squinting
against the sun. 

"Hey! She's awake!" he said, gasping dramatically. "So, Scully, now that
you're better, how about we go run a few laps around the parking lot?" he
joked. She raised her eyebrows suspiciously, not hearing the teasing in his
voice. He grinned and walked over to her, smoothing her hair back before
speaking again. "Just kidding. Hungry?" he asked, eyeing her IV. She nodded.

"Popsicle," she whispered. 

"Hang on, I'll see if I can find you one," he told her, walking out of the
room. Julie was standing at the desk, sorting charts. 

"Hey! How's the patient?" she asked.

"Awake. I think her throat's bothering her . . . I mean, with the tube and
all. Could I get her a popsicle?"

"Sure. What flavor?" 

"Anything but grape," he answered.

"No problem. Hang on a sec," Julie said, taking off down the hall. Standing
there he realized how intimate his relationship with Scully was; he didn't
suspect many people knew that she hated things flavored grape, or that she
liked romantic comedies, or that one time on a stakeout she mumbled in her
sleep about leprechauns for three hours. He knew these things, held these
tiny pieces of Scully that she'd guarded so closely for so long. He
wondered when this silent wall fell; when the things he knew about her were
not the result of casual familiarity but a real illustration of trust and
caring and maybe even love.

"Cherry okay?" Julie asked as she returned, distracting him from his
thoughts. 

"Oh, it's fine. Thanks," he told her, taking the popsicle walking down the
hall to Scully's room. "Got you a present, Scully," he said, smiling as he
handed it to her.

"Thanks," she croaked, carefully tearing off the white paper wrapper. She
had the oxygen mask hanging around her neck, but Mulder didn't say
anything. He watched her eat the popsicle, her lips encircling it as she
slowly sucked on it, staining her lips bright red. His mind made the
inevitable leaps of logic as he watched her actions, and Mulder forced his
gaze away, berating himself for being a pervert while she was so sick.

"How do you feel?" he asked finally, turning his chair to face her.

"Better," she said honestly. "I'm sore, obviously, but I'm okay." Her voice
was quiet, but she could manage full sentences again. She finished with her
popsicle and left the stick abandoned on the bedside table.

"Good Morning," Julie said brightly from the doorway. "Hi, Dana. I'm just
going to check your vitals," she informed her, pulling the stethoscope from
where it was slung around her neck. Her smile faded as she checked Scully's
temperature.

"What is it?" Mulder asked nervously.

"Dana, you're running a slight fever, which, as you know, can be really
dangerous. We're going to get you started on IV antibiotics," Julie
informed them casually. "I'll be back in a few minutes," she said. Mulder
watched her go, wondering how people could be surrounded by illness and
death every day and seem to feel nothing.

"I just won't die," Scully joked weakly.

"Don't say that, Scully," Mulder mumbled.

"I was kidding," she reminded him.

"Wait until we're out of here; then you can kid all you want," he told her
tersely, not looking at her. Scully tried to meet his gaze, hoping to
reassure him, but he avoided her eyes.

"I'm back. Okay, let me get this stuff hooked up," Julie said lightly,
fastening an IV bag on the hook and plugging the tube into the main IV line
in Scully's hand. "All set. I'll be back to check on you in about half an
hour," she said, then left again.

"Mulder?" Scully asked, carefully rolling onto her side and snuggling into
the pillow.

"Yes?"

"Thanks for staying with me," she said, her eyes smiling up at him, though
her face was tense. "I'm tired," she mumbled, yawning.

"Well, take a nap," he said, reaching for her hand. She smiled languidly
and shut her eyes. 

"Thank you for not leaving me," she whispered.

"I'm not going to leave you. I'll be here when you wake up," he assured
her, moving one hand gently along her arm.

"And what if I don't?" she murmured, the question hanging heavy in the air.

End Part 4
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
OF PAST REGRET AND FUTURE FEAR by robby keofe
part 5

She woke in the evening, lost in a medicated haze as she tried to keep her
eyes open long enough to scan the room for Mulder.

He was sitting by the window, watching as the sun fell from the
Philadelphia sky, the rigors of a constant state of worry evident on his
face. She wondered when he'd last been able to sleep. She noticed he did
look as though he'd taken a shower, and he'd changed his clothes. Scully
was relieved he'd finally felt safe enough in her health to leave her, if
only for a short period of time.

"Hey, you," Mulder said affectionately, smiling as he walked over to her.
"You're feeling okay, right?" he asked, stroking her hair. Scully was
amazed at how much he'd touched her over the past few days; he'd always
been strangely tactile, especially as a demonstration of the caring he
wasn't able to voice, but this was different. He seemed so much more
comfortable with her, tender without hesitance. She was surprised at how
much she liked it, how badly she wanted to see it evolve.

"Fine," she said slowly, her tongue not wanting to cooperate. Like the rest
of her limbs, it felt heavy and rubbery. She wasn't sure she could move,
but miraculously, for the first time in days, there was no pain.

"Yeah, I'll bet. They've been pumping all kinds of stuff in through that
IV." He paused, then eyed the edge of her bed. "Could I sit here?" he
asked, and she nodded. He carefully sat down, as though worried he would
jar the bed and hurt her. She didn't want to tell him she felt numb; it
would likely spark a whole new set of worries. "I left for about half an
hour today," he told her quietly, almost sounding guilty. "I took a shower
and everything." He looked down at her and smiled. "Guess who's here?" he
asked, sounding as excited as he could be while coping with the illness of
the woman he loved.

Scully became understandably worried.

"Who?" she asked nervously.

"The Gunmen," he said, grinning. He tugged at the sleeve of his polo shirt.
"They brought me clothes." He had a few spare shirts in his trunk; by some
miracle, he'd left his duffel bag in the car after their last case.
However, freshly-cleaned clothes that didn't smell like they'd been in,
well, his trunk, had their appeal.

"Nice," she said, willing her lips into a smile. "They didn't happen to
bring me anything, did they?" she asked.

"I didn't think you wanted the Gunmen in your clothes . . . Besides, are
you going someplace?" he asked, smiling at her.

"Yeah, I wanted to get dressed up for my big move from the SICU to the med
ward," she said drily.

"Seriously, did you need something?" he asked, concerned.

"No. I was just hoping for some of my pajamas." She plucked at her hospital
gown. "I hate this thing," she said, smiling weakly.

"I'm sorry. God, I didn't even think of that," he muttered, half to
himself, finding something new to feel badly about.

"Don't worry about it, Mulder. Sheesh." She carefully maneuvered herself
lower on the bed, rolling over onto her side. He knew she was most
comfortable sleeping on her side, but the injuries made it difficult.

"Do you need any help?" Mulder asked gently, not wanting to compromise her
dignity more than it already had been.

"I've got it," she responded after a moment, pulling the blanket up to her
chin.

"Are you going to sleep?"

"I don't know. I can't tell if I'm tired or it's the drugs."

"Well, get some rest." He paused, absently running his hand along her
spine. She stiffened as his fingers touched the gauze and tape guarding her
gunshot wound, the pain returning. Mulder yanked his hand back, instantly
apologizing. "God, Scully, I'm sorry, I forgot," he rambled, getting up.
"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"I'm okay," she said, the sharp pain fading into a dull ache.

"Do you want to watch TV? I think 'Jeopardy' is on," he suggested, reaching
for the TV remote. She nodded, deciding not to bring up the fact that she
was unable to concentrate on anything, nor did she remind him that the TV
was bolted in the far corner of the room, positioned at an angle that was
not conducive to actually watching it.

"Did you want to have dinner with the Gunmen or anything?" she asked.

"Nah. They're out exploring the city. They can't wait to see you, though."

"I don't think I want them to see me," she said dismally.

"You look fine, Scully," he assured her. She grimaced.

"Yeah, I'll bet I do. All I can say is that I should probably be grateful
no one put a mirror in this room."

"Don't worry about it. They can't come visit until you're out of the SICU
anyway, and by then you'll probably be back to your 'Vogue'-cover self,
anyway," he said, smiling. She grinned back at him, doubting his words, but
they were nice ones to hear. "Do you want anything to eat?" he asked
suddenly. She noticed this happened anytime he said something exceptionally
sweet; he'd smile and seconds later snap back into the mold of nervous worry.

"A milkshake. From Wendy's," she admitted. "If you feel like running out,"
she added, but he was already halfway out the door.

"No problem. It'll give me an excuse to eat some real food," he answered.
Only Mulder would consider Wendy's real food, Scully thought warmly. "I
don't know how I'm going to sneak it back in here, though. I think hospital
rules frown on outside food," he said.

"Mulder, when have the rules ever stopped you?" she teased.

"It's different when it's your health, Scully," he replied quickly,
sounding edgier than he intended.

"Milkshakes don't kill, Mulder," she said flatly. He shook his head, and
she saw him smile.

"Fine, fine. You're corrupting me, Dana Scully!" he called as he left.

~*~

He returned two hours later, after having realized that Philadelphians like
cheese steaks and foreign food.

They do not like Wendy's.

Despite a few delays and an unscheduled stop at a center city mall he
managed to find the milkshake.

"I'm back," Mulder called, walking into her room. She was sitting upright
for the first time in days, though not on her own; she was propped up by
the bed, the head of which was raised at an awkward angle that couldn't
possibly be comfortable.

Scully did not look happy.

"Are you okay?" he asked, dropping his stuff next to the door. She looked
like scarecrow, her strange position probably an attempt not to hurt her
back. She sighed dramatically.

"I decided I wanted to sit up. So I pushed the 'up' key on the little
bed-control box, then I put it down next to me. Then I realized it was too
high, so I grabbed for the box again, but my muscles aren't working right
and I knocked it on the floor." She gestured to the white linoleum floor,
looking ready to cry. He bent over and handed her the controls, looking at
her sympathetically, feeling awful for leaving her alone.

"Did you call for the nurse or anything?" he asked.

"No," she said. "Dammit, I hate being an invalid," she grumbled, and the
total animosity that coated her words brought a slight smile to his face.
"Glad you think this is funny," she snapped.

"I don't think it's funny," he told her, fighting the urge to laugh. She
lowered the bed to an acceptable angle, glaring at him. "I got your
milkshake," he said.

"Thanks," she said, the scowl replaced by a faint smile as he handed her
the yellow cup.

"I got you something else," he informed her, grinning excitedly as he
grabbed the shopping bag he'd left on the floor. She raised her eyebrows
suspiciously, but put her milkshake down as he handed her the bag. She
opened it carefully, peering into it before lifting anything out.

"Mulder! Thank you!" she yelped, her voice louder than it had been in days.

He'd bought her pajamas.

She'd complained about her stupid hospital gown, and he'd gotten her
pajamas. Nice, soft, cotton pajamas with designs on them. One set was
covered in green alien heads, another printed with cartoonish dogs, and a
third set was pale blue with white pinstripes.

"Thank you," she repeated. "I'd hug you if I could move at all," she said
lightly, grinning over at him.

"Don't worry about it," he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

"I can pay you -" she started, but he quickly interrupted her.

"Are you kidding? Don't worry about it," he said, gingerly sitting down
beside her on the bed.

"I won't break," she reminded him. She looked down at the pajamas in her
hands. "I like the aliens," she said, smiling. "Can you help me get
changed?" The question was spoken in so soft a voice it was barely audible.

It was chilly in the room, but Fox Mulder instantly broke out in a sweat.

"I'm, uh, not sure this is a good idea . . . they have to be able to get to
your back to check the gunshot wound, and they're always looking at the
chest tube . . . Maybe you should keep the gown on for a while," he said,
his voice high-pitched and nervous. 

"Mulder, relax, I can ask one of the nurses," she responded embarrassedly.

"No, that's okay, I can help you," he said quickly. 

"Okay, first shut the door," she instructed, smiling.

"That I can do," he answered, closing the heavy wooden door and taking the
time to pray to God that he wouldn't do anything stupid.

He unbuttoned the alien top so she could slip it on like a jacket; he
initially figured it would be easier for her to retain her modesty if she
could slip it over her head, then peel the hospital gown off after the top
was on, but she hesitantly admitted how badly it hurt to lift her arms. He
tugged on the ties on the back of her gown, leaving the fabric to gape and
expose the column of ivory flesh, interrupted by a large square bandage
covering her injury.

"Okay, try to shrug out of the gown. Sort of use your shoulders to push it
off," he said quietly, then watched as she attempted to follow his
direction but winced with pain at the movement. "God, I'm sorry, that was a
stupid idea. I'll do it," he murmured, slowly skimming the gown down her
arms. He kept his eyes averted, focused on a point above her head. He
helped her into the shirt, his eyes still locked on an invisible spot on
the wall. He buttoned it for her, sensing that her motor coordination would
again fail her, and not wanting her to have to ask. She wiggled into the
bottoms in silence, and as she settled back down Mulder helped her adjust
the blanket around her waist.

"That was almost more trouble than it was worth," she joked, breaking the
tension. "Thank you," she added.  Mulder smiled at her, taking in the sight
of her; held up by pillows, her red hair mussed, wearing white pajamas with
lime green alien heads printed on them. The oxygen mask, discarded earlier
in the day, though placed on the bedside table in case she needed it again,
her milkshake sitting next to it with droplets of water pooling in a ring
around the cup. The IV line that snaked from her hand to the clear plastic
bag suspended from a chrome pole. The chest tube, with the main line
peeking out from the collar of her pajama top. Her eyes, her striking,
earnest blue eyes that were glowing with gratitude in spite of her recent
embarrassment. She seemed more fragile than usual, but Mulder knew there
was no one more resilient. She reached for her milkshake again, holding it
with two hands; the pain meds had her uncharacteristically clumsy. It was
oddly endearing. 

"What is it?" she asked, finally addressing his staring.

"I love you," he whispered shyly, smiling again. "I just wanted to tell you
that."

End Part 5
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
OF PAST REGRET AND FUTURE FEAR by robby keofe
part 6

"Hey, guys!" Julie said cheerfully, her sudden entrance causing them both
to jump. "Am I interrupting anything?" she asked, not sounding like she
cared if she was.

"No, of course not," Scully answered quickly.

"Okay. Well, I just came to tell you, Dana, that we're going to get you out
of here in the morning. Make room for really sick people." She smiled.
"We're going to send you down to the med ward, where you can have visitors
who don't have to lie about being family to get in," she said, looking at
Mulder pointedly. He smiled weakly, somewhat irritated by the interruption.
It was rather embarrassing; if they could've maintained the flow of their
earlier conversation, or at least if she'd had a chance to respond, it
would be different. Now he stood waiting for what would inevitably be the
most awkward moments of his life.

Julie pulled a syringe out of the breast pocket of her scrubs and tapped it
to get rid of air bubbles.

"Okay, Dana, more pain meds. You know the drill. It's gonna make you
sleepy, so get some rest. I'll see you in the morning, and you're going to
have to eat something before we let you out, so you'd better eat that
disgusting liquid breakfast tomorrow morning instead of just leaving it
there." She winked, pulling the cap off the needle. She fed it into the IV,
then flipped the empty syringe into a red container marked 'Biohazard.'
"Alright, best of luck. Tomorrow is my day off, so I won't see you guys,
but let me say it was a pleasure working with you."

"I'll bet you say that to all your gunshot wound patients," Mulder joked.

"Are you kidding? Do you know how many people can't even talk in this ward?
It's nice to hear voices as I walk by." She smiled as she left, and Mulder
hoped she hadn't 'walked by' during any particularly embarrassing mid-coma
confessions.

"Tired yet?" Mulder asked, breaking their thoughtful silence. 

"I'm tired constantly," she admitted, rolling away from him onto her side.
He wondered why she turned away, and couldn't help but see it as a subtle
rejection. The knowledge that he was truly in love sparked the greatest
happiness he'd ever known, and with every unanswered plea for her
acceptance it felt as though a tiny piece of his heart was dying. She did
hurt him, more often than she probably realized. Every sigh and raised
eyebrow stung. "Mulder?" she said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" Her voice was barely audible.

"I would never lie to you, Scully."

"Not lied . . . but maybe stretched the truth?"

"Of course not."

"Not even because I'm sick?" she questioned hesitantly.

"You think I told you I love you because you were shot?" He sat up
straighter, amazed she could even consider such a thing. 

"There's a pattern here, Mulder. Something traumatic happens and you're
suddenly madly in love with me," she said accusingly. He stared at her,
willing her to remember all those special moments that existed out of
happiness, not of tragedy, all the precious seconds that reminded him how
lucky he was to know someone like her.

"What about New Year's, Scully? What about two weekends ago, when you came
over and we cooked and watched movies and walked around . . . It was like
we were married, Scully. I couldn't help but think, God, what if . . ." he
trailed off, his tone wounded. "I thought you knew, Scully. All this time,
I thought you knew."

"Knew what?" she snapped. He was quiet for a moment, listening to the
steady beep of the heart monitor, and he sighed.

"Go to sleep, Scully. I don't want to talk about this anymore. Just go to
sleep," he said, his voice low and hurt. To his surprise, she said nothing.
He watched her in silence for a few moments, waiting for her to fall
asleep. He was glad he couldn't see her face. As the seconds faded into
minutes, he leaned forward, close to her ear.

"I love you," he whispered, more confident than before. She didn't open her
eyes, pretending to sleep so he wouldn't expect her to answer. She was
never good at conveying her feelings, especially not in situations as
vulnerable as theirs. She wondered why he didn't see that, why he pushed so
hard when he had to know she was afraid. Perhaps that was why she held
back; fear that what she had to offer would not be enough to satisfy
someone so brilliant, so beautiful, so honorable and gentle. "I'm in love
with you," he amended. He moved his fingers through her hair, a soothing
gesture he'd repeated so often over the past few days. "I'm in love with
you, and I've never been in love before," he murmured, his voice softer and
more timid, yet so full of hope and naked honesty that she felt tears begin
to seep from her closed eyelids.

~*~

Scully poked at her Jell-O with her white plastic fork, watching it jiggle,
then shot Mulder a disgusted look.

"Mulder . . ." she began, looking up at him. "I'll give you a hundred
dollars to eat this for me."

He laughed, but the look on her face told him she was serious.

"I think you should eat, Scully," he said, trying not to look as amused as
he felt. In reality, the image of her trying to force the inedible into her
stomach was priceless. Hilarious even, though she would probably kill him
if he laughed.

"I can't," she said quietly. "This stuff is hideous." She seemed to be
genuinely offended by the blob of red Jell-O, and Mulder had to smile.

"Well, eat your broth, then. Drink it. Whatever."

"It's a really weird color, Mulder," she griped. Mulder had never known
Scully to be so picky about food. He looked down at the containers on her
tray; the broth did look suspicious, so he wasn't going to push her to eat
that. 

"Scully, you're in a hospital. It's not going to be Le Bec-Fin, if you
catch my drift."

"That's right up the street, isn't it?" she asked, and he grinned.

"It's in this city somewhere, I know that. C'mon, Scully, it's Jell-O. How
bad could it be?" She looked at him with disbelief. "Do you want to be in
here forever? Eat, Scully."

"God, Mulder, what're you going to do next, send me to my room?" she said
drily, and it took him a minute to realize he was acting like his mother.

The thought was enough to make him back down. 

Very carefully, she broke off a microscopic hunk of Jell-O, stuck it on the
end of her fork, and held it in front of her face, examining it.

"Does it pass inspection?" he asked teasingly. In response she stuck the
tiny piece of Jell-O in her mouth and chewed it slowly. 

"Shut up, Mulder," she said bitterly after she'd swallowed. "Would you
please get rid of this stuff?"

"What do you expect me to do with it?"

"I don't know. Dump it down the sink. Whatever. Just don't make me eat it.
Please, Mulder. How many times have I gotten you out of the hospital early?"

"First of all, you're a doctor. Secondly, you're not getting out of the
hospital, you're just going downstairs."

"It's the same thing."

"No, it's not," he retorted.

"$200 bucks, Mulder," she countered, doubling her earlier offer.

"You're not going to bribe me into disposing of your breakfast, Scully."

"$200 bucks and I'll take my shirt off," she bargained, and his eyes
widened. "Kidding, Mulder. Besides, you've already seen my chest once
today," she reminded him.

"No, I haven't."

"Yeah, you did. When they were taking my chest tube out you were standing
right there."

"I was looking at your face, Scully."

"Sure you were," she responded snidely, spinning her fork around on the
table like a top.

"I was!" he said defensively, and as an afterthought he smiled. It was the
return of the sweet banter that hinted at the closeness, the affection, of
their relationship.

"Is that smile a concession to the fact that you used a medical procedure
as a chance to check me out?" she asked, grinning.

"I didn't look at anything! I wanted to punch that med student, though . .
. he was being an ass. I mean, if I was going to look, I'd try to be subtle
about it. He was openly *gawking.*"

"The cute one?" she asked innocently, and his head jerked.

"Scully, he looked about 14," he said drily. She chuckled.

"Ow, hurts to laugh," she mumbled to herself. "Anyway, Mulder, he wasn't
gawking. He was just interested in the procedure."

"Yeah, but the girl med student didn't seem half as interested," he grumbled.

"Oh, Mulder, let it go," she said lightly. "Besides, he wouldn't try
anything."

"And why's that?"

"He probably thought you were my boyfriend or my husband or something," she
said, not seeming uncomfortable with the obvious associations that come
from the two of them being together. It made him smile.

"Probably," he responded, not wanting to say anything else and have it be
the wrong thing.

"You wanna be my boyfriend, Mulder?" Scully asked, grinning.

"How much pain medicine did they give you this morning?" He seemed shocked,
his leprechaun green eyes like saucers. He wished the teasing weren't so
rare that he could abandon surprise and just enjoy the fact that they were
joking with each other.

She shrugged at the question, eyeing her food. She carefully picked up a
grape and stuck it in her mouth, taking two full minutes to chew it. 

"Good grape," she said seriously. He snickered.

"Oh, Scully," he murmured. She carefully glanced over the rest of her tray,
then looked at him with imploring eyes.

"Mulder, c'mon, please dump at least half of this broth down the sink," she
pleaded, holding out the tub of brownish soup. He sighed, taking it from her.

"Fine, fine," he mumbled, standing and walking into the adjoining bathroom.
She heard the splash of soup as he dumped it into the sink, and then water
from the faucet washing it away.

"Destroying the evidence?" she called as he returned, carrying the
container that was now about a quarter of the way full of soup. "Thanks,"
she said gratefully, setting it down.

"I can't believe I just did that," Mulder responded. Scully shrugged and
looked at her alien pajamas. 

"Hey, Mulder, these are the bestest pajamas ever," she announced. Bestest?
he thought.

"Thanks, Scully," he said, sitting down. They'd given her the usual pain
meds, in addition to some antibiotics to prevent infection after the chest
tube was removed. He was warned they might make her loopy, but this was
getting ridiculous. He looked over at her; she was humming something. He
listened closer, trying to figure out what she was singing. "Scully, are
you singing the Oompa Loompa song?" he asked, aghast as he recognized the
song as being from 'Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.' She nodded.

"I always thought Gene Wilder was hot," she said. He shook his head in
amazement.

"O-kay," he said slowly. "He was good in 'Young Frankenstein,'" he offered.
She ignored him.

"'Cept I hated that gum girl . . ." she mumbled. "And the mean girl . . .
and that fat kid . . ." Scully rambled on, going down the list of
characters, all people she apparently hated. "But Gene Wilder was hot," she
reminded him. "I was sooo in love with him," she said, dragging the 'so'
out to unnatural lengths.

"I got that," he responded, feeling dejected. Gene Wilder? She could be in
love with Gene Wilder and not him?

"Are you sad, Mulder?" Scully asked, cocking her head to the side as she
peererd at him. The way she was staring at him made him feel like a zoo
exhibit.

"Huh?"

"You look sad," she said seriously. "It's okay. I love you. I love you now."

Now? he thought.

"Now?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, nodding, but not bothering to explain.

"No, Scully, what do you mean, 'now'?" he pressed, knowing she likely
didn't have the presence of mind to give an explanation, but figuring a bad
explanation would be better than no explanation. And if she admitted that
by 'now' she meant she decided she loved him last week or something he
would surely cry.

Then he wanted to cry because he knew he had to be a loser to feel
threatened by Gene Wilder.

"It means," she began impatiently. "That while I love you, and though I
love you very much, when Gene Wilder is on TV you can just forget it," she
said flatly.

"Oh," he said, not knowing how to respond. He didn't imagine Gene Wilder
was on TV too often, but he decided against bringing it up. "Do you love
me, Scully?" he asked quietly.

"You *idiot,*" she growled. She leaned forward to smack him on the
shoulder, a strange flapping of the wrist. He felt bad for her; she really
couldn't function while medicated. "Of course I love you. Idiot," she
repeated.

"Then why did you run off with C.G.B. Spender without telling me?" he
asked, knowing it wasn't the best time to ask but needing even the weakest
facsimile of answer.

"Mulder, I thought I was going to learn to save the world. You know, be
Super Scully or something," she said. He smiled.

"Oh, you're always Super Scully to me," he said, grinning.

"I know," she answered, shoving a strawberry into her mouth.

~*~

Four hours later, Scully had been moved downstairs and the pain meds were
beginning to wear off. She did remember her ranting from earlier in the
day, something Mulder seemed unprepared to just let go.

"So, Scully, who are you in love with, again?" Mulder teased.

"Stop, Mulder," Scully warned.

"Gene Wilder? GENE WILDER, Scully??"

"Stop, Mulder," she repeated, more firmly.

"I can't WAIT to tell everyone at work about that one."

"STOP IT!" she shouted.

"I'll never bring it up again if you'll sing the Oompa Loompa song for me."
He grinned, unable to leash his enjoyment.

"Leave me alone!" she cried, turning away from him. He sighed dramatically,
standing.

"I'm going to go get a Coke," he informed her.

"Good. Don't come back," she grumbled, not looking up. 

"Want anything?" he asked.

"No," she muttered.

"Okay, I'll be right back," he said, walking out of the room. He poked his
head back in the door. "Super Scully," he added sneakily.

"Shut UP! Damn you!" she shrieked.

End Part 6
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
OF PAST REGRET AND FUTURE FEAR by robby keofe
part 7

"Hey!" Frohicke exclaimed, leading the other two Gunmen as they walked into
room 838. "Batgirl lives!" he announced, handing Scully the bouquet of
flowers he'd been clutching. They were unique flowers, not the typical
roses or chrysanthemums, and she had the oddest feeling they'd been clipped
from a national highway somewhere.

Scully was reminded of the 'Sesame Street' episode where Oscar the Grouch
gives some sick person a bunch of weeds as a gift, but she didn't say
anything.

"Batgirl?" she questioned, the eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, whatever. You're like Batgirl," Frohicke informed her. "Without the
spandex," he added. Mulder glared at him, and Frohicke's leering smile
transformed into a weak apologetic one.

"How are you feeling, Scully?" Byers asked politely, taking her flowers
from her and stuffing them into her pitcher of water.

"Uh, Byers?" Mulder began. "She was *drinking* that water."

"I'm okay," Scully answered. "Sore," she added.

"We got you a present," Langley announced, producing a badly wrapped
rectangular box from behind his back. Scully took it from him, peeling the
wrapping paper back slowly, afraid of what they might've gotten her. From
experience she knew that it would probably be really bad.

"Oh. Look. Myst II," she said drily, trying to fake enthusiasm for the
computer game. Mulder regarded her with an amused expression.

"I wanted to get you Age of Empires II, but Byers thought this would be
better," Langley said, oblivious to her animosity toward the gift.

"Thank you," Scully said, setting the box down on her lap. "I'm touched."

"We thought you'd like it," Frohicke said.

"I do," she responded, a fake smile plastered on her face, reminiscent of
Laura Petrie.

"Oh, we found a great cheese steak place, Scully. We could bring something
back for you, if you'd like," Frohicke told her, and Scully's smile faded
into a frown.

"I know you talked to Mulder, but I don't know if he mentioned the part
where a bullet sliced most of my internal organs, thus preventing normal
food consumption," she responded bitterly, raising the volume of her voice
with each word. The three Gunmen stared at her, looking wounded.

"Pain meds wearing off," Mulder mouthed to them, and they nodded with
understanding. They couldn't help but share a glance at his words; this
oddly considerate, sympathetic Mulder seemed to have replaced arrogant,
porn-watching Mulder. Scully lay back, clamping her hands over her face.

"So, Scully, are you enjoying being out of the ICU?" Byers asked politely.

"Your voice is making my back hurt," Scully growled, lifting her hands from
her face long enough to send him a sharp glare.

"Maybe you guys should come back later?" Mulder suggested brightly. The
three looked grateful to have an out.

"Okay, we'll be back later. Tomorrow, probably, since visiting hours are
almost up. Tomorrow," Langley assured them.

"GO!" she screeched from her bed. The Gunmen stumbled over each other in a
race to get out of her room.

"They looked pretty scared, Scully," Mulder said, smiling. She shook her
head and sighed.

"I'm not trying to be an ingrate, but Myst II?"

"I guess they figured you'd like Myst II," Mulder answered sheepishly. She
sighed again.

"Mulder, in the future, could you please subtly hint to them that gift
certificates make very nice presents?"

~*~
 
Thirty minutes an some IV Perkidan later, Mulder watched as Scully amused
herself by drawing circles on a sheet of paper. 

"That looks like my house," Scully said lucidly, drawing more circles with
the blue pen that had JEFFERSON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL emblazoned on the side.
Mulder glanced over at her paper; what she was gesturing to with limp
fingers looked nothing like a house. "And that looks like a bird. Hate
birds," she mumbled, banging the point of the pen into the series of
circles that in no way resembled a bird, as though she were trying to stab it.

"Scully? Can I have the pen?" he asked gently, touching her lightly on the
arm. He was sitting a few inches from her, in the chair by her bed; she
turned to him with unfocused eyes and hurled the pen about twenty feet to
his left and so high it smacked the ceiling. "Thanks," he said to himself,
getting up to retrieve it. He didn't want to smile, but on drugs she was
hilarious. It was a fifteen minute window of pure comedy enjoyed right
after the meds kicked in; after those few minutes, she settled down and
acted reasonably normal again. He sat back down in his chair, watching her
as she stared at the TV. "Want to turn something else on?" he asked,
figuring CNN would have to be sacrificed.

"No," she said, her glance not moving from the screen. "I KNOW THAT GUY!"
Scully yelped as the show cut to footage of Bill Clinton.

"I know, Scully. He's the President," he reminded her, biting down on the
inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"Huh?" she said blankly.

"It's okay, Scully," he answered affectionately, putting his arm around
her. She immediately slumped over onto his shoulder, and he realized that
if he moved a fraction of an inch she would slide off him and onto the
floor. "Uh, Scully? You're going to have to scooch over," he said, trying
to push her back onto the bed.

"No," she said firmly, remaining half on the bed, half off, dead weight on
his right side. 

"Please?" he said, for lack of a better response, trying to shift her over
as gently as possible. Her wounds wouldn't handle unnecessary pressure,
regardless of what kind of painkillers she had running through her
bloodstream, and he didn't want to hurt her.

"No," she repeated, her voice defiant. For a moment he got a flash of what
a hellion she must've been as a child. Very slowly he moved her fully onto
the bed, sliding in beside her. She sighed happily and snuggled further
into his shoulder, and he giggled as her nose tickled his neck. He turned
and kissed her hair, which had been washed that morning with the help of
one of the nurses. He'd waited outside, not wanting to invade her privacy,
and was left to torture himself with a three-months-old issue of 'Time' as
he listened to the water that he knew was cascading down her luscious body.
As much as he relished the opportunity to take care of her, it was becoming
unbearable. There was always the risk of what would happen when she checked
out, if maybe this freedom she'd granted him was a response to fear and
medication and not real emotion. He wasn't sure he could handle being
shoved away after she'd so freely demonstrated that she needed him, and
he'd needed her. He'd seen so much of her these past days, everything from
vulnerable Scully to goofy Scully, and couldn't help but hope that this was
her, this was the side that she'd hidden from him so long. He wondered if
there was anything he could do that could assure her she was safe with him,
that she was loved. "Mulder, Mulder, Mulder," she hummed to herself,
nuzzling his shoulder again.

"What?" he whispered, fighting arousal.

"Nothing," she answered. "Talking to myself." She turned her gaze back to
the TV, her head nestled against his neck, his arm still around her,
holding her to him. She was so warm against him, so small, he wanted to
stay snuggled with her forever. He envisioned the two of them like this on
the couch, cuddling, maybe a blanket thrown over them, her little feet
between his legs to keep them warm.

We could spoon up and fall asleep like little baby cats, he thought happily.

~*~

She fell into slumber curled onto his shoulder, and he slowly slipped her
off his arm until she was lying flat on the bed. He carefully pushed the IV
line out of the way, worried that he'd screw up and yank it out by
accident, and crept out of her bed. He tucked her blankets around her and
settled into his uncomfortable blue vinyl chair, knowing he wouldn't fall
asleep for hours but not caring. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at
him questioningly.

"Go to sleep," he murmured, leaning forward to stroke her hair. She didn't
respond, just stared at him with warm blue eyes, a kaleidoscope of emotion
he could never pin down. Wordlessly he moved his hand from her hair to
caress her cheek, the porcelain skin unbelievably soft beneath his callused
fingers. "Beautiful," he whispered. "You're beautiful."

"I'm not beautiful," she responded, breaking their gaze. "Especially not
now," she added quietly, touching her stomach self-consciously, taking a
mental register of her scars.

"Yes," he said adamantly. "You're at your most beautiful." He paused,
smiling to himself. "Scully, you could be a cyclops and you would still be
beautiful to me. I'd introduce your one-eyed self to all my friends with
pride," he said, his tone lightening. Playfully she smacked him on the
forearm.

"You don't have any friends," she reminded him teasingly.

"I have you."

"I'm not enough," she muttered, turning to stare at the ceiling.

"You are," he said firmly. "You are to me. You're everything to me, Scully.
Why else would I be so terrified of losing you?" he told her, his hand
returning to her cheek, gently leading her back to him. "You are so
precious to me," he whispered.

"So you'd still love me if I gouged one of my eyes out tomorrow?" she
asked, her eyes filling with tears.

"Yes. Scully, you'd make the most adorable cyclops."

"I think you have to be born a cyclops. I think if you lose one of your
eyes you're just one-eyed," she said thoughtfully.

"I'll take your word for it," he answered with a smile.

"Mulder?" she said after a moment.

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For everything," she whispered, closing her eyes. "And I am so
sorry I hurt you."

"It's okay," he responded, his voice as soft as hers.

"I thought I did the right thing," she continued, using the right hand, the
hand embedded with the TV, to wipe away her tears.

"It's okay," he repeated, trying to soothe her with a hand running along
her arm.

"No . . . you must've been so angry at me."

"I was hurt," he admitted reluctantly. "But then you got shot, and it all
became irrelevant. God, Scully, I was so scared. And all I could think was
that for those last few days . . . I was so mad, and if you'd died, I don't
know what I would've done."

"And what if nothing had happened? What if there were no life-threatening
event, and I just came home?"

"Then . . . then I would've been *really* pissed," he responded, grinning
like the Cheshire Cat in the darkness of a Philadelphia hospital room.

THE END
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Okay, I had to end it like that - the whole think was designed as a post-ep
for "En Ami," and I could think of no better homage than those last lines.
Mulder *was* really pissed at the end of "En Ami." :-)

Thanks so much to everyone for sticking around, and I hope you enjoyed it. 

I was considering writing a "Of Past Regret and Future Fear II," so if
you're interested in seeing one . . . the address is skeeter@bcinet.net.
Lin, look at it this way - if ten people write and say they want a "OPRaFF
II,"  you'll get your dog, I promise. We need 10.  :-)


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