untitled
'ALL
THE WAY HOME'
By: Vickie
Moseley
Warnings:
this product is completely Doggett Free and thereby Mulder Safe.
I keep working without a net, here, folks, so errors are my own.
My betas are all busy writing-or they better be <VEG>
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FOX MULDER’S ROOM
ICU
BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL
11:15pm
"Scully, without the vaccine . . ." I don't want to say
it. Not after all she's already been through. But I know now that
even though my actions of an hour ago might not have had the
intended result, killing the man I've considered my friend for
years now, it might still not be enough to forestall that
eventuality. He's still alive, the life support having been
helping the alien in his body more than it was supporting his
life. But for how much longer?
She stands there, stretching the scrubs she wearing to the point
of ripping the side seams. But even as the sight of her brings an
involuntary chuckle to the back of my throat, the look in her
eyes is all too familiar. At this moment she is pure Scully
Determination.
"We don't need the vaccine, Sir. I wouldn't trust Krycek to
tell me the correct time of day, I certainly wouldn't trust him
to help me save Mulder's life. I know what I'm doing." She
turns away and starts to adjust one of the IV lines.
I can't help it, I still have my doubts. Hell, I've been one big
walking doubt since I saw Mulder . . . absorbed . . . by that
ship over six months ago. I take the two steps to reach her and
touch her sleeve. "Enlighten me, Scully."
She sighs, but gives me an indulgent smile. I wonder if this is
the look she used to give the poor recruits who were just barely
passing her class at Quantico. I feel just about that stupid for
asking.
"Sir, it's fairly simple. First of all, if this is an alien
virus, this is not the first time Mulder has been exposed. He has
his own antibodies working in his favor. That's why terminating
the life support was the right thing to do. When his temp
dropped, it was his body's way of combating the invader."
I hope the look I'm giving her is not as blank as it feels on my
face.
"Sir, do you know why your body produces a fever when you're
sick?" she asks and I'm positive this is a 50 point question
on a 100 point quiz.
"The higher temperature is the body's way of killing the
germ or whatever is making you sick," I answer. It's almost
comical to me that the smile of approval on her face makes me
giddy with relief.
"So, in this case, Mulder's body is conditioned to remember
that the alien virus is inhibited by the cold," she
explains, turning back to the IV and making an adjustment on
another monitor. A nurse enters with a tray of 6 syringes and
places it on the table by the bed. One by one, Scully picks up
each syringe and empties it into the joint on the IV.
"You said the virus is inhibited by the cold," I
interrupt her and she nods.
"Knocks it down but not out. We learned that in Alaska. I
have no doubt that with enough time, Mulder's natural defenses
could defeat the invader. But at what cost. Prolonged hypothermia
can have a detrimental effect on the body. And his defenses are
compromised from the obvious . . ." She bits her lip and
points to the scars framing his cheeks and running straight down
his breastbone. "They really did a number on him," she
says with a deep sigh.
"So what are you giving him?" I ask, hoping to change
the direction of the conversation. Besides, I'm still trying to
figure out if this is going to work, or if it's just a last ditch
effort to avoid the inevitable.
"Antivirals. Everything they've developed in the last 5
years. I was working blind last time. This time, I'm
prepared." She smiles to herself, a private joke. "I
thought I was keeping up on the literature for the hell of
it," she mutters.
"So let me see if I'm following you. Mulder himself has an
immunity to this thing."
"Yes," she answers. "That also accounts for the
condition of his body. After three months in an airtight coffin,
he should have been farther decomposed."
I swallow convulsively. I really don't want to think about Mulder
in a grave right now.
"And the fact that his body temperature dropped but his
vitals remained stable, that was the proof I needed. His body is
kicking in it's own defense system."
"But he's weak." I feel the need to point this out.
"Exactly. So we're giving him a boost. I remember some stuff
from when I was a little kid, my Dad used it to fix our old
station wagon. STP or something," she says as she finished
the last syringe.
"The racer's edge," I murmur, remembering the
commercials all too well. I could probably sing the jingle.
"Yeah, it was a gasoline additive that cleaned the engine
and fuel lines, or so my father told Bill and I overheard them.
That's exactly what we're doing now. We're cleaning his 'fuel
lines' of the virus."
"And that will cure him?" I ask.
She gets a far away look to her eyes. "If it doesn't kill
him," she says cryptically.
I know my eyebrows much be touching my very receding hairline.
"What do you mean?"
"Sir, these are potent anitvirals. Mulder is stable but his
condition is still critical. These are not the most optimal
conditions for this treatment. But we have no choice. It's this
or . . ." This time, Scully swallows convulsively.
"How long before we know if it's working?"
She shrugs. "Last time, his blood showed a marked reduction
in virus cells within 12 hours of treatment. We'll be doing tests
every four hours, but I'm guessing it will be tomorrow afternoon
before we know anything."
"Then I suggest you get some rest," I say, hoping she's
not too tired to recognize my authoritarian tone.
She might recognize it, but she's doing her best to ignore it.
She shakes her head at me. "No, I'll be fine. I want to be
here in case . . ."
"Scully, I'm not trying to make you leave. I'm just telling
you that you need to rest. You won't be doing him," I point
to Mulder, "or 'him'," I point to her bulging stomach,
"any good if you keel over."
She looks over at Mulder longingly. I sense the problem
immediately and take action. I go out in the hall and grab the
first orderly I see. "I need a comfortable chair, one with a
footrest, brought to this room right now." Just to underline
my intent, I flash my badge. It has the desired effect.
"Sure thing," says the young man. In less than five
minutes he returns, pushing a reclining chair through the door.
She's now looking at the chair almost as longingly as she's been
looking at Mulder. I sense continued deliberations in that very
scientific mind and decide to throw in my support of the better
choice of directions. "I won't leave the room. If he so much
as twitches, I'll wake you."
Scully looks at me as if gauging my ability to recognize a
'twitch' if I saw one. Then, with a fierce growl-like tone to her
voice, she reaches her decision. "You better . . .
Sir." And here I always thought 'sir' was a term of respect
for authority, not a death threat. Stupid me.
As she sits down, I reach over and recline the chair back for
her. Her feet come up, and the look on her face is one of
blissful, but cautious, like she doesn't deserve this much
happiness, this much comfort. She glances guilty looks over at
Mulder and so I turn her attention back to herself. "Here,
you look chilly." Might have something to do with the fact
that it's 65 degrees in this room. She'd already explained to me
that we needed to keep Mulder as cool as possible to allow the
antivirals to do their job.
To my amazement, a shiver escapes her and she nods, not looking
up at me. I grab a blanket off the back of the other chair and
tuck it around her. She sighs. I feel my eyes water, but I
swallow them down around the lump in my throat. I want to touch
her hair, no, I want to pull her on to my lap and hold her
tightly until the sun comes up or until Mulder finally graces us
with his conscious presence. I do none of those things. I sit
back in the other chair.
I have no delusions where she is concerned. I think others do,
but I don't care to feed those delusions. If I am anything to
her, it's only in connection to Mulder's existence, not of my own
right. At some point in my life, I think that would have made me
insanely jealous. Now, it just leaves a tiny hole in my heart
that pumps a trickle of blood out each time I see her sad or
afraid or lonely. I want to stop the trickle, want to heal my
heart as I want to heal her, but I know nothing I do will ever
accomplish either of those things. Only he can heal her, only my
death can heal me.
As she sleeps, the old uneasiness creeps into my soul. I'm a
voyeur, I don't deserve to sit and watch her sleep. So I turn my
attention to the other occupant of the room. Mulder, lying amid
the machines, tubes in both arms, monitor leads on his chest
snaking out of the cooling blankets. His face is a ghastly bluish
color, discolored as much from months in the grave as from the
illness he is now fighting.
I choke as I remember the funeral. If I'd known I was lowering a
living human being into that cold, hard dirt, I would have throw
myself on that casket, demanded it be opened and carried him to
the nearest hospital myself. I can't imagine a worse nightmare
for anyone, and now it's one that will revisit me time and time
again in the wee hours of the morning, just before dawn.
Buried alive. I can only thank God that from the look of his body
when we opened the casket he unconscious the entire time and as
peaceful as when we placed him there in the funeral home. No
struggling was apparent, his hands were gently crossed over his
stomach just as Scully had placed them. No scratches on the lid
of the coffin, as the asshole coroner from North Carolina had so
callously joked. But even though Mulder might not remember, might
not have the same nightmares, there is nothing to erase the
thoughts in my mind. Trapped, in a tiny box, buried under six
feet of frozen dirt. Someday, I am firmly convinced, that same
fate awaits me. And for the life of me, I can't shake the feeling
that I will not be senseless as it unfolds.
I look at the two of them, which requires me to switch my gaze.
It's no longer Mulder trapped in that coffin, now it's Scully,
trapped at his side. If he awakes, she will be free and I have no
doubt that the wounds of the last six months, though deep and
festering and infected, will begin immediately to heal. If he
doesn't awake, I worry that next time I will have not one coffin
to watch lower, but two. I wonder for the child inside her. Maybe
it will be three coffins. And maybe shortly after those funerals,
there will be a fourth.
I shake those thoughts from my mind and concentrate on the here
and now. He's here, breathing. Something I can still barely wrap
my mind around. She's here and she's convinced she knows what
she's dealing with. I take a small measure of comfort in the fact
that Scully is at her best when Mulder's life is in the balance.
As my morose thoughts leave my mind, I realize that when he wakes
up, that is just the beginning. Things have definitely changed
and we will all need to adjust. Maybe even fight some of the
changes.
But for now, we must focus on getting him all the way home.
THE END
Visit 'Vickie's MulderFest'!
Disclaimer: I
found these really neat characters in a dumpster behind a studio
lot. As soon as I can find a cop in LA, I'm going to have the
father arrested for negligence. In the meantime, I'm taking care
of them.
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