From jhadden@willamette.edu Thu Oct 17 02:05:18 1996 TITLE: Formerly Known As Dead AUTHOR: Sneakers RATING: PG-13 CLASSIFICATION: CX KEYWORDS: ER/XF Crossover SUMMARY: A series of mysterious deaths and subsequent revivals sends Mulder and Scully to Cook County General Hospital -- and threatens to strain their relationship even further, as each thinks the other is getting too deeply involved. NOT a romance. (Though some Doug/Carol romance is hinted at.) This story is a crossover between the X-Files (duh) and NBC's ER. It probably won't make much sense if you haven't seen the "Hell and High Water" or "Secret Sharer" episodes of ER . . . for that matter, it probably won't make *any* sense if you don't watch ER. Time: (ER): Second season, directly after "Hell and High Water". (XF): Third season Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and Melissa Scully are property of ten-thirteen productions and Twentieth Century Fox Television. Doug Ross, Mark Greene, Susan Lewis, John Carter, Kerry Weaver, Harper Tracy, Wendy Goldman, Peter Benton, David Morganstern, Carole Hathaway, Ray Sheppard, Molly Phillips and her parents, Haleh Adams, Marty Cannon, Angela Hicks, Randy Fronczak, Jerry Markovic, and anybody else I've forgotten are property of Constant C productions, Amblin Entertainment, Michael Crighton, and NBC, as are the scenes I've shamelessly ripped from "Secret Sharer". Doctors Rasmussen and Anderson are my creation. Rated PG-13 for moderate usage of bad language. Don't read this if you have some sort of an illusion that Mulder doesn't swear when mad. Ten thousand thanks to Meg for editing. FORMERLY KNOWN AS DEAD by Sneakers Emergency Department Cook County General Hospital Chicago, IL Harper Tracy stood beside the hospital bed, weeping silently for the defenseless child that had died. Died despite everything they had done. 'We did everything we could' sometimes wasn't enough, she thought, seeing herself in the terrified girl. Worried that her parents didn't love her, confused as to why the two most important people in her life would rather argue with each other than be with her. And Carter, damn him, didn't even care. Didn't even care. How like a doctor. A doctor, she thought bitterly. Carter was no more a doctor than she was. Yet he was as hardened as . . . as Kerry Weaver, who cared more about how Harper dressed that how much she learned. Harper kicked pessimistically at the bed frame, as if shaking the bed might work better than the Lifepak had. Or, rather, had failed to. She would have called somebody and complained, written a letter to the manufacturer, if she'd thought it would do any good. Automatically, she checked the equipment for defects, anything wrong, *anything* to blame the death on. Nothing. One of the nurses appeared in the doorway. "Harper, Dr. Lewis is looking for you." Sighing, Harper turned away from the bed. Too exhausted to even recognize the nurse, let alone respond, she slipped silently past and walked out out the door without a word. As the nurse continued into the room, Harper paused. "Hey, I haven't seen Susan all day. Where is she, anyway?" she asked without turning around. No response. Oh, well. Harper pushed the sleeves of her jacket and looked down the halls on the small chance that Susan might be within eyesight. No luck. She leaned on the wall, desperately trying to regain her composure. "H-Hello?" A small voice hit her ears. "Where did everybody go? What happened to me?" She could have *sworn* she recognized that voice. "Go away," she muttered. Great. She was hearing voices in her head *and* talking to them, which meant she was talking to herself. "Hey!" The voice became more insistent. She opened her eyes. No small children were running around within earshot. Maybe she should go for that psychiatry rotation next. "OW! WHY ARE THERE WIRES ATTATCHED TO ME?" The voice was screaming. Harper spun around. God, it sounded like the voice came from the room with the dead girl. She burst into the room, Susan's summons forgotten. She skidded to a halt at what she saw. The formerly dead child was sitting up in bed, trying to disentangle herself from the IV and oxygen tubes. "Oh . . . my . . . God." Harper rushed over to the bed. "Shh, honey, you'll hurt yourself. Lie back down, okay? I'll get somebody to help you." She ran out of the room, yelling. "Dr. Greene! Dr. Weaver! Dr. Benton!" The halls were as deserted as they could be in a hospital; the usual assortment of nurses and orderlies went about their business, ignoring the panicked med student. "Hey!" Dr. Weaver put an arm out to stop Harper, who spun at the sound of Weaver's voice and stood, out of breath and tense with adrenaline. "What's the matter?" she continued. "Running sprints isn't usually recommended in here." "Dr. Weaver . . . Uh, she's alive." Great. Good going, Harper. That sure sounds intelligent. "The girl hit by the car . . . I was in by her bed, after Mark did the whole time-of-death bit. Now she's sitting up, talking, trying to get out of the IV." "You're sure of this?" "She talked to me, Dr. Weaver." Harper shifted her weight back and forth, impatient to go back and make sure she hadn't been hallucinating. Kerry picked up the chart for the formerly dead girl, but before she could even start in the direction of the trauma room, Benton and Carter burst out of the ER with another patient. "Collapsed in the waiting room," yelled Benton. "What's open?" Harper took a look at the man on the gurney and gasped. It was the father of the formerly dead girl. Kerry shoved the chart at Harper and grabbed Carter by the shoulder. "Carter, go with Harper. I'll help Benton." She joined the rush, leaving Carter standing in the dust, confused. "Uh . . . what's this all about?" he asked, fanning his face with the clipboard chart, not ever reading it. "What am I supposed to look at?" Without saying a word, Harper turned and headed back to the room, Carter following her, trying to get her attention. She walked in the door, praying that the girl would still be alive. Carter, still a few steps behind, grimaced. "Not this again," he muttered, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. "Harper? John? Where are my parents? Did they leave me here?" Carter's eyes flew open and his jaw dropped. Too stunned to talk or move, he stood gaping at the sight of the girl looking at him. "What's wrong?" she asked. "You're . . . you're . . ." he stuttered, fortunately not managing to voice the rest of his statement. You're dead. What a thing to say to a child. "Uh . . . stay here, Harper. I'll go get Morganstern, or Greene, or somebody." >From the bedside, Harper looked up. "If you see Susan, ask her what she wants to see me for, okay? Tell her if it's not important, I'm busy." "Harper, Susan's not here today." She shook her head. Curiouser and curiouser. "All right. Whatever." She exhaled loudly. "You hangin' on, honey?" she asked the girl on the bed. "My stomach doesn't even hurt anymore," she responded happily. Shaking his head, Carter turned back to the door, colliding with Dr. Benton as he went out. "Carter! Follow me!" Dr. Benton stopped in his tracks when he saw the girl struggling to sit up. "Good God! Carter, her father just died of the exact same internal injuries as this girl had." Harper overheard him. That was the last thing her conscious mind registered before the room began to turn fuzzy and the floor rushed up towards her. she thought, and then everything went black. ----------~**~---------- Passenger Loading Zone Dulles Airport Washington, D.C. Dana Scully swung her clothes bag over her shoulder and waited for her partner to extract his suitcase from the airport shuttle. Quite in contrast to her impeccable appearance, Fox Mulder's clothes were rumpled and mismatched. He had *not* been happy when the only available flight to Chicago left at six-thirty in the morning. "I thought *women* were supposed to be the heavy packers, Mulder," she cracked, tapping her foot impatiently on the ground. She hadn't seen a suitcase that large since . . . since she couldn't remember. It was all she could do to keep from laughing. He flashed one of his uniquely Mulder grins, and she rolled her eyes. Transferring the suit bag to her other shoulder, freeing up her left hand, she grabbed his carry-on. "Think you can manage your suitcase, macho man?" she asked. "Hey . . . I'm taller than you, my clothes take up more room," he rationalized, finally freeing the suitcase. He positioned both hands securely on the handle and tried to lift the brown Samsonite. It rose a measly centimeter above the ground, and he dashed for the sidewalk. "Slips, pantyhose, make-up," countered Scully. "Big shoes." They began walking towards the terminal. "I have bigger feet than you do. Gotcha there." "Strangely shaped shoes. Ever tried to pack around a pair of heels? It doesn't work." "So wear flats." Scully rolled her eyes again. "Then I'd look like a munchkin." Mulder looked offended. "Hey, I though the munchkins were cute." "*You* would." "And just what is *that* supposed to mean?" Scully smiled too sweetly. "Nothing, Agent Mulder." He dropped the suitcase in front of the baggage check with obvious relief. "Whatever you say, *Agent* Scully." Scully shook her head as he lifted his bag onto the luggage rack at the desk. "I'm sorry, sir," said the man behind the desk. "Your bag falls into the overweight baggage classification, which costs ten dollars extra." Mulder scowled and reached for his wallet. He plunked the money down on the counter with a hassled, "Whatever." Scully leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "Mulder, it could be worse." "Don't tell me, it could be oversize, too." Scully didn't answer. Much to Mulder's relief, his bag was accepted as regulation size. He got his ticket without much trouble, and joined Scully at the end of the counter. "Window seat?" he asked, reclaiming his carry-on. Scully didn't answer. She was engrossed in re-reading the files they had been given. "I don't understand it, Mulder. People just don't *die* of other people's injuries." She shook her head. Mulder, against all reason, felt sorry for her. Not only was she unable to find a sufficient logical explanation, it was even in her field of knowledge, medicine. "Well, it *was* a student . . . maybe she, uh, misdiagnosed the death." The rationalizing role was a strange one for Mulder to be in. Scully sighed and picked up her bag. "Mulder, your rational explanations make even less sense than your paranormal ones. 'Time of death was pronounced by attending physician Mark Greene'. There goes that theory." "No, the father, I mean." "Leave it, Mulder. There's bound to be *something* they missed." END PART ONE . . . sneakers . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ . . . sneakers . . . "The Spirit is the Truth." 1 John 5.07, RSV ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ From jhadden@willamette.edu Thu Oct 17 02:05:38 1996 Disclaimer, etc. in part one. "Formerly Known As Dead" by sneakers BEGIN PART TWO Emergency Department / Admitting Desk Cook County General Hospital Chicago, IL "Excuse me?" Scully leaned through the window to the desk, behind which a clerk and a doctor were having some sort of heated discussion. ". . . fan mail for you . . . mostly female, from the handwriting." The clerk ignored her and passed a stack of thick envelopes to the doctor, who took them, shaking his head. Scully was getting annoyed, as well as confused. Fan mail? Since when did ER doctors get stacks of fan mail? "Excuse me?" she repeated, louder this time. If either of them heard, they gave no indication of it. " . . . got a marriage proposal off the fax," the clerk continued, picking up another piece of paper. "Does it include a bank statement?" joked the doctor, taking the mail as if it were a fact of life. "Oh, and Jerry?" Jerry looked up from the computer, where he had gone back to his game of Doom II. "Yeah?" "I think the lady there is trying to get your attention." Jerry's head snapped around, and he blinked as if Scully had appeared out of nowhere. "Right, Ross." Ross winked at Scully and left with the mail. Scully was slightly unnerved by the rather arrogant doctor, but forced herself to ignore it. "Can I help you?" asked Jerry, finally quitting the computer game and moving to the window. "Agent Scully, F.B.I." She held out her badge and card. "We were called in to investigate the apparent resuscitation of the dead child." "That's right." Jerry snapped his fingers. "That was Harper and Kerry, right? I'll see if Kerry's around. Come around back and I'll check." When Scully arrived at the other side of the desk, a woman with a single crutch was standing across the desk from Jerry. "Kerry Weaver," she said, holding her hand out to Scully, who shook it. "Chief resident. The staffer who actually found the child alive was a third-year student, on her ER rotation." Dr. Weaver began walking along the hall, and Scully followed her. "The reports say that the death was declared by-" it took Scully a second to remember the name "-Mark Greene." "He's an attending. Harper - Miss Tracy - had developed an attachment to the patient, and, to top that of, it was the first death she was personally involved with. She's not over either of them - the death *or* the fact that she is now alive - yet." Scully nodded. Dr. Weaver pushed the door to the lounge open and entered. "At this point, we're not sure what happened - or *how* it happened - but these emotional cases have been affecting us all." "What other cases?" Scully followed the chief resident into the room and joined her at the table. "You haven't heard about it yet? Nobody's told you?" Dr. Weaver shook her head in disbelief. "Doug managed to rescue a child that was trapped in a drain pipe . . . he's quite the media darling now." Something in Scully's head connected. "Doug . . . Ross?" That would explain the fan mail. *And* the cocky attitude. He probably assumed that the entire city knew who he was . . . didn't count on people from other places coming in. "That's correct. You've met him, I take it? Leaves quite an impression, doesn't he?" Dr. Weaver smiled wryly. "He has a way with women, that's for sure. Still, he's a good pediatrician . . . we put up with him. Of course, some people would say *he* puts up with *us*, now that he's the most famous doctor since Hawkeye Pierce." Scully laughed. Weaver produced a bundle of patient charts and was suddenly all business. "Time of death was declared by attending physician Mark Greene. Medical personal noted nothing out of the ordinary and continued their normal procedures. About two minutes later, Harper Tracy was supposedly summoned from the trauma room by a member of our staff who was, at that time, not on duty. She did not recognize the nurse that conveyed this message, but left the room, while the nurse went in. Outside the room, she claims to have heard the child's voice, and, upon re-entering the room, found the formerly dead child alive, awake, coherent, and attempting to remove her IV. We have not yet identified which nurse gave Harper the message, but finding him -- we were able to establish that the nurse was male -- should shed some light on the matter." Scully nodded. She'd read all this before, but hearing it again confirmed that the reports were not exaggerated. "If I'm correct in assuming it wasn't one of the ER staff, shouldn't it be easy to establish which nurses were at the hospital during that shift? Especially a male nurse?" Dr. Weaver shrugged, something which seemed quite uncharacteristic to Scully. "We checked all the nurses in the ER, as well as all the male nurses on duty in departments that might be involved in this case, though why they would be wearing our scrubs is a mystery to me. All this work produced nothing. We have a hospital to run, we can't afford to spend our time investigating things." "That's why we're here, Dr. Weaver," said Scully, feeling that the reassurance was unnecessary. This woman was not the kind that needed reassuring. If she wanted something to happen, it would happen. "Well, that's your job, isn't it? We would like to request that you don't interfere with the patients. This is a hospital first, an investigation second." Before Scully could reply, the door to the lounge flew open and slammed shut. "Oops, didn't mean to intrude," said the frazzled-looking woman. She was taller than Scully, skinny with short blonde hair. "Let me get my junk out of here, 'kay, then I'll leave." "No hurry, Susan," said Dr. Weaver. "Actually, you're welcome to stay, if you want to. Agent Scully, Susan Lewis, third year resident. Susan, Dana Scully, FBI. She's investigating the incident last week." "Oh." Susan extracted a container of Ben and Jerry's from the freezer. "You seriously don't mind if I stay here for a few minutes and relax? The baby . . ." She sat down on one of the couches, grinning at the ice cream in her hand. "Yeah, I know it's bad for me. Mint Chocolate Cookie - want some?" The other two women shook their heads. "So, tell Agent Scully what you were doing during this entire mess, since she'll want to know," commanded Dr. Weaver. "Dr. Weaver . . ." protested Scully. "It's okay, Agent Scully. Really." Susan took a bite of the ice cream and smiled. "Heaven on earth, I tell you. I was at home, trying to sleep, but the little angel wouldn't let me. No witnesses, except for the kid, and she can't talk yet. The only thing I can't figure out is why the nurse decided to use my name." "Kid?" asked Scully. To raise a child *and* go through residency at the same time would have to be one of the most difficult things she could imagine. "I admire your courage." "To make a very long story *very* short, it's my niece. I don't supposed *you* have child care experience and are looking for a job, are you?" "Susan, that's not really relevant." Kerry Weaver passed the stack of patient records to Scully. "I think Benton's around, if you want to talk to him." Scully, a little taken aback by Dr. Weaver's impersonal efficiency, looked back at Susan. "I already have a job I like . . . but thank you for your time." The door opened and shut again, this time admitting a young-looking blond man in surgical scrubs. "Hi, Kerry, Susan, whoever," he said, piling through a black backpack. "Man, that surgery was impressive." Dr. Weaver sighed, obviously annoyed at the interruptions. "John, Dana Scully -" "Hi, Dana Scully," continued John, not noticing Kerry's intentions to say more. "You interviewing for a residency?" " - F.B.I. Agent Scully, John Carter. ER surgical sub-I," finished Dr. Weaver. Carter looked sheepish. "Actually, I already completed my residency. I'm a forensic pathologist." Scully felt compelled to help the embarrassed-looking student. She also felt slightly flattered - he thought she looked young enough to be the same age as he was. The door opened a third time, and a nurse with curly back hair stuck her head in. "*There* you are, Kerry! Cripes, I've been looking all over for you." She held out a clipboard. "Exam two. Oh, and if you're Dana Scully, your partner is waiting for you at the desk." Without another word, Dr. Weaver took the clipboard and left the room. "Some people aren't too, uh, fond of her," explained the nurse, before she left as well. ----------~**~---------- Main Cafeteria Cook County General Hospital Chicago, IL "I'd have to say, you definitely got the better end of the deal." Scully looked up in surprise as her partner offered his opinions on the usefulness of the day's activities. She had just spent the previous five minutes briefing him on the fact that nobody in the ER could offer any explanation whatsoever, Dr. Greene wasn't working that shift, everybody was flocking to Dr. Ross, and, unfortunately for their investigation, Cook County remained a hospital first and a crime scene, such as it was, second. Every time she managed to find somebody with any knowledge of the situation, a case specifically requiring their attention had come in. "No, really," she continued, unable to believe that her partner honestly felt he had accomplished less. "It's practically an X-file in and of itself . . . I'm talking to Dr. Benton and a guy that walked through a plate glass window comes in. I manage to separate Dr. Ross from his adoring fans, and a kid with asthma shows up." "What about the students that found her? They can't have extremely pressing things to do, can they?" "The lovebirds left for a romantic dinner," she grumbled, scowling at her own tray, which held a rather dry tuna fish sandwich and what passed for a green salad. The hospital food was none too appetizing, but, then again, neither was the prospect of going out and eating, possibly missing the chance to interview those working the night shift. "How kind of them," commented Mulder, eyeing his own dinner, a lump of brown meat optimistically described as Salisbury steak. It looked as if it might be re-animated itself any minute, or at least begin to metamorphosize into another, higher, life form. "I still think your day was better than mine. The management was downright rude when I talked to them." "At least they talked . . ." As Scully unwrapped her sandwich, an unfortunately familiar figure caught her eye. "Look, it's the honored one himself," she noted, watching Doug Ross cross the cafeteria, tuxedo- clad and looking, well, handsome, if not exactly heroic. He reached the counter, bought a chocolate muffin and cup of coffee, and continued out towards the door. As Scully watched, he stopped in mid-step and turned around, heading for their table. Reaching it, he pulled out a chair, spun it around, and sat down backwards on it, not bothering to ask if he was interrupting anything. "Look, Agent Scully, I'm really sorry that we didn't get a chance to talk. I just . . ." He paused, unable to find the right words, waving his hands awkwardly around in an attempt to convey his apology. "That's fine, Dr. Ross," replied Scully, setting down the sandwich. "We'll be back tomorrow . . . we can talk to you then." "No, really." He stopped waving his hands and rested them on the table, making direct eye contact with Scully. "I'm not on duty tomorrow - they gave me the day off to recuperate from the awards ceremony . . . guess they know me a bit too well." Unsure if, or how, she was supposed to respond to this, Scully looked away. "Have you met my partner, Dr. Ross? This is Agent Mulder . . . Mulder, Dr. Doug Ross, local hero." "No kidding," commented Mulder. "Yeah, and I wish they would just shut up about it . . . listen, you can stop by my apartment tomorrow, if you want." He flipped through his wallet for a piece of paper to write the address on. "Dr. Ross . . ." Scully leaned forward, confused by his insistence. "Call me Doug, okay? Here . . . stop by any time after about ten, okay?" He handed Scully the slip of paper and checked his watch. "Nice to meet you, Agent Mulder . . . gotta go." He turned to go, paused and reached back to pick up his coffee, and wove his way through the table to reach the door. Mulder watched him leave in silence. "That man's got it worse than Frohike," he commented finally. Scully's eyes snapped wide open in compete surprise. "He's just like that, Mulder. He'd go after any woman that came near him. Besides, he gets *fan mail*. It's not like he'd have any lack of admirers." Mulder shrugged. "Believe what you want, then. You planning on going and seeing him tomorrow?" "I though it was *your* job to deal with things outside the hospital. If I remember correctly . . . 'I'm always on the receiving end of that medical crap, not the giving end.' Seems like interviewing somebody not directly involved might not be considered 'medical crap'. Agreed?" He cringed, remembering his impolite response at four in the morning when she'd had to wake him up. "Okay . . . so it's true, I get hurt a lot more than I give first aid. But you have to admit, he probably wouldn't respond as well if I showed up." "Yeah, but he wouldn't hit on you." Mulder opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by the sound of the cafeteria doors slamming and footsteps thundering to their table. "Agent Scully . . . it happened again," reported the slightly out-of- breath nurse. Scully pushed her chair back and stood up. "Mulder, you can clean up, right?" Without waiting for an answer, she rushed off with the scarlet- clad nurse, leaving Mulder sitting in the hard plastic cafeteria chair, wondering if he was serving any purpose at all, or if he was simply there because Bureau rules required agents to work in pairs. END PART TWO . . . sneakers . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ . . . sneakers . . . "The Spirit is the Truth." 1 John 5.07, RSV ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ From jhadden@willamette.edu Thu Oct 17 02:06:00 1996 Disclaimer, etc. in part one. "Formerly Known As Dead" by sneakers BEGIN PART THREE Emergency Department / Trauma Room 2 Cook County General Hospital Chicago, IL " . . . victim was a fifty-three-year-old Caucasian male," reported Wendy Goldman. "Brought in at 7:43 p.m., with ventricular fibrillation. Did not respond to de-fib . . . time of death was declared at 7:52, by -" she checked her papers "-Dr. Anderson." Scully nodded. "Then what happened?" Something had definitely happened; the supposedly dead patient was alive, awaiting transfer to the CCU, although rather weak. The nurse gestured out the door, down the hall. "A seventeen-year old gang member with a minor knife wound to the leg suddenly went into v- fib, while we were working on the leg. He died, as well." "Who found that the original victim was alive?" Wendy consulted the chart again. "I wasn't there," she explained. "Um . . . Dr. Rasmussen. She's actually from the CCU, and she didn't see any outward indications that he had even gone into v-fib. They're taking him up for observation, anyway. She thought Dr. Anderson was joking when he told her that the patient was dead." "May I talk to the patient?" asked Scully, unsure whether her legal jurisdiction extended to interviewing patients. The nurse shrugged. "Sure, why not?" Scully walked over to the bed. "Hello, Mr. -" -- she glanced quickly at the chart above his head -- "- Artzen. I'm Agent Scully, from the FBI. May I ask you a few questions?" "If I get one first." He gave a small scowl. "What the hell is going on here? One minute there's twenty people around here, poking and prodding. Then I'm suddenly all alone. Then that gal doctor comes in, and now there's twice as many people, and NOT ONE OF THEM WILL TELL ME WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!" Two people is lab coats came up next to Scully. "Please don't excite yourself, Mr. Artzen," said the taller of the two, a man with a reddish- blond crew-cut. "*You*," Mr. Artzen said, ignoring the speaker and pointing at the other doctor, a woman with brown hair and a boyish build. "You made all the people come in here, you can make them leave." "We'll see what we can do, Mr. Artzen." The woman turned to Scully. "May I have a word with you? Preferably not in here?" Scully nodded. "I may be back to see you tomorrow," she told Mr. Artzen. "Well, they're not going to be letting me go anywhere, so you might as well," he agreed. "That's the most polite I've seen him for a long time," commented the woman, as they walked down the hall. " . . . I didn't introduce myself, did I? Ann Rasmussen, from the CCU. I am correct in assuming that you're one of the FBI agents, am I not?" "Correct," answered Scully, and introduced herself. She could get used to this, this medical preciseness with which everything was reported. It made everything *much* easier, though she doubted Mulder liked it. Dr. Rasmussen pushed open the door to one of the conference rooms, and then stopped. "This is the strangest case I've seen in years, Agent Scully. Mr. Artzen has been in here many times before. His heart is very weak, so weak it's surprising it has lasted this long. Yet when I examined him, I saw no signs of cardiac weakness whatsoever. It's as if he has a new heart." "And the other victim? What about him?" "Other victim?" Dr. Rasmussen looked confused. "Oh, the knifing, right? No previous history of heart problems, if you can believe everything these gang members say. He's not my jurisdiction, at least he wouldn't have been if this hadn't happened. I assume he'll be autopsied, if we can get permission." "Who'd be in charge of that?" Before Dr. Rasmussen had a chance to answer, her beeper went off. "Dr. Crandall's on vacation, and I don't know who's doing them while she's gone," she offered, while checking the beeper. "Oops, gotta go . . . I'll let Jerry know if I find out, all right?" "Sure." Scully watched as the cardiologist left the room, then glanced around at the various flotsam and jetsam that had accumulated in the conference room, for lack of anything else significant to do. Her ER rotation in medical school hadn't been so long ago, but so much had changed since then that she felt totally useless in the trauma room. A brightly colored pile in the corner caught her attention, and she lifted the stack of Red Cross safety posters off the top to see what was causing the strange lump underneath them. A bundle of wadded-up crimson fabric lay on a box of something even she couldn't identify. She picked up the fabric and carefully shook it out. A set of maroon scrubs. Possibly from the ER. If what she remembered from her rotations was correct, definitely from the ER. If they still didn't duplicate scrub colors between departments. She held then up against herself. The original wearer had been taller than her. She mentally measured them against Mulder, realizing the that wearer had even been taller than Mulder. Probably male, though she couldn't rule out the possibility of a tall female nurse. Nurse. Male nurse. Scully stuffed the scrubs back under the Red Cross posters and skidded through the swinging doors into the hall, crashing full-force into her extremely annoyed partner. "Mulder!" she said, grabbing his shoulder for balance. "Yeah, what the hell is it?" he asked coolly. Scully blinked and would have stopped dead in her tracks if she had been moving. "Is something wrong?" she asked, momentarily forgetting about the mysterious scrubs. "Something wrong?" he repeated angrily. "Only the fact that you've been running around, working your butt off, immersed in your element, and I'm fucking bussing dishes! If I'm not going to be of any use here, I might as well get my ass back on a plane to D.C. and be of use to *somebody*!" Scully stood, shocked into silence, staring at her foul-mouthed partner, all thoughts of Cook County General gone from her head. "Mulder, I think we'll go back to the hotel now, all right? We're done here for tonight." "You mean *you're* done here for tonight," commented Mulder, allowing himself to be propelled through the exit doors. "This entire investigation is a piece of shit anyway . . . all they did was mis- diagnose death." Scully felt compelled to defend the field of medicine. "Mulder, I assure you that after four years of medical school, one can certainly tell if a patient is *dead* or not." "What about the soldiers at Folkstone? Sure the hell wasn't what you said there." "That was a different situation, and you know it." Mulder stopped and turned around to glare at his partner. "Fine, then. Go fraternize with your fucking doctor friends. Go sleep with that son- of-a-bitch Doug Ross. Blow our entire investigation to hell by becoming personally involved. But don't involve me, okay?" He snatched the car keys from her hand. "And get the HELL OUT OF HERE!" He took off in a frantic run towards their rented car. Scully dashed after him, struggling to keep a grip on her armful of photocopied patient charts and medical records. They slid out of her grasp, littering the ground with snowy papers. As she stood in the middle of the row, papers blowing around her in the famous Chicago wind, she watched her partner drive away to places unknown. ----------~**~---------- Staff Lounge, Emergency Department Cook County General Hospital Chicago IL "Agent Scully?" Dana looked up to see the same black-haired nurse in the doorway. "I'm Carole Hathaway. Um . . . I heard that your partner took off in a snit." The nurse came all the way into the room. Without the red scrubs, she looked less like an efficient nursing machine and more like a person. Scully found herself nodding. "Yeah, except that to say he left in a snit would be somewhat of an understatement." Hathaway collapsed on one of the couches, feet up in the air and head hanging off the edge. "Listen, if you want to come stay at my place, you're welcome to. It's not a palace, but . . . if you want to let your partner be alone for a while. Shep's at a recertification seminar, so we won't have to deal with any unexplained holes in the roof . . . at least, I don't think so." "Shep?" Dana was too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to phrase her question with correct grammar. Hathaway blushed. "My, uh, boyfriend. He's a paramedic, but not much of a remodeler." Dana stared across the room at a promotional poster for _Playing God_. They *would* have a movie poster about a doctor up here . . . she closed her eyes and forced herself back to reality. "Yeah. That would be nice," she answered, relishing the thought of avoiding Mulder's rage. "Good." Hathaway stood back up and began gathering her stuff together. "I suppose all your clothes and things are with your partner, right?" "Mmm-hmm." Dana tried to stand up but found herself landing back on the couch, with that stupid movie poster still staring her in the face. "Who's the mob movie fan?" she asked. "Actually, Dr. Rasmussen from the CCU. The rest of the docs up there refused to put up with any more of her movie posters, so they've spread out to down here." "Hmmm." This time Dana was actually able to stand up. A way to interest Mulder suddenly occurred to her. "Maybe I'll get the two of them together, then," she mused out loud. "Huh?" asked Hathaway, pausing in the middle of trying to fit everything in her bag. "I'll send Mulder up to talk with Dr. Rasmussen. He likes those action/adventure movies . . . the two of them should get along *just fine*. I think I've even heard him talk about this one." Hathaway rolled her eyes. "God . . . don't get her started, okay? If I have to hear *any more* drooling about that stupid actor, I'll . . . I'll go into v-fib myself. Daniel, David, something like that. Half the women that work here are in love with him." Hathaway paused, looking at the poster. "Come to think of it, your partner does look sort of like the guy. Dr. Rasmussen will like him just fine." Laughing, the two women made their way out into the windy Chicago night. END PART THREE . . . sneakers . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ . . . sneakers . . . "The Spirit is the Truth." 1 John 5.07, RSV ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ From jhadden@willamette.edu Thu Oct 17 02:06:22 1996 Disclaimer, etc. in part one. "Formerly Known As Dead" by sneakers BEGIN PART FOUR Emergency Department / Admitting Desk Cook County General Hospital Chicago IL "So who's on duty today?" asked Scully, leaning over the counter to try to read the papers on the other side. She'd taken the El back to the hotel while Hathaway went off to work. Neither Mulder nor the car had been there, but her clothes were still in her room where she'd left them the day before. A shower and clean clothes had improved her mood greatly; however, she was still worried about Mulder. He worked when I was missing, she rationalized, and he'd want me to work while he sorts things out. In her heart, she knew that's what it was. Rationalizing. "Morning," said Hathaway, who had come up behind the desk without Scully noticing. "Was your partner there?" Scully looked up from her search. "Nope . . . but, I didn't expect him, either. If he doesn't show up by tomorrow, then I'll be worried. Do *you* have a list of who's on duty today?" "Doctors Greene, Benton, Anderson, Morganstern . . . Weaver's cousin is getting married, and they gave Ross the day off in case he got drunk last night. Isn't that just like him, getting drunk while they salute his heroism?" "I don't know," answered Scully quickly. Maybe she *would* go see Doug Ross, if Mulder wasn't going to. If things were going slowly here . . . "Oh, and both Carter and Harper Tracey are here today." Hathaway opened her mouth as if to say more, but the radio buzzed and she reached over to pick it up. "County General," she replied into the receiver. Scully waved at her and went off in search of the . . . lovebirds. The *medical students*, she corrected herself harshly. She was so involved in mentally chiding herself for everything she'd done wrong on this case that she ran smack into somebody. "Watch where you're going!" demanded the irritated female voice. Scully muttered an apology, not even looking up to see who she'd banged into. "Hey, you're that FBI lady, aren't you? C'mere for a sec, will you?" Scully looked up. In a way, the woman was speaking reminded her of Mulder. It was the black leather, she decided. That and the rakish 'do-what-you-like-and-I-still-don't-care' look. There certainly wasn't any physical similarities . . . all that black denim and even blacker leather covered a body that Scully was certain all the male doctors drooled over when nobody was looking. Of course, that secretary in computer crimes did the same thing with Mulder . . . "I'm Randy . . . have you met Jerry? He's my boss." Scully nodded, following the leather-clad clerk back to the desk which she had just left. "Do you have any information that hasn't been brought up before?" Randy leaned over the desk. "Listen, don't tell anybody, okay?" she whispered. "I'll get in deep, uh, trouble." "Why?" "'Cause I didn't tell them before. There was this guy, right? And he comes in and asks me what room that little girl is in. He's in a big hurry, right?" Randy snapped her gum and settled back into an office chair. "And I'm all busy, trying to keep the press out of here," - she rolled her eyes - "for all the good that did." "The guy," Scully prompted. Randy nodded, looking around for anybody she didn't want to have hear. "We had this girl in here yesterday," she explained. "Her dad overheard what was wrong with her and whipped out this gun. I just don't want that to happen with me. I *need* this job." Scully, having been told about the incident earlier, kept quiet, waiting for Randy to get on with her story. "Anyway, I look up, and there's this guy standing there. He's taller than Jerry, and he's wearing these same red scrubs, right? I don't recognize him, but he looks like a nurse. And I'm busy trying to get rid of this damn pushy blonde with a some sort of TV camera. So I tell the dude what room the girl's in. Then I'm sitting there four or five hours later, and I realize that one of the reporters could have dressed up as a nurse. So I get out the charts of the people that were on duty, and I know every one of them. I mean, I may be new here, but I learn faces fast." "But why would a reporter be interested in the girl, not the boy that Doug rescued?" Scully pushed the question on the clerk, realizing that she would reveal more if she went at her own pace, but impatient with the rambling. "I don't know." Randy leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. "See, I thought, maybe he was just trying to throw us off track, you know, set a false trail. But then I heard Harper talking about this nurse, and I thought, I bet that's the same guy. But I still can't figure it out. And I can't tell anybody, because they'd tell my parole officer that I lied." Randy's mouth snapped shut as Hathaway put down the radio and turned back to the desk. "Shep was bored . . . again," she announced. "God, we're having a slow day today. I've seen two minor cuts, a concussion, and one broken leg. Nothing like yesterday . . . or the day before . . . or the day before that . . ." Randy rolled her eyes and snorted in disbelief. "Yeah, and real likely it'll stay that way, isn't it? I mean, maybe nobody'll get themselves shot today, and nobody'll get run over, and all that, uh, stuff." "Don't knock it," snapped Dr. Greene, coming up to the desk. "You weren't there during that blizzard, were you?" he accused, looking at Randy. "After that this is just heaven . . . on . . . earth." The last three words were said through clenched teeth. "Speaking of heaven, anybody seen Anderson? The CCU chief is drooling to send him to his final reward, whatever that might be. Says that Anderson is incompetent and can't diagnose right . . . that guy we turfed up there turns out to have the healthiest heart in the world." "I thought you said his heart was all screwed up," injected Randy. "It was . . . but it isn't now, I guess," Greene corrected himself. "Anyway, if you see Anderson, tell him to avoid the CCU like . . . uh, the plague." "Don't you have X-rays or something?" asked Randy, snapping her gum again. "I mean, if this guy's been in here before, you must have *some* sort of evidence, right?" Greene shrugged. "I guess . . . got anything for me?" "Fractured clavicle," said Randy, handing him the clipboard. "Mom wants to talk to somebody in charge . . . guess you're on." Greene tapped the clipboard on the edge of the desk. "Any ideas why?" "She claims *we* broke the bone. The kid was" - She consulted yet another copy of the chart - "playing frisbee, and you just *can't* break bones playing frisbee, you know. So, of course, we're spies for the rival high school, trying to sabotage their efforts to win the district banner in basketball." Scully raised her eyebrows and decided this was a good time to go up to the CCU and find Mr. Artzen. ----------~**~---------- Cardiac Care Unit Cook County General Hospital Chicago, IL Mr. Artzen was indeed willing to talk. And talk he did, completely ignoring Scully's questions. " . . . it was in '89, it was, when they decided there was something wrong with my heart. Then, they decided they couldn't fix it, and they gave me these lists of all these things I couldn't eat, but that didn't fix it, either, so I just stopped listening to them. Now, they tell me there's nothing wrong, except for that bald guy from the ER, who swears it couldn't have healed. And that damn gal doctor keeps coming in here and poking me with needles . . . the lady should have become an acupuncture quack, she could have stuck *a lot* of people with needles, instead of just me. Not that I think acupuncture works, but, obviously, *they* think it works, except they take stuff out of me. Pretty soon I won't have any blood left at all, and then I'll *really* have a problem. But they just keep taking the stuff out of me like it grows on trees . . ." "It does, in a way," Scully injected, knowing he wouldn't pay any attention. "It grows in your bone marrow." If she hadn't been standing two feet from the bed, she would have rolled her eyes like the gum- chewing clerk she'd talked to earlier. She could see why Dr. Rasmussen had been fed up with him. It was like talking to a telephone salesman . . . nothing she said made any difference. "Now, isn't that something," he remarked. So he *had* heard. "First person that's ever given me a straight answer . . . these damn doctors are so evasive. I ask 'em what's wrong with me, they tell me they don't know. I ask them what they did to me, they say 'nothing'. But I know they did something with me, because now they're arguing over whether something's wrong or not." "Wait." Something in his long string of sentence fragments didn't make sense. "Who told you they didn't do anything to you?" He shrugged. "Some nurse. I was asleep, and when I woke up he was standing over me, looking down. When I opened my eyes, he jumped back like I was about to bite him. I asked him what he did to me, and why he woke me up, and he said 'nothing' and ran through that door like the devil was chasing him. He almost hit his head on the door, and *that* would have been funny, the damn guy sprawled out on the floor. Deserved it, too. God only knows what he did to me but wouldn't tell." "Wouldn't tell what?" Scully looked up to see Doctors Rasmussen and Anderson standing in the doorway, bickering loudly. Dr. Anderson marched angrily into the room and snatched up the chart from the clip next to Mr. Artzen's bed. "It says right here, admitted previously for heart condition in . . . let's see, three times in '89, once in '90, twice in '92, once in '93, once in '94, and three times already this year. So it seems logical that when he comes in, showing all the same symptoms, and we diagnose it as the same problem, to send him up here." Dr. Rasmussen's voice came complete with icicles. "May I remind you that this is the CCU? There is absolutely *nothing* wrong with his heart. This is *not* the place for you to turf all your mystery illnesses to, and if you can't diagnose correctly, perhaps you need to find a different line of work." Scully looked back and forth between the feuding pair and the ecstatic Mr. Artzen, who was gleefully picking up more things to complain about. Giving in to temptation and finally rolling her eyes, she moved between the doctors, and, placing a hand on each of their backs, firmly led them, still bickering, out of the room, closing the door behind them. "Fight to your heart's content," she said, "but not in there." Both of them stopped, startled, and stared at the diminutive FBI agent. "If you want my opinion," she continued, "the entire argument isn't doing any good. You're both right . . . Dr. Anderson, if the man *doesn't* have a heart condition, the CCU is probably not the place for him. *But*, Dr. Rasmussen, the man has a history of heart problems, and now you say he doesn't. The fact that he was so thoroughly cured seems like a process that you would want to study." Neither of them said anything. They watched silently as Scully spun on her heel and headed for the elevator. If this was how they were running hospitals, she was glad that she didn't work in one. The elevator door opened to reveal the two harassed-looking lovebirds, uh, medical students. They dashed past Scully as she entered the elevator, and she immediately lost all hope of interviewing either of them within the next few hours. That left one option. Doug Ross. Scully sighed as the doors opened onto the never-ending chaos of the ER. Obviously, they weren't having a slow day any more. Scully rubbed her neck absently as she watched a boy on rollerblades skate circles around the admitting desk while Randy argued with security over the phone. The boy skidded up to the desk, stuck his tongue out at those behind it, then continued his circles. Scully dashed behind the desk as Randy slammed the phone down in annoyance. "I cannot believe this," complained the clerk, her voice tainted with barely controlled rage. "What, they think it's the Skate King down here, or something?" She raised her voice to be heard above the noise. "Look, kid, it's not a good idea to skate in here, okay? Go outside." Dr. Morganstern appeared out of nowhere. "What the hell is going on here?" he asked, taking in the boy on the rollerblades, three teenagers in hip-hop clothes with a boom box, and a man with a nail through both his hand and a board. "An emergency room?" suggested Randy. Morganstern rubbed his forehead. "Tell security I'll file a complaint if they can't get the kid out of here," he said. "What's with the rappers?" "One of them fell over while doing some sort of dance. Abrasion to the right palm. Says he's going to sit until we treat it." "Anyone seen Carter or Harper?" Randy hadn't, so Scully jumped in. "They're upstairs." "Where upstairs?" "Upstairs . . . up elevator, actually. I just saw them in it, I didn't see where they were going." Randy smiled knowingly. "You'll never get them back now . . ." Morganstern stomped off, most likely to find Carter and give him a piece of his mind. "Hey, do you have Ross's phone number?" asked Scully, before Randy could get back on the phone. "Yeah, hold on." The clerk's voice faded out as she piled through a file drawer. She wrote it down and gave it Scully. "Watch out, though. He'll either be hung over or in bed with what's-her-name" "Who'll be in bed?" asked a voice from behind Scully. She spun around to see the aforementioned doctor standing in front of the counter. "Speak of the devil . . ." Randy muttered before snatching up the phone and involving herself in arguing with security. "Dr. Ross . . ." said Scully, surprised. "If it isn't the lovely Agent Scully." His voice was smooth as silk, his smile slow and practiced. His jeans and leather jacket fit perfectly, and he seemed calm, cool, and collected, a foil for the chaos surrounding him. His demeanor spoke of something entirely different than a dedicated pediatrician saving lives . . . something seductive. Something Scully did not want to involve herself with. "I heard that your partner has gone AWOL, so to speak." Scully nodded, unable to trust her voice. "How about going out to lunch with me, then? The cafeteria food can be pretty brutal here, and we never got a chance to talk yesterday." >From behind the phone, Randy winked at her and mouthed 'it's up to you'. Scully nodded. "It's a deal," she answered, finally. END PART FOUR . . . sneakers . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ . . . sneakers . . . "The Spirit is the Truth." 1 John 5.07, RSV ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ From jhadden@willamette.edu Thu Oct 17 02:06:39 1996 Disclaimer, etc. in part one. "Formerly Known As Dead" by sneakers BEGIN PART FIVE Emergency Department / Admitting Desk Cook County General Hospital Chicago IL "Excuse me, has Agent Scully been in today?" Randy looked up from the computer to see a messy-looking man with dark hair, leaning on the desk as if he might fall over. "Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?" "No, I'm fine. Where's Scully?" "Agent Scully is . . ." Randy drew a mental blank and stared at the computer for a second. "Red hair, uh . . ." "Oh!" Randy looked startled, then hesitated. "She, uh, she left with Dr. Ross." "Dr. Ross? The guy with the award?" "Are you sure you're okay?" asked Randy, seeing his rather choked expression. "I can get Dr. Weaver to look at you, if you want." "No, I'm fine," he repeated, then backed nervously away from the desk. "Are you sure? I mean, you look kind of pale." "No! I'm all right! I just . . . I just needed to know where Scully was." His pace changed from a hesitant creep to a frantic walk, and finally to a downright run, as he dodged doctors and nurses and dashed for the doors. He managed to crash into Susan Lewis, who called after him, "Hey, slow down! Somebody's gonna get hurt!", but he kept running. Susan dropped her armload of charts on the desk and looked across at Randy, who had suddenly pasted an innocently bland look on her face. "Who the hell was that?" "Dr. Scully's partner," said Randy, suddenly finding something extremely important on the computer. "Real nice guy," muttered Susan. ----------~**~---------- Hallway Apartment of Doug Ross Chicago IL He wasn't drunk. He wasn't coming home at two A.M., flying along on a steady stream of drinks and dances. It was ten P.M., and Douglas Ross was heading home. She was so good, so angelic, she shamed him into behaving just by her presence. One look from her eyes, and he melted and did whatever she asked. Even if it meant not doing what *he* wanted. Even if it meant being at home all night, staring at the ceiling and thinking about her. Her eyes. And her hair, God, her hair. Was it possible to have hair more dramatic? He checked his mailbox, hands steady, for once. He wanted a drink. Badly. *Very* badly, with the force of an alcoholic who didn't normally have the least desire to stop. But she'd taken his hands in her small ones, leaning across the table, those hands that had seen so much blood and death and medicine, they could be so tender and compassionate. And then she'd lifted his drink away from him. "Don't get drunk tonight, Doug," she'd said. And he hadn't. He'd had the one drink at lunch. Half of it. And nothing else. He smiled at some fellow resident of the building, also out to get the mail. "Nice night, isn't it?" The man looked out the window at the November wind and drizzle, remnants of last week's storm. "I guess you could say that," he finally answered, turning to go, then remembering something else. "Hey, you're that guy down the hall from me, aren't you?" If he'd ever met his neighbors, he couldn't remember. "Yeah, I guess so. Second floor?" He sorted the junk mail out, gathering it at the bottom of the stack to recycle. "Yeah. Anyway, there's this guy outside your door. Looks pissed. You playin' with somebody's girlfriend? I'd say the uninformed party found out." Doug shook his head, mystified. "You've got the wrong apartment." "Well, some guy's gonna be surprised, that's for sure," cackled the neighbor, taking the mail and leaving. He shrugged his shoulders and piled around in his coat pocket for the keys. Right where they should be. Stuffing the mail under his arm, he headed for the stairs, lost in a daydream of her. He never knew what hit him. The man came out of nowhere, swinging out of the darkness like a possessed bat, except no bites. Only punches, one after the other, and kicks from powerful legs clad in heavy boots. Doug was huddled in the fetal position on the floor, unable to escape, crawling towards the door but being dragged back for more kicks, and his nose was bleeding, blood running down his chin, and oozing out of cuts on other parts of his body . . . and then it stopped. The attacker yanked him up by his collar and slammed him against the wall. The man was only a few inches taller than him, dark hair and dark eyes . . . but he'd seen enough and felt enough . . . "Don't you mess with Scully . . . you leave her alone, you hear?" "Scully . . . Dana . . . no . . ." muttered Doug, distracted by the blood running down his face. "DON'T MESS WITH HER!" "I didn't . . ." The man dropped him down to the ground again, getting in a final kick as he headed for the door, his trench coat flipping behind him, his shoes clicking on the hard floor of the staircase. Doug huddled against the wall, knees drawn up to protect his stomach and groin area, and out of his peripheral vision, he saw neighbors swarming out, somebody with a cell phone, and he muttered, "Take me to County," and then, with one final thought of his angel that had assured that he'd be alert for this, his Carole Hathaway, the world went mercifully black. ----------~**~---------- Emergency Department / Staff Lounge Cook County General Hospital Chicago IL "Susan?" "Jerry?" "Thirty-four's bringing in a male assault victim." "Why here?" "Beats me." "What's the stats?" "ETA five-point-five minutes, male victim, mid-thirties, BAL unknown but assumed high, allergic to sulfa drugs." "How about something I can actually use?" "Ask Haleh. I wasn't listening." "Then how do you know so much?" "It's Doug Ross." "*Assault*? Doug was a *victim* of assault?" "Guess so." "This should be interesting." "Good blackmail, at least." Susan forced herself to get up off the couch. "I hope you're wrong about the BAL, or else Hathaway will be seriously annoyed." "Why?" "Didn't she tell you the whole rigmarole?" "No." She sat up and rubber her forehead. "Lord, she was having a fit. Hathaway, I mean. We had another one of those mysterious revivals, and somebody decided to call Agent Scully back from lunch. Turns out she'd gone out to lunch with Ross." "*Ross*?" "Yeah. So Hathaway volunteered to go get her, since Doug wasn't answering his pager, and Agent Scully wasn't answering her phone. According to her, Doug was sitting there, drinking, and Scully nowhere in sight. So Hathaway sits there and talks him out of drinking more. Guess it didn't work." "Hmmm." Jerry retreated out the door, leaving Susan to gulp down her coffee and head out in time to meet the ambulance. The paramedics brought Doug in on a stretcher, knocked out cold, followed by a stressed-looking middle-aged man. "How was I supposed to know they were fake?" he pestered the paramedic, in a panicked voice. "I mean, he pulled ID. on me. FBI. I mean, I'm just a law-abiding citizen. I don't got nothing against fibbies, so I let the man in. How was I supposed to know he'd go after my tenants?" The paramedic paused in the middle of her long recitation of medications and turned towards the man. "Look, I don't know any more than you do, but I do know we need to get this man in the hands of a doctor, and the sooner, the better." Susan stopped dead in her tracks. "FBI?" she asked. "Yeah, that's what the man said," muttered the paramedic. Susan shook her head and continued towards the trauma room. "Couldn't be," she muttered. "What?" asked the nurse on the other side of the stretcher. "Nothing." She shook her head again. "Nothing we need to worry about now." ----------~**~---------- Downtown Chicago, IL He was lost. Despite being male, his sense of direction was usually pretty accurate, which came in handy those times Scully accused him of being obstinate and not asking for directions. He'd turn the car into some back alley and arrive at their destination with ease. But that didn't take exhaustion and adrenaline and strange cities. He'd wandered for oven an hour before realizing the his hands were marked with Doug Ross's blood. Dried now, but it had been flowing from his nose when it was fresh. For a doctor, he'd bled a lot, dark red and full of life . . . Mulder'd gone into a greasy-spoon, all-night diner, washed his hands, and ordered a cup of coffee, which he hadn't drank any of. He'd sat and listened to the radio, and watched the Chicago scene. Funny how you could be in any city in the world, any city, and they'd all look alike. The same anonymous people in dark coats, the same sloppy-looking teenagers in baggy pants. He could have been in Washington, in Minneapolis, in California. He couldn't tell. He didn't care. He'd paid for his coffee, and now he was wandering, lost, around some part of Chicago, hypnotized by the sparking lights and the endless motion going on around him. He liked large cities . . . you were just another one of the anonymous passers-by. Nobody cared what you did for a living, who you were. Nobody demanded that you wait while they went. Nobody cared if you stayed or left . . . something across the street caught his eyes, and he waited for the light on the crosswalk to turn, then set out, lost in his dreams of the city. In his state of stupor, he never noticed the drunk driver barreling down the street. ----------~**~---------- Emergency Department / Staff Lounge Cook County General Hospital Chicago IL "Susan?" "Jerry?" "Guess what?" "I don't want to know." "Sorry. Hit-and-run drunk ran a red light and took out seven people crossing the street. Two walking wounded that I'll get Harper to do, four on the bad side of moderate, and one serious coming in by chopper. " "Harper's still here? Wasn't she in today?" Jerry shrugged. "She's still here. Might as well put her to work." She rubbed here eyes and sighed. "Okay . . . page whoever's on call for surgical, and wake up everybody you can find." She took a deep breath and hit trauma mode. "Let the walking wounded walk around -- they can wait -- let Harper go up to the chopper with surgical -- get Cannon in here and have him start on the worst -- I'll do the next worst -- uh . . . oh, God, Ross. Somebody see if Ross woke up yet -- we can move him if he has. Call the ICU. Oh, God . . ." Jerry ticked the instructions off one his fingers. "Call Hicks -- she's on surgery. Send Harper with her. Wake up Cannon. Check on Ross. Call the ICU." "Right." She ran through the motions with Dr. Cannon, checking the trauma rooms and gathering personnel. Knock on wood, but nothing had gone seriously wrong yet. They were gathering together, waiting for the ambulances . . . "Dr. Cannon! Hicks isn't down yet, and the chopper just radio'd in for approach!" Harper was calling for Marty, but Susan turned anyway. Dr. Cannon wasn't listening. She heard the wail of the sirens out side, and a hollering paramedic. The trauma team jumped as the first stretcher came in the door. "Go!" she yelled at Harper. "Go by yourself and bring him back down here! Dr. HIcks can join you on the way down!" Harper sprinted off to the elevators. Susan took another deep breath and headed off the deal with the first victims. ----------~**~---------- Hallway / Emergency Department Cook County General Hospital Chicago IL Harper TRacy, third-year medical student, had no idea what to do with the injured man, now that he'd brought him down from the chopper. The chopper medics had been skeptical at first, almost unwilling to let her take the man down alone. Lydia and Wendy had finally convinced them that standing around and arguing wasn't going to any good, but they'd both taken off the minute the elevator had reached the ER. She looked again at the man's dark hair, bloodied and matted against his head, the rest of his body just as bloody, and realized that he wasn't going to live much longer if they didn't do *something*. She looked around for Lewis or Cannon, but neither of them were there, obviously. They were busy, saving other lives. She was just about to hit the panic stage when Doug Ross walked painfully by, his gashes closed but his bruises looking even worse than before. "Doctor Ross, uh . . ." Harper began, then paused for some unknown reason. "I, um, I know you're not on duty right now, but, I . . . what am I supposed to be doing here?" Ross stopped and leaned over the stretcher, his eyes widening in surprise. "I'll take him, Harper," he said. "But - Doctor Ross - I mean, you're not on right now or anything, and you're a pediatrician, and, um, I . . . Susan said . . ." Ross shook his head, a move which she figured must have been painful with all the swelling. "I'm a doctor, Harper, and I had to learn the same things they all did in med school. I *know* what I'm doing -- I'm just being a good Samaritan and helping this guy. Now, *you* go help Marty -- he needs it big time. Go!" With one skeptical glance backwards, Harper jogged for the trauma rooms. Ross stared at the semi-concious man, cut and bruised like himself, and debated doing anything. The man's eyes flickered open, and he looked up at Doug. "You . . . bastard," the man whispered. "You . . ." he attempted to finish, but his eyes closed for good, and Doug left him sitting in the hall and went back to the curtain he'd been sleeping in. Without one glance backwards at the man who'd attacked him in his hallway and left him to die. END PART FIVE . . . sneakers . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ . . . sneakers . . . "The Spirit is the Truth." 1 John 5.07, RSV ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ From jhadden@willamette.edu Thu Oct 17 02:07:01 1996 Disclaimer, etc. in part one. "Formerly Known As Dead" by sneakers BEGIN PART SIX Hallway / Emergency Department Cook County General Hospital Chicago IL One was taken to surgery. One lived. One would live if she made it through the night. One died. Susan came out of the trauma room from declaring a time of death just as Cannon left the other one after instructing Harper to wait for the intern from the ICU. They both looked at each other, sighed, and headed out to the hall of exam rooms to deal with the remaining walking wounded. Therefore, they both came upon the dead body at the same time. Cannon stood, shocked. Susan, somehow, found the energy to grasp for the pulse before being shocked. "No pulse," she reported to nobody in particular. "Still warm . . . we've got to try," muttered Cannon. Sighing, Susan moved to the head of the stretcher, then caught sight of the face. It looked familiar . . . somehow . . . she shoved at the stretcher with her hip, calling for Harper at the same time. She came out of the trauma room, confused. "What?" "I though you and Hicks were taking care of this guy, Harper." "We - I - Dr. Ross - oh, my God." Harper stopped in her tracks. "Dr. Ross said he'd take care of this guy. He said, I mean, he told me he could do it just as well as anybody else . . ." "In the hall?" hollered Cannon, furious. "Don't just stand there, Miss Tracy!" "Dr. Ross said . . ." Harper's voice trailed off as she held the door open for the two unenthusiastic doctors. "Screw Dr. Ross!" screamed Cannon, exasperated with the sluggish medical student. "This guy's still got a chance!" But he didn't. The time of death was declared before Susan realized why he looked so familiar. The body was cooling by the time anybody thought to wake up Scully, sleeping in a spare room, and tell that her partner was dead. ----------~**~---------- Trauma Room 2 / Emergency Department Cook County General Hospital Chicago IL She'd known it would come down to this some day. Dana Scully stood at the side of the operating table, Mulder's limp hand held in her own, She'd always thought he would be killed in action, brought down by some crook. Well, a DUI is a crime, she thought wryly. An unfamiliar nurse appeared at her side. "Can't you do anything for him?" asked Scully, well aware that modern medicine didn't guarantee miracles, only overworked doctors and nurses who tried everything they could and when everything ran out, they stopped. Personal tragedy negated her medical degree. She ceased to be a doctor and became simply another grieving bystander. The stress of losing Mulder again, with no hope for a revival, overcame her trained indifference. "It would require things unthinkable to you," replied the low, flat voice. Scully looked up, eyes growing wide at her recognition of the tall wearer of the mysterious red scrubs. "But you *could* do something!" Then her hope plummeted through the floor as she realized what he was saying. "But you would have to kill someone to do it," she added belatedly. "You learn quickly, Miss Scully." The voice remained unemotional and detached. It seemed strangely deep for such a tall, thin man. His voice and his height were his only distinctive feature; had he been shorter and stayed quiet, he could have easily blended into any crowd. "And you would indeed be unwilling to trade the life of a random stranger for that of your partner." Scully hung her head in indecision. This man was her partner, her best friend. He deserved another chance at finding the truth; he deserved to die in a nobler way then a hit-and-run. But this random person might be somebody's Melissa, somebody's daughter, son, wife, husband, or girlfriend. She paced nervously around the bed, staring at the body that looked like her partner. He was more Mulderish-looking in death than in life. She thought of Melissa's body, of all the bodies she'd seen in medical school. All of them were somebody's Melissa. Pointless, random death. "I can't," she whispered, clenching her hands uselessly. "I thought as much." The man stood at Mulder's bedside for one second longer, then turned and headed for the door. He paused, before pushing it open. "I am not much longer in this body, Miss Scully. You will do nothing helpful by continuing your investigation." The truth. He was asking her to let the truth slip out of her fingers, as easily as her partner's life had slipped through his. "There *must* be a way," she whispered to nobody in particular. "Can't you just -" she waved her hands around in the air, unable to express the concept in her head "-sort of let the . . . oh, I don't know, 'cosmic sphere' or something absorb it?" "There must be a specified recipient, Miss Scully. I have told you that before, there must be a specified recipient, and I must have something of his or hers, something to connect myself to them." That concept was new to her. "How did you manage that with the rest of them?" she asked, confused and fascinated at the same time, sick over her partner's death but unconsciously seeking the proverbial truth. "Molly's father bought her that lunch pail. Her mother packed the food in it, but it was her father's money that bought it. The gang member dropped a bandanna on the waiting room floor, and I picked it up. The others . . . the same. Little coincidences." Scully pounded her fists uselessly on the edge of a stainless steel cart. "Couldn't you have someone already dead . . . um, be the recipient?" "Only if *you* wish to go down to the morgue, Miss Scully, and bring back something belonging to a dead person." He paused, hand still on the doorknob, about to leave. "I, personally, have never been too fond of dead bodies." "But - but . . . couldn't you . . ." Scully stuck her hands in her coat pockets uncomfortably. She was, of course, no longer squeamish around dead bodies, but the thought of inflicting something, even post-mortem, on an innocent person did not appeal to her. She could picture the confusion if somebody discovered that new injuries appeared on a dead body. She clenched her hands into fists, squeezing her keychain and wallet as if she could squeeze life back into Mulder. Then it hit her. She drew out the keychain slowly. It rattled, breaking the absolute silence of the trauma room. Even slower, she pushed the keys around the ring . . . building key, apartment key, office key, car key, file cabinets, bicycle, Mulder's apartment, until she came to the two decorations. She removed the smaller one, a sliver chain with an iridescent crystal at the end, and held it up in the air. "My sister gave me this," she said. "She's been dead and buried several months . . . no one will wonder about new injuries." "I will do my best, Miss Scully," said the man, leaving the doorway and taking the crystal from her. "'For long life and health'." He read the inscription on the base with a serious expression. "We'll see what we can do." Nothing Scully could say was able to express her gratitude. She imagined several embarrassingly effusive responses, discarding them for the simplest one. "Thank you, Mr. . . ?" "It is not necessary to know my name. Now, if you will leave the room, I will begin . . ." Scully pushed her curiosity aside and exited without protest. It pained her to never know how this was accomplished, but at the moment, nothing was more important than getting Mulder back. She glanced through the small glass panel once more, then walked down the hall, ignoring the temptation to stay behind and watch. As she passed the elevator, the doors opened and Dr. Rasmussen emerged, her face pale and worried. "Dana!" she cried, apparently on a first- name basis now. She put a friendly arm around Scully's shoulders. "I just heard . . . is there anything I can do?" Her bedside manner stinks, thought Scully, then mentally admonished herself for thinking that. This woman was simply offering her help, while trying to break out of the false comfort of the polite terms given to patients. It occurred to her that there *was* something the cardiologist *could* do. "Distract me for a few minutes," she said, ignoring the startled look. "Distract you how?" Dr. Rasmussen's forehead scrunched up in confusion. "Okay . . . what do you call a cow with three legs?" Scully had to admit that she hadn't expected *this* sort of distraction. "What *do* you call it?" "Lean beef." The cardiologist shoved her clipboard under her arm and stuck her hands in her lab coat pockets. "More?" "Yeah. Keep going." Scully paced back and forth across the hall. "What do you call a cow with two legs?" "A double amputee?" Dr. Rasmussen laughed. "Extra lean beef. And now for the grand finale . . . what do you call a cow with *no* legs?" Scully, involved in her nervous pacing, said nothing. "C'mon, pay attention . . . it's ground beef. Get it, ground beef, like hamburger?" "That's enough," said Scully suddenly. "What, you don't like my jokes? Okay, I admit, my nephews are about twenty years younger, but still . . ." Scully cut her off. "Nothing personal . . . come with me." Ignoring Dr. Rasmussen's questions, she started back down the hall. She paused outside Mulder's door, her heart pounding nervously. "What is it?" asked Dr. Rasmussen. She looked in the window. "Oh my God, Dana, what is going on in there?" Scully whipped around her and shoved the door open. On the floor, the man in the nurse's scrubs lay, his body twisted and motionless. Mulder knelt by his side, counting chest compressions out loud. And, glittering like snow, the shattered pieces of Scully's crystal keychain spread across the floor. "Hey, is that your partner?" asked Dr. Rasmussen. "He's cute." ----------~**~---------- Trauma Room 2 / Emergency Department Cook County General Hospital Chicago IL The woman that came from the morgue, incredibly enough, recognized the dead man. "Yeah, I know him," she said, missing the surprise on their faces. "His name's Richard Phoenix. He used to work as a manager in the South-wing cafeteria here, until last year, when his HIV became full-blown AIDS. Said if he was going to spent all that time in hospitals being treated, there was no way he was going to work in one, too." Scully, Susan Lewis, Marty Cannon, Ann Rasmussen and Harper Tracy stood in a semicircle, watching. Mulder, in borrowed scrubs intended for somebody a good deal shorter, hung back a few paces, listening and contemplating. It wasn't the first time he'd come close to death. Far from it. He'd long since lost track of the times somebody had shot at him, beat him, left him for dead. But he'd come back, always come back. But those had been things he'd brought on by chasing the truth, or chasing the cases he'd been assigned. Or the cases he'd picked. A hazard of his line of work, so to speak. Random death, an anonymous hit-and-run, almost struck him as a more serious way to die. But he'd survived. Almost as if a higher power was looking out for him. He laughed silently at the thought. Higher powers were Scully's thing, not his. Like hell a higher power was looking out for him. Looking out to make sure he was constantly miserable. But he was alive. He looked back over at the group. "Nice guy," the morgue worked was continuing. "Used to joke that his goal was to reduce the number of people that died from cafeteria food until it equaled the ones that died from sicknesses. Looks healthier than a lot of AIDS deaths we get. Glad to know he didn't die of something deforming." "Scully?" he called. She stepped out of the line, and placed a hand on the small of his back, turning him to face away. He didn't know what to say to her. In the end, she spoke first. "Doug Ross is a little ticked that you made it through this whole thing alive, you know." "Hasn't he ever heard of malpractice suits?" She grinned. "Don't tell me you wouldn't have thrown yourself into a medical frenzy over this, ordered the twelve-round autopsy, and sued the crap out of the hospital, because I know you too well. You would have." "I suppose you're right, Mulder." He stood in silence, trying to phrase the next question tactfully, then giving up. "Scully . . . is anything, uh . . . going on between you and Doug Ross? You seemed kind of . . . occupied with him, the last time I heard." She tilted her head up and looked at the ceiling, and his heart plummeted to the floor until she spoke. "There never was anything between Dr. Ross and I, Mulder." "But -" She was suddenly laughing; he hoped not at him. "He is so much in love with Carole Hathaway, and so clueless as to what to do about it . . ." "What do *you* think he should do about it?" Mulder asked. "I honestly have no idea." He stood, contemplating the latest developments in their ever-changing partnership, until Scully began speaking again. "Ann Rasmussen wants your e-mail address," she told him, a slight grin on her face. He answered without thinking. "Did you give it to her?" "Of course I didn't! I told her she had to ask you face-to-face. Unlike you and Frohike, I wouldn't getting anything out of the deal. She thinks you look like that guy on all those TV and movie posters she has." He smiled. "So I came back from the dead to be hounded over the internet by some cardiologist that thinks I look like her favorite TV star?" "That's life, Mulder, accept it." Yeah, he mused, that was life. And he was around to live it. "Scully?" he asked again. "Mulder?" she replied. "Thanks." And that was all he said. THE END OF IT ALL. If you liked it (and the character of Ann Rasmussen) she is given a small role in "And He Do The Walk", which is a M/S romance. (At Gossamer or at my fanfic page, http://www.willamette.edu/~jhadden/xfic.html.) . . . sneakers . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ . . . sneakers . . . "The Spirit is the Truth." 1 John 5.07, RSV ------------------------------------------------------------------------------