From: X-Phylia <xphylia@yahoo.com>
Date: Sat, 19 Oct 2002 19:25:06 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: new fic: "light my way" by x-phylia (follow up to "born innocent")
Source: direct

Title: LIGHT MY WAY (Follow-up to "Born innocent")
Author: X-Phylia (xphylia@yahoo.com)
Disclaimer: The X-Files belong to CC and the Fox Network.
Category: SA. Angst-Comfort, MT.
Rate: NC-17 (for language, subject matter and situations, but nothing 
too explicit.)
Archive: Yes, just keep the header and let me know.
Feedback: If you're reading this story, it's because of all the emails 
I received on my previous ones. So go ahead, write me!
Spoilers: mostly general knowledge until early season 5.
Summary: Samantha's death has pushed a battered Mulder over the edge. 
Scully desperately tries to bring him back, but the darkness threatens 
to engulf her too.
Notes: 1) The title was taken from U2's song "Ultraviolet". 2) I did a 
little research before writing about the medical and psychological 
issues, but I don't pretend to be an expert. Any mistake is mine.

I'd like to thank Bridget for doing the beta in record time and to all 
of you who sent me feedback on the previous stories. Thanks for your 
encouragement and patience.

"Light my way"
by X-Phylia

The words 'twenty years' floated in the air, ringing in my ears.
Mulder passed out after hearing them, and his mother seemed ready to 
collapse herself, as if she had realized for the first time the full 
meaning of those words.
I was so stunned that I didn't react.
I pulled my partner closer against me, an instinctive gesture to 
shelter him from a cruel world hell-bent on hurting him.
He had resisted all sorts of attacks, bouncing back like a proverbial 
yo-yo, but I knew he wouldn't come out of this one so easily.
I couldn't bring myself to wake him up and force him to deal with 
reality yet, at least not until *I* had regained my own balance.

I pondered about the woman sitting in front of me, her glassy eyes, 
full of the guilt of unconfessed sins. What was going through her mind? 
Had she done this on purpose? Mrs. Mulder had a unique power over her 
son, a capacity to manipulate his emotions in a way no one else was 
able to -- not even me. I guess every mother has it, but how many of 
them are willing to use it to provoke a nervous breakdown in their 
children?
Even though I was ready to knock her lights out a few minutes earlier, 
what I saw in her eyes -- the loneliness, the fear - made it hard to 
stay angry at her. Compared to his mother, Mulder was stability 
personified. 
She was damaged beyond repair, and my stomach cringed when I thought 
that my partner would certainly end up like her if he didn't receive 
help immediately.

The silence in the room was oppressive.
Mulder was still out cold, I covered him with a blanket and petted his 
hair rhythmically. I wanted him to feel me close when he came to. His 
mother was watching with a mixture of tender concern and sheer envy. 
Her arms seemed to ache to do what I was doing, her eyes were full of 
tears she wouldn't shed in front of me.
Life had made her an emotionally crippled person, unlike her sensitive 
and volatile son. She seemed desperate to touch him, to gather him 
against her, but she couldn't. And Mulder wouldn't let her anyway.
Had it always been like this for them?

Mrs. Mulder watched silently as I ran my fingers through his hair. "His 
sister used to do that," she whispered. "It always seemed to comfort 
him."
I certainly wasn't in the mood to do any talking, but the chance to 
know something about Mulder through the eyes of his mother was too good 
to pass up.
"Oh, did she?"
"Yes," she smiled softly. "Samantha adored her brother, and Fox was 
unusually patient with her. Sometimes she'd convince him to play dolls, 
and insisted on his being 'her baby'. She'd make him lie down on her 
bed and tuck him in, then she'd sit, put his head on her lap, and just 
pet his hair. Those were about the only times Fox would keep quiet for 
more than five minutes."
I blinked back fresh tears, not for Mulder this time, but for that 
brave little girl who gave her tormented big brother those precious 
moments of peace. I couldn't understand how this woman, being their 
mother, didn't realize back then that her son wasn't just trying to 
please his little sister, he was seeking comfort and tenderness from 
the only person in the house that he wasn't afraid of.

Greenwich, CT
Saturday, 7:08 pm

Before her departure to Colorado to meet us, Mrs. Mulder had requested 
her daughter's body to be transported to Greenwich, where she lived, 
for proper burial. Mulder wanted to take the remains back to DC, but 
his mother refused; her only concession was allowing me to do the 
autopsy.
Unfortunately, the body was too far gone to draw any definitive 
conclusion. The autopsy revealed little information; no indication of 
trauma was found, no trace of illness or toxic chemicals. Mulder knew 
how difficult it was to establish a cause of death in a decayed corpse 
with no obvious signs, but I was frustrated at my inability to give him 
an answer about what had happened to his sister. It felt like I failed 
him.

What I could give him, though, was certainty about her identity.
Before she was prepped for the coffin, Mulder asked to see his sister's 
body, to make sure that it was really her, even if there was not much 
to be recognized. He needed the closure, to see what was left of her 
with his own eyes. He traced his fingers over the collarbone that 
sported a distinct mark and studied the RFLP results that had confirmed 
that the remains had once been Samantha Mulder.
"Are these good, Scully? Is it really her?"
I wanted nothing more than to say no, or at least that I wasn't sure.
But you can't argue against DNA.
"Look at these bands here," I pointed at the film with the RFLP 
results. "This lane is your mom, and this is the body. Can you see the 
bands matching?"
"Yes, but there are a few that don't match."
"No, a full match would mean they were identical. But these are enough 
to determine there is a genetic relationship between them. A sample of 
your tissues would reveal a similar pattern of bands, some would match 
your mother's, some wouldn't."
"But the clones we've seen... couldn't this be one of them?"
"It wouldn't make sense, Mulder. This body is too old for that. I can't 
imagine a fourteen-year-old clone that has been dead this long."
"Scully, all the clones looked as old as Samantha would have been if 
she had been alive. How can that be, if the experiments supposedly 
began when she was eight? And why would this be any different?"
Trust Mulder to ask the right questions even when he's half out of his 
mind with pain. I could almost see a ray of hope in his eyes, and I 
hated myself for taking it away.
"Fox," the use of his first name never failed to get his full 
attention. "Come here. Sit down," I coaxed him. "If this were a clone, 
it would have disintegrated, like they all did. And more importantly, 
we don't know how she got here. There's absolutely no evidence of 
mistreat."
"That doesn't mean it didn't happen, does it? Besides, can we really 
trust those tests? How do we know they weren't doctored?"
I took his hand firmly and forced him to look at me.
"Mulder don't do this to yourself. I know it hurts, I know how much you 
wanted to find her alive and well, but remember you once thought this 
could have happened. I can't explain where those clones came from. If 
you doubt this tests we can run them again, I can do it myself, with a 
sample of your blood if you want. But honestly, I don't think the 
outcome will be any different."
He absorbed the words and nodded very slowly.
"I bet that cigarette-smoking bastard was amused when I almost gave up 
everything just to be with my alleged sister," he said bitterly. Then 
he pierced me with desperate eyes. "Scully, are you sure it's her?"
My ears heard his question, but in my mind echoed the real one, what he 
was really saying: "If you tell me it's her, I'll believe you."
"I'm pretty sure, Mulder. Her dental records also match, and you've 
seen the mark in her collarbone. I'm sorry, I know it's not what you 
wanted to hear but I would never lie to you."

He handed me the papers and carefully took the tiny and fragile bones 
of his sister's hand in his own. His eyes were full of defeated 
acceptance and pain, watching the body as if he could still see an 
eight-year-old brown-haired girl just sleeping over the cold slab of 
the morgue.
"Oh Sam, what happened to you? I'm sorry, squirt, I'm so sorry, please 
forgive me, I couldn't save you, I couldn't find you..." he sobbed 
brokenly. "What am I going to do now, Scully? What am I going to do?" 
"We'll figure it out, partner."
"I told myself it wasn't true, that it was all another hoax, another 
lie... everything else was a lie, Scully, why *this* has to be real?"

Saturday
11:07 pm

After we left the morgue we checked in a hotel, politely refusing Mrs. 
Mulder's offer to stay at her house.
Once denial was no longer an option, Mulder's grief, anger and 
frustration were rising to a whole new level. I noticed how tense he 
was, as well as the numerous times he visited the toilet even when all 
I had gotten him to pass down his throat was some Gatorade.
I felt guilty for having denied him immediate release back in Colorado. 
When he came to, after a good half hour of blissful unconsciousness, I 
took him to bed and injected him a massive dose of Valium. I couldn't 
risk him going crazy on me in the middle of nowhere, I still had to get 
us both back to the East coast. He was zoned out the following morning, 
but at least he could function enough to travel.
I upgraded our tickets to first class so he could be more comfortable, 
and Mulder slumbered the whole trip. 

Sunday
12:30 pm

The service was brief, but it had devastating effects on my partner.
I doubt he got more than an hour of sleep the night before, and he 
looked terrible even in his dark designer suit that the Gunmen had 
picked up from his apartment on their way to Greenwich.
The air between him and his mother was as cold as everything else was 
on that dull, rainy day. Mulder spent the whole ceremony staring at the 
small coffin, as if he expected it to open up and show a little girl 
playing seek and hide.
It was ironical that I was the one crying and not him, but seeing 
Mulder there, trembling in the cold and watching how his greatest hope 
was descended into the frozen ground was too much to bear. The worst 
part was when he kneeled down, grabbed some soil and dropped it to the 
lowered coffin. God, he stayed there so long that I was afraid he'd 
never get up again. He looked lonely and defeated, as if he wanted to 
jump down to into the ground himself.

Once the ceremony was over, Mulder shook hands, nodded, even dedicated 
a small smile to a pretty woman -- who turned out to be a schoolmate of 
Samantha - but he never uttered a single word aloud. Maybe he was 
scared he would start screaming if he did. He couldn't care less for 
the majority of those people, they were mere acquaintances of his 
mother, but at least his own friends were there too.
The Gunmen had driven all the way from DC to Greenwich in their 
battered van in order to pay their respects, and I couldn't say how 
grateful I felt to them. They took Mulder away from the small crowd and 
kept him company, leaving me alone with Skinner, who had found the time 
to attend to funeral as well.
"How is he, Scully?" he asked with concern, watching Mulder with The 
Three Stooges.
"I don't think he's fully aware of what's going on, sir."
"I'd say he's taking things amazingly well."
"That's my point, he's taking this *too* well."

Sunday
4:16 pm

Skinner offered to drive us back to DC, and I accepted gratefully. We 
were extremely tired, and I didn't feel like going through the hassle 
of airports again.
The weather was truly awful, it was very cold and rainy, and the wind 
didn't help. I traveled in the passenger seat, hoping Mulder would take 
advantage of the large, comfortable back seat and rest a little. I knew 
he had to be exhausted, the two previous nights had been terrible for 
him.
Instead, he just leaned over the window and stared at the passing 
vehicles on the I-95. Tension was almost palpable in his body and face 
expression. His fists were clenched tightly, his breathing uneven. I 
grimaced at the kind of memories his mind might be recalling, obviously 
they weren't nice ones.

About an hour later, the sky was almost completely dark, matching 
Mulder's mood. Then, all of a sudden, he pronounced his first words in 
hours.
"Stop the car." His voice sounded thick and kind of distorted.
"What?" Skinner turned slightly to look at him.
"Stop the god-damned car!"
"Okay, I'll pull over in the next rest area."
"No! Stop it now!" 
I was a little anxious, he looked ready to punch his fist right through 
the glass, but then I noticed he was sweaty and pale.
"What is it, Mulder? Do you feel sick?"
He nodded, and fortunately Skinner managed to reach the lane that lead 
to the rest area.

The car had barely stopped when Mulder jumped out of it and started to 
retch. Nothing but bile came up, since he had refused to eat all day, 
He was trembling all over, and sure it wasn't for the cold.
The rest area was seemingly deserted, except for a couple of employees 
who were inside listening to some game on the radio. Mulder sat down on 
a bench and tried to regain his composure.
Skinner stayed in the car while I went to him. I handed him his trench 
coat, sat down with him and took his icy cold hand. He didn't push me 
away, but he was like a turtle withdrawn inside its shell.

The silence was disturbed by the motor of a car that had parked on the 
driveway. A mangot out of the vehicle followed by a young boy. The 
child, probably ten years old, was whining about something and 
pestering his father.
Mulder looked at them absently, he didn't seem to be paying much 
attention. But all of the sudden the man got fed up with the boy's 
antics and smacked him. I could tell he hadn't hit him so hard, but the 
kid tripped and fell flat on the floor. 
When Mulder saw the kid's tears well up in his hurt, innocent eyes, all 
hell broke lose.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he shouted, pushing the 
surprised man.
"No, what are *you* doing?" the man struck back.
"You coward! Does this make you feel powerful?" he pointed at the still 
fallen and now frightened kid. "Do you get your kicks hitting a 
defenseless child that won't fight back? Huh? Why don't you mess with 
someone your own size, you son of a bitch?"
"Get off me!" the man fought to get rid of Mulder's grip.

I was upset myself at the sight of a grown man hitting a kid, even if 
no big harm was done. Mulder's reaction, especially under the current 
circumstances, was more than understandable; but he had no right to 
take things in his hand. This was not the way, and I tried to stop him 
before he did something stupid.
"Mulder, stop it, that's enough!"
He was beyond reason, obnubilated by his out of control fury. The 
father of the child was a sturdy guy and fought back. He connected a 
couple of mean hooks in Mulder's stomach and ribs, Mulder had given him 
a bloody nose in response. At that point it was obvious that none of 
them would listen, so I went back to the car and called Skinner.

When we came back, Mulder had the other man pinned up against the wall, 
his forearm pressed against his throat. He was so far gone in his 
madness that he wouldn't even notice that the very same boy he was 
trying to protect was begging him not to hurt his daddy.
"Let him go, Mulder!" Skinner shouted.
Skinner's voice of command did work and Mulder released him.
A woman, presumably the man's wife and kid's mother, showed up 
attracted by the hassle.
"Mom, mom!" the boy ran to her.
"What's going on, Danny? Oh my God, Travis! Your nose!"
"That's what he gets for hitting a little boy!" Mulder panted. "I saw 
it!"
The woman stared at him for a moment, but then showed a great deal of 
common sense by taking the child away from the violent scene. 

"You're a crazy asshole! Who do think you are? What gives you the right 
to tell *me* how to raise *my* son?" 
Mulder tried to jump over him again, only to find himself restrained by 
Skinner's bigger and stronger arms. 
"What gives you the right to hit him? He's what? Ten, eleven years 
old?" 
"I'm not about to give you any explanations, what I'll do instead is 
press charges against you, you psycho!"
Skinner dragged Mulder back to the car, I stayed behind to apologize to 
the man. I briefly explained the reason for my partner's violent 
outburst, not wanting to go into details with a stranger. Travis 
Robertson was a reasonable, sensitive man, and his demeanor changed 
considerably after he heard me. He agreed not to press charges, but 
insisted in that Mulder needed help.
"Tell him I'd never hurt my children like that, Ms. Scully. Danny is a 
good kid, but sometimes he needs limits. I'm sure you understand."
"I do, Mr. Robertson, and so does Mulder. You just caught him in a very 
bad moment."

Mulder's 'bad moment' seemingly wasn't over yet, because now he was 
wrestling with Skinner.
"What the hell was that about, Mulder?"
"The bastard decked the boy! Ask Scully!"
"And you hit him back! For Christ sake, Mulder! That boy was asking you 
not to hurt his daddy and you didn't even see him!"
"Well, he must have been scared that 'daddy' might take revenge later!"
With Mulder still trapped in his arms, Skinner turned in my direction 
looking for a clue to my partner's overreaction. I had to avert my 
eyes. 
"Let go of me!" he screamed, writhing like a slippery fish. But instead 
of releasing his grip, the boss only held him tighter. I felt panic and 
rage build inside Mulder as easily as if it were happening to me.
"Let him go, sir!"
He continued trying to hold down Mulder, who was now screaming really 
loud. I shouted again. "Skinner! Let him go! Now!"
Probably startled by the tone of my voice, Skinner released him 
immediately. Mulder fell on the damp grass on his knees and lowered the 
rest of his body to the ground, covering his face with his hands.

It was one moment, just a few seconds. It seemed to me that the world 
had stopped turning, and the images froze before my eyes. I looked at 
the three of us, Skinner with shock painted on his face, Mulder slumped 
and crying on the floor, and myself asking when things had gone so 
wrong. We must have made a bad turn somewhere along the road that led 
us here. 
I realized I had carelessly assumed that Mulder would always break down 
in comfortable and safe places, where we could have some privacy. If 
anything, this was showing me how wrong I was in regard to my partner's 
ability to control himself. I had seen him fight for that control back 
in Colorado, and barely keeping it.
No wonder Skinner was astounded; he hadn't seen Mulder deteriorate 
little by little as I had. 

"Sir, have you got a blanket in your trunk we can use?"
Skinner nodded, almost relieved to have an excuse to flee the 
uncomfortable scene.
I loosened Mulder's tie and felt his pulse, it was racing; his breaths 
were coming in short gasps too. I tried to soothe him in the usual way, 
but he was trembling and sobbing uncontrolably.
Skinner helped me carry him back to the car and handed me my medical 
stuff and Mulder's duffel bag.
Mulder's suit was wet from lying on the floor and his teeth were 
chattering with cold, all of him felt cold.

Even though he wouldn't say a word, Skinner was quite upset. He got 
back into the car, put the heater in full blast and just nose-dived 
back into the traffic. In the back seat, I was helping Mulder change 
into more comfortable clothes.
"I'm c-cold," he stammered.
"I know, we'll get you warm in a sec."
"I'm sorry, Scully, I just... I saw that kid..."
"I understand, Mulder, but he seemed to be a nice man. He asked me to 
tell you that he'd never hurt his son."
"I feel so stupid..."
"Well, you did a stupid thing. You're lucky he won't be pressing 
charges."
"I could have killed him, Scully. If I had had my gun..."
"Shh, it's okay now. You're tired, lie down and try to get some sleep. 
It's a long way to DC."

He lowered himself on my lap, burying his face on my belly as he 
usually did when he needed to hide himself from the world. It made me 
feel a little uncomfortable that he did that in front of Skinner, but 
Mulder didn't seem to mind; except that he sobbed very quietly, as if 
not wanting to be heard by the boss. 

He didn't last long, though. A few minutes of my fingers caressing the 
back of his neck and he was out like a light. Skinner put on the radio 
to break the remaining tension and Mulder didn't even flinch.
We made a tacit, unspoken agreement to remain silent. I didn't want to 
talk, all I wanted to do was think; about how good it felt to have 
Mulder in my arms like that, and about the guilt that came with such a 
feeling. Think about how he was spiraling down and taking me under with 
him, and whether I was prepared to acknowledge that fact or not.

"You're losing your perspective here, Scully," Skinner said after a 
while. "I don't think you realize how bad this looks from the outside."
"What do you mean by that exactly, sir?"
"I mean that Mulder is a mess, that he's getting worse by the day, and 
that you're no longer objective when it comes to him."
I gritted my teeth, swallowed my anger. He was right, of course, but 
his rather blunt way of saying it offended me. I had to be stupid to 
miss the unsaid words: he's screwed up and you're protecting him. I 
chose not to reply, just in case I might say something I would regret 
later. Besides, I didn't like talking about Mulder as if he weren't 
there. He might be absent for Skinner, but his sleeping body felt 
pleasantly heavy against mine.
"I'm not here to pry into your lives, Scully," he insisted. "However, 
I'm sure you realize that it would be negligent on my part to authorize 
him to go to the field in his current condition."
"I appreciate your concern, sir, but there's no need to worry about 
that yet. Mulder will be on leave for a while, anyway."
An intelligent man, Skinner dropped the subject and drove silently. 

***********************************************************************

Washington DC,
11:45 pm

As soon as we got home, I went to bed. Not Scully's, the one in her 
spare bedroom. I wanted to be alone, in fact, I think I mentioned going 
back to my apartment, but Scully wouldn't even hear about it. 
It's hard to put in words how I felt back then. I constantly asked 
myself why was I still alive, why should I stand all that pain, but I 
couldn't come up with any good reasons. It got to a point where I just 
couldn't calm down; I cried not just because I was sad, but because I 
was powerless to do anything else.
I don't even want to imagine what it must have been like for Scully. 
She stayed with me for hours, talking to me or just caressing me when 
she ran out of words. It was she who dragged me out of the bed to eat, 
shave and shower, or even walk a little around her apartment. Left to 
my own devices, I only cried myself to sleep hoping to sleep myself to 
death. I'd let Scully hold me from time to time, but not even that 
seemed to be working anymore. 
Sometimes it helped, and I ended up asleep in her arms, exhausted. 
Sometimes it didn't, and she'd just give up and leave me alone.

No matter how big my wish to die had been in the past, my will to live 
was always more powerful. I'd been relentless, as long as I had my 
faith, my hope, nothing and no one would stop me. But now there was 
nothing left. My beliefs were a bunch of lies that had cost the lives 
of too many people, many of them perfect innocents, like Melissa 
Scully. My partner, the person I loved most in the world, had suffered 
horribly because of those lies. But amidst of all the lies, one thing 
remained true: my sister *had* been abducted, she was still missing, 
and I still had to find her. I refused to believe that the woman in 
that diner was the real Samantha. The Samantha I knew would have 
listened, trusted me.
But the Samantha I knew was dead, and she had been dead all the time. I 
hadn't even moved to England at the time she died, my quest was over 
much earlier than it had started. And the last, most cruel joke of all, 
was that it was my mother who found her, not me. 

My mother.
Just thinking about her was painful, even more than thinking about my 
father. It was strange how mom's indifference hurt more than dad's 
beatings in the end. At least I always knew what my father thought of 
me, my eidetic memory couldn't recall the last time he said something 
nice to me, except for the night he died. I wish I knew what he was 
trying to tell me. His last words to me were 'Forgive me'. Forgive you 
for what, dad? For molesting and raping me? For letting my sister go 
and putting the blame on me? For not telling me the truth?
I don't know if I can forgive you.
I'm not a saint.

And what about you, mom? You come in and out of my life like a ghost, 
you haunt me even when you're still alive -- technically, at least. I 
wonder what are you doing now. Are you watching TV? Playing cards with 
your friends? Shopping? One thing is for sure, I cannot picture you 
locked up in the darkness crying your heart out. You don't cry, you 
just take pills. You can't stand seeing me cry either, you hate me for 
being so weak.
But I'm not weak, mom, I never was. I survived, and I did it on my own. 
Now I'm just tired, too damn tired of everything, I'll just go back to 
sleep...

***********************************************************************

Washington, DC
Friday, 2:13 pm
A week later

A week after Samantha's funeral, I was ready to admit that Mulder was a 
mess, and that he wasn't getting better. His proverbial resilience, 
which I had taken for granted, was nonexistent this time; and I found 
myself resenting Mulder for it. Why couldn't he get over this? 
Everybody had to face painful loses in their lives. I had lost my 
father and my sister myself; it wasn't like I didn't know what it was 
like to lose a loved one.

I felt terrible for him, no one should have to experience what Mulder 
was going through. It would have been easier for me to drug him out of 
his misery, but that was pure selfishness; not once had he ask for that 
kind of relief. I had therefore no other choice but to let him exorcise 
his demons in his own way and resort to my usual role of comfort-giver. 
Only this time it seemed that the effect was wearing thin, and more 
than a few times I simply left him to cry in his room and closed the 
door behind me. Cruel as it sounds, it was the only way I could keep my 
own sanity.

I didn't want to leave him alone when he was so unstable, but I 
desperately needed to go back to work. I needed some time on my own, a 
few hours a day where I could interact with other people, get a little 
normalcy in my life.
I tried to talk to Mulder about that and he just shrugged. That hurt a 
little, I was ingenuously hoping that he'd show some interest in going 
back to work. Skinner had told me that I was no longer objective when 
it came to my partner and I had been offended, but watching Mulder in 
the state he was made me reconsider his words. Honestly speaking, I 
barely recognized my partner anymore. He wasn't the Fox Mulder I knew 
and fell in love with. *That* Mulder was strong, passionate, funny... I 
could enumerate at least a dozen of adjectives that described his old 
self but didn't remotely apply to the man he was now.
It tore me apart when he watched me like saying a silent prayer, maybe 
afraid that I'd give up on him; but for the sake of both of us, I had 
to draw a line. I couldn't let the abyss take me too.

"I'm going out for a few hours, Mulder. Will you be okay?"
He nodded. Damn, he didn't even speak any more!
"Do you need anything?"
He shook his head, and I sighed in defeat.
Once I climbed into my car, the tears came unabashedly. I drove 
aimlessly -- or not so aimlessly, more on automatic pilot, because when 
my brain connected with my eyes again I found myself very near the 
Hoover building. I parked and walked the remaining few blocks, it was a 
cold but sunny afternoon. The wind was chilly but I didn't mind, in any 
case, it helped clear the cobwebs inside my head.
I got inside the building and instinctively went to our office.
It had been a while since anyone had been there. Paranoid-Mulder 
wouldn't allow the janitors to clean the place, so it was dusty and 
smelly. I turned on the lights and left the door open to ventilate it. 
I walked around, looking at Mulder's things as if I've never seen them 
before. His files, his poster, his basketball, his ever messy desk... 
everything there reminded me of the Mulder I knew, and it was very 
comforting. I smiled to myself, obviously the subconscious, intuitive 
part of my mind had directed me here. If I closed my eyes for a moment, 
I could even pretend that he was just running and errand and would come 
back any minute.

Once I promised Mulder that I'd go to him when I needed to cry.
Well, I needed to cry. 
Of course I couldn't go to him, promise or no promise, so my mind came 
up with the next best thing: the place where we first met, where we 
practically lived in the past five years. Our story is written in those 
files. 
No one would hear me here -- certainly not a Friday at this hour. So I 
sat down in his chair, bent over his desk and cried for him, for both 
of us. I would have given anything to have my partner's comforting arms 
around me, to hear his soft voice telling me everything was going to be 
okay.

Friday
8:09 pm

By the time I got home -- previous stop at Skinner's office to arrange 
my personal leave - I felt refreshed and ready to drag Mulder to a 
therapist first thing in the morning. I had suggested it already; but 
he had refused, arguing that talking only made him worse and that he 
didn't want other people dissecting his life. I let him be, hoping he'd 
get better on his own.
Clearly, that hadn't been the case. Mulder was displaying many of the 
classic symptoms of a major depression. He was moody and irritable, he 
either slept all day or couldn't sleep at all, and had lost interest in 
things he used to enjoy, like sports. In spite of all the times I 
teased him about his taste in entertainment, I would have been happy to 
see him watch one of his videos; at least it would show that he still 
had his libido.
His health was also deteriorating at an alarming rate. He never fully 
recovered from the gastrointestinal problems he had suffered in 
Colorado, and now he also had a persistent cold. He had lost at least 
twenty pounds since the Dobson case.
And then, like a monster lurking in the dark, there was the one thing I 
was afraid to even think about: Mulder had an extensive history of 
suicide attempts, he had tried to kill himself for much less. He had 
warned me that I wouldn't be able to stop him if he really wanted to 
take his life, but I wasn't about to make it easier for him. Just in 
case, I took our guns and locked them away, together with the ammo. I 
didn't want to repeat my performance of having to identify his body, 
this time for real.

I found Mulder that night in the very same place he was when I left 
earlier in the afternoon, curled up in his bed. The room was dark and 
stuffy and he was crying, clutching to the pillow for dear life. I sat 
with him in the bed and started to rub his shoulder until he calmed 
down.
"I'm going back to my place tomorrow," he murmured with a raspy, thick 
voice. His statement shocked me, but I hid it as best as I could. 
"I thought you were comfortable here, Mulder."
"I'm ruining your life, Dana. You don't deserve this."
"Neither do you."
"Don't argue with me. I'm going home."
"To do what exactly, Mulder?"
He didn't reply, but his silence was all the answer I needed. That 
tacit admittance of his dark intentions nearly did me in. 

I decided that the subject of the therapist would have to wait, he 
wasn't exactly in the most receptive mood.
I had to change my strategy.
I coaxed him out of the bed and into the bathtub, where I prepared a 
bubble bath. Of course, he'd never admit he liked such girlie stuff, 
but I knew he secretly enjoyed them.
I cringed at the sight of his once well-toned, muscular body; now he 
was skin and bones and moved with the grace of a ninety-year-old.
He moved into the foamy water, leaned back and relaxed.
I left him alone, I had noticed that lately he'd rather have some 
privacy, when not so long ago he was always finding ways to get me into 
the bathtub with him.
I insisted in doing the shaving, though. I tried to make it look like 
it was a minor detail, but the truth was that I was afraid to leave him 
alone with a blade in his hands.
He gazed at me with a knowing look, full of hurt.
"First you take all the bottles with pills you had in your cabinet, 
then you put our guns away, and now you won't let me hold a razor 
blade. What happened to trust, Scully?"
It was a blow in my stomach, but I recovered quickly.
"Then tell me I'm overreacting, Mulder. Tell me that I have no reason 
to be scared."
He took a deep breath and coughed violently. "So you *are* scared," he 
gasped.
"Yes, I am," I said softly. "You need help, Mulder. You know that." 

I didn't say anything else and neither did he, but he allowed me to 
shave him. His skin, pale as it was, was soft and beautiful. 
After the bath, I insisted that we go out for dinner. Mulder didn't 
seem too happy with the idea, but he gave in. While he was dressing, I 
handed him his black turtleneck, which not only looked great on him, 
but also helped disguise his thinness.
We went to a small restaurant in Georgetown and ordered our food. Not 
for the first time I noticed the glimpses other women -- and at least 
two men - were throwing in Mulder's direction. He looked beautiful, his 
mixture of unconscious sensuality and vulnerability was simply 
irresistible. He was completely unaware of the attention he was 
attracting, though; his eyes were fixed in our hands entwined over the 
table.
We ate in silence, the food was so delicious that Mulder consumed it 
with a modicum of enthusiasm. However, as the place was getting more 
and more crowded, he started to become agitated.
"You okay, Mulder?"
"Can we please go home, Scully? I'm not feeling so great," he asked 
quietly.

He only settled completely when we were both under the covers of my 
bed, in front of the TV. 
I cuddled up against him, putting my head on his shoulder and wrapping 
an arm around his chest.
"I'm sorry, Dana," he mused. "I'm a mess, and I'm turning your life 
into one."
"Well, I wouldn't call this a mess. It's Friday night, it's cold 
outside, and we're here warm and cozy in bed after enjoying a delicious 
meal."
"Nice try, but you don't fool me. I don't want you to see me like this, 
Scully. It's bad enough when you're sad, but it hurts too much knowing 
it's because of me."
"And you think that shutting me out will make me feel any better?"
He didn't say anything for a while, but tears flowed down his cheeks.
"Why are you doing this, Dana? How can a woman like you possibly want 
someone like me in her life? I'm nothing but trouble."
I hated it when he talked like that.
"Oh, but it's your money I'm interested in... I thought we were clear on 
that," I replied sardonically.
Mulder smiled, then insisted. "Tell me, Scully."
I sighed. "You can be dense, Mulder. I'm here because I love you, 
simple as that. You make me feel loved, needed, trusted... No one ever 
made me feel like that before."
He wiped the tears from his eyes and kissed me softly.
"Thank you. I really needed to hear that."

A few hours later, I woke up to his screams and subsequent run to the 
bathroom. I heard him retch and cough violently, but then he went 
silent. Against my own instincts, I didn't go to him; he needed some 
privacy when he was sick. Ten minutes later he was back, doubled over 
with pain. He lay down gingerly and curled up on the bed with his arms 
bent over his stomach, breathing with difficulty. His hair and forehead 
were sweaty, and I didn't need much light to see that he was very pale. 
I allowed him a few minutes to regroup, and when he relaxed a little, I 
spooned behind him. I passed my hand over his waist and rubbed his 
belly up and down, but instead of calming down, he started to cry. A 
little more than tired and upset, I sat up in bed, turned on the light 
and waited patiently until he was done. This was going too far, too 
soon.
"Mulder," I called him.
"M'sorry I woke you up..."
"Mulder, we have to do something about this."
"I'm tired, Scully. I want to go back to sleep."
"All right, I'll let it pass for tonight, but we're definitely talking 
tomorrow."

Saturday
10:13 am

The morning started where the previous night had ended, with Mulder 
rushing to the bathroom. The vomiting and diarrhea were gradually 
debilitating him.
"How are you feeling?" I asked him.
"Tired."
"You hardly slept last night."
He shook his head imperceptibly and curled up in the bed.
"What are you going to do, Mulder?"
"I don't know."
"You can't go on like this. You're killing yourself, only slower."
"Give me my gun then, I'll speed it up."
I flinched. "I will, if you think that's the only way to end your pain. 
Never mind that I'll probably be the one to find you; after all, I 
already know the drill."
"Don't lecture me, Scully. I'm not in the mood."
"Then stop being so selfish!"
He raised from the bed, anger and frustration painted on his face.
"Great! Now you sound like my mother! What is it with you people?"
The reference to Mrs. Mulder was intended to hurt me, and instead of 
remaining levelheaded, I reacted.
"What is it with *you*, dammit? I'm not your mother! I'm not trying to 
minimize what you've been through, but you have to stop feeling sorry 
for yourself!"
"See? You're just like her! 'Why can't you move on?', 'It happened over 
twenty years ago'! Do you want me to repeat the whole fucking 
conversation? Because you know damn well I can!"
"Then what the hell do you want me to do, Mulder? Look at yourself! Do 
you have any idea of how much it hurts to see you like this?"
"I didn't ask you to do this, Scully! I knew that you'd end up 
resenting me!"
"I don't resent you, I'm just tired of seeing you hurting so much."
"And what the hell were you expecting?"
"I expected you to acknowledge that you are sick, that you need 
professional help. I don't understand why you still can't admit it! Or 
have you yet another traumatic story that I don't know about?"

Mulder's shocked eyes stared at mine. I bit my tongue, but it was too 
late. He gasped back a sob, as if he had been hit in his stomach, and 
then abandoned the room. The next thing I heard was a loud bang from 
the door of his room.
I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, forcing myself to calm down 
before considering any other action.
<So this is how it is: he hurts me, I hurt him back.> 
I stood by the door to his room. He didn't seem to be crying, all I 
could hear were steps. I rapped the door softly and opened it.
"Get out of here, Scully," he seethed. "Oops, sorry, this is your 
apartment. *I'll* get out."
In fact, he was packing in his usual style, stuffing the bag without 
any consideration about order. 
"I'm sorry, Mulder, that was uncalled for." My pride protested for the 
capitulation, but common sense ruled.
"Oh, you're sorry, *mom*, sure," he sneered. "I don't need this shit, 
not from you, not from anybody. I'm going home."

I remember thinking in Colorado how grim Mulder could be when he was 
provoked. It hurt to have all that cruelty thrown back in my face, even 
when I probably deserved it for hitting below the belt.
"Can't you accept an apology? Why, are you so perfect now that you 
never regret the things you say?"
He left the duffel bag on floor and towered me, as if to make it clear 
that he was taller, stronger and older. I hated it when he did that. 
Not that he did it often before, but I had grown disused to his being 
mad at me.
"You don't have the right to judge me," he fumed, pointing his index on 
my chest. "You know all this because *I* told you, because I *trusted* 
you, and now you're using it against me. I've been blind about a lot of 
things, but I thought I knew you, Dana. I never imagined you could be 
such a bitch." 

It was my turn to choke back a sob. Mulder had never, *ever* called me 
anything like that, and it felt like a slash in my flesh. A tense 
silence impregnated the air. I looked at him, but he wouldn't look 
back. When he finished packing, he simply attempted to leave, but I 
blocked his path.
"Get out of my way." 
"No. I won't let you go like this."
"I don't need your permission. Get out. I mean it."
"Mulder you're upset, why don't you-" I tried to touch him, but he 
flinched violently.
"Leave me alone!" he yelled, no longer able to hide the tears. "I'm 
sick and tired of everybody hurting me! I don't care if I have to live 
and die alone like a hermit, but I won't let it happen again, you hear 
me?!"
His eyes went dark with fury and pain. He was shaking all over, and at 
the same time fighting not to lose control.
"I don't want you to go, Mulder," I said a few minutes later, in a much 
lower voice.
"Like hell you don't. But I don't blame you, I seem to cause that 
effect on people. The closer they get, the more they hate me."
"I don't hate you."
He looked up at me for the first time, and his hard expression scared 
me. "You will."

I couldn't even believe this conversation was taking place, it seemed 
unnatural, unreal. Who was this stranger? How could this be the same 
man that had been crying on my shoulder like a child all this time, 
begging me not to leave him?
I wasn't my usual, rational self. I was hurt and confused, but I 
wouldn't let him play with my emotions like that.
"Are you sure is not *you* who are resenting me, Mulder? Do you resent 
me because I'm strong, because I've seen you at your worst?"
"No, I resent myself for being stupid enough to trust you with this. 
I've been honest with you, Scully. You asked me lots of questions, I 
answered them even when I didn't want to, and I always told you the 
truth. If you can't handle that truth, fine, walk away. Just don't 
throw it back at me."
"I know this game, I know what you're trying to do. You want to make it 
look like *I* am leaving you, so you'll have a nice little excuse to go 
back to your place, get your spare gun and blow your brains out, 
right?"
A sour expression clouded his face. "I don't need more excuses, I've 
cornered the market. Besides, I'm dead already, the rest of my body 
only has to acknowledge it."

He rushed once again to the bathroom and dry-heaved, then he closed the 
door, leaving me behind with my heart pounding in my chest like a 
hammer.
<Please Mulder, don't do anything stupid. Not here, not right under my 
nose, you can't do this to me...>
But, Jesus, *I* was pushing him, I was pressing all his buttons. He 
defended himself like a wounded animal, frightened and bleeding, hoping 
that one lucky strike would shoo its aggressor away.
I had my share of bitter fights, having older siblings can make you 
tough and at the same time sharpen your tongue, since you're not big 
enough to depend on physical resources. I've also been known to fight 
with former boyfriends on more than one occasion.
But this...
There was no way to engage in an argument at this level with Mulder, 
least of all in the state he was in. He was extremely sensitive to 
being hurt by the ones he loved and were supposed to love him back. He 
had idealized his sister to an almost pathological level probably 
because the little girl never had time to be mean to him. He avoided 
personal relationships because he couldn't deal with them. The only 
people he called his friends were three paranoid geeks who basically 
distrusted the human race.
Maybe he was right, maybe I was expecting too much from him.

He got out of the bathroom and went back to his room. He contemplated 
the duffel bag on the floor and walked past it to the window.
"Your brother was right, Dana. I'm one sorry son of a bitch," he said, 
barely controlling himself.
I was slightly off-balanced by his abrupt change of subject. He never 
mentioned my brother Bill, but I wasn't sick enough when they met not 
to notice that there was no love lost between them.
"Look what I'm doing to you," he continued. "You're not like this, 
Scully. You're not this cruel."
I couldn't stand the way he was looking at me, as if I had broken 
something precious and irreplaceable to him; nor the sound of his 
voice, harsh from the retching and the choked sobs.
"I think... I think that this is a mistake... my being here, I mean. You 
expect too much from me, you want things that you undoubtedly deserve, 
but I can't give them to you. I'm not a blue prince, Scully, I'm a 
curse who's making your life a living hell."

I wiped the tears from my eyes.
"What can possibly be wrong about loving you, Fox? I don't see a 'No 
loving here' sign in your forehead. If you had all this inside you, why 
didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't! But you said that and..."
"Mulder, what I said was out of line, *way* out of line. I apologize, 
but I didn't really mean it and you know it, just like I know that you 
didn't mean it when you called me a bitch."
"I'm sorry about that," he mused.
"Yes, I know you are, it's no big deal. Now, Mulder, this argument 
started over a question, I'm going to ask it again: what are you going 
to do?"
He kept his gaze on the window for a while.
"I think I should go home." 
I was making every conceivable effort to hide the pain this whole 
conversation was causing me, but the results were questionable. I 
wasn't prepared to the idea of losing him, and if Mulder walked out 
that door, chances were that I'd never see him again -- alive, at least.

"You're right, Mulder, I expect too much from you, but only because I 
believe without a doubt that you are up to this. I don't need you to be 
perfect, to bring me roses, to call me endearments. I wouldn't know 
what to do with a blue prince, I'd never be able to trust him with my 
life."
He chuckled, but I couldn't detect any humor in his gesture.
"Damn it, Scully, you don't even trust me with *mine*! You think I'm 
sick and want to cure me. You're a doctor, it's in you. You want to 
ease the pain and make it all better. But you can't, that's what you 
don't understand. No matter how much you hold me, how many shots you 
give me, you can't get inside my mind and extirpate what makes me 
hurt."
"Then go to someone who can."
He whimpered with frustration.
"Let me put this in another way. Suppose we are stranded in some 
forsaken little town in the middle of nowhere and I get sick with 
appendicitis. Somehow we end up in a the local small hospital where 
they have all the sharp devices but no drugs of any kind. You only have 
two choices: either leave me to die or try to save my life by cutting 
me open, knowing that the pain might kill me anyway. What would you 
do?"

Cold sweat was running down my back. How dare he put me against the 
wall like that? I wanted to turn tail and leave, but he put his hands 
on my shoulders and pinned me with his deep gaze.
"What would you do, Scully?"
"I'd never give up on you, Mulder," I finally answered.
He sighed and pulled away.
"I thought you'd say that. I should have gotten myself a lawyer or an 
accountant as a partner," he grimaced.
"You can't ask me let you to die."
"You can't ask me to go through surgery without anesthesia either. And 
that's exactly what you're doing here." 
I took his arm, pulling him to the bed, and sat down with him. I moved 
closer, he allowed it, and I placed my cheek against his chest, near 
his heart. After a while, I put my hand behind his neck and softly 
kissed his lips.
"It doesn't have to be that way, Mulder. I can be the drugs, I can help 
you withstand the pain. All you have to do is let me."
"It might prove to be too much, for both of us."
"For any of us alone, yes. But not if we do this together. Worse things 
have happened to us, partner, and they could never tear us apart."
Mulder nodded slowly, lowering his head.
"I promise that I'll think about it," he said. "But you have to promise 
me that you'll respect whatever decision I make. I need you to trust me 
on this, Scully. You dealt with your cancer in your own terms, I want 
to deal with this in mine."
"Fair enough. We'll talk again whenever you're ready, then."

Saturday
4:32 pm

Mulder seemed exhausted after our extensive talk, but at least it had 
ended in good terms. We hugged each other tight and he went back to 
sleep after a very light meal.
However, a couple of hours later I heard the sudden noise Mulder made 
while rushing once more to the bathroom.
I put down the book I was reading with a frown. His symptoms were 
becoming more serious, it wasn't just a bellyache. Besides, he'd been 
having GI disorders for quite a while; nausea, vomiting, diarrhea. He 
often complained of feeling bloated and of colicky pain, coming in 
bouts.
Like right now.
Mulder held himself against the frame of the door, an arm pressed 
against his belly and doubled over in pain.
"God... dammmit...!!" he yelled.
I took him to my bedroom, which was closer, and made him lie down. He 
curled up tightly and kept groaning until the bout subsided a little. I 
silently picked my medical bag and started to examine him. He was 
feverish, his blood pressure was a little high and his pulse was rapid, 
the same as his respirations. I palpated his abdomen and he flinched 
when I got to his left lower quadrant.
"What the hell is wrong with me, Scully?" he gasped, still in 
considerable pain.
"I don't know, Mulder, but this is starting to worry me. I think you 
should see a gastroenterologist."
He made a face that gave away his opinion about seeing a doctor.
"Unless of course you're comfortable with these attacks. Every time you 
eat or raise from bed your symptoms get worse. I should be asking about 
your bowel habits, but I guess you're not willing to share."
"No, not right now," he said tiredly.

I sat down on the bed, placed a pillow on my lap and pulled him on top 
of it. He lay on his side, I rolled his t-shirt up to his armpits and 
lowered his boxers a little.
"Planning to take on a decked man, Agent Scully?"
"Yes. Any objections?"
He closed his eyes and smiled. "No, but please be gentle."
I smiled back. "If it hurts, just tell me."
Placing my flat hand over his belly, I started a very gentle massage, 
exerting soft pressure in strategic points, or simply caressing in 
others. I observed with satisfaction that he relaxed heavily against 
the pillow and rolled slightly to his back to give me better access. 
The lines on his face were smooth again, not contorted with pain.
"Do they teach this in medical school, Dana? It feels good." 
"No, this particular skill I learned from my mother. She always knew 
how to cure a bellyache. Is it helping?"
"Yeah... thanks. Did you get lots of these when you were little?"
"Not really. But my brother did."
"Bill?"
"Yes, and as tough as he wanted to be, he usually turned into a baby 
when he was sick."
"It's hard to picture him in your mother's arms."
"Well, he wasn't always that big. And speaking of Bill, what happened 
between the two of you?"
"Nothing."
"Mulder..."
He sighed. "When you were dying, he pointed out that my quest had 
already cost him a sister and that he was losing another. He asked me 
if at least I had found the little green men I was looking for, and 
when I said no, he called me a sorry son of a bitch."

I swallowed hard. Unlike Melissa, I didn't appreciate my big brother's 
over protectiveness. He wasn't a bad guy, and I knew he did it because 
he loved me and cared for me, but he had no right to take it on Mulder 
when *I* didn't.
"You should have told me, Mulder."
"Why? He was right. You can find all the attenuating circumstances that 
you like, Dana, but in the end, we both know it's true."
"Mulder, they *used* you, they used both of us. If I know you, you 
didn't even try to explain Bill the facts, you just took the blow."
"He didn't exactly look like he would listen. Scully please, let it be. 
He was civil, after all. If the roles had been reversed, I would have 
beaten the hell out of him."

***********************************************************************

Sunday
8:16 pm

I wasn't really up to dinner, but Scully insisted and I didn't have the 
heart to turn her down.
But I was in introspective mood, definitely not good company. I 
replayed our morning fight, the things we said to each other. We'd 
never fought like that before, at such a personal level; and although I 
would have died before admitting it, her words still bothered me in 
some background level. Not what she had said specifically, but the 
thought that it had been *her* saying such things. I had broken up 
relationships for far less; at any other time in my life I would have 
run to never return.
I had stayed this time, but was that good or bad? Did it prove that I 
was finally growing up and accepting that people can hurt me and still 
love me? Or just showed how shattered and needy I was, unable to 
survive without her?

That kind of thoughts didn't exactly help my condition, and eating 
almost invariably triggered the pain and the nausea. The urgency only 
afforded me a few seconds to reach the toilet, I was really scared that 
one time I'd end up soiling myself. 
While I was in the bathroom losing all I had eaten by both ends of my 
gut, I felt sick and dizzy, but mostly angry. When the hell was I going 
to have a break? The pain in my lower abdomen was so bad that it made 
breathing difficult, I couldn't get up. I only reached out to flush the 
toilet with my foul effluviums and lowered my body over my legs, hoping 
that the nausea would recede.

Scully came in a few minutes later to find me exposed in all my 
vulnerability, half naked, trembling and crying from the stabbing pain.
"Here, let me help you," she said, covering my body with a big towel. 
Somehow she dragged me to her bed, where I curled up into the tightest 
ball my frame allowed, praying that if the urgency hit again, I'd be 
able to make it to the bathroom first.
Scully sensed it was bad this time, because she didn't even try to rub 
my belly like she had before dinner. She brought a damp cloth and put 
it on my forehead, and then placed my head on her lap. I rolled a 
little to my stomach, giving her access to my back, and she got the 
message. My lower back was killing me and her skilled hands were doing 
wonders. The pain in my guts, however, was getting worse.
I bolted violently to the bathroom again and I was lucky to sit on the 
toilet on time, but I was so nauseous that I couldn't help vomiting all 
over my bare chest.

Something snapped and I started to cry. Frustration, self-pity, anger, 
so many emotions raged inside of me that I couldn't take it.
Scully came after me once again and filled the bathtub while she helped 
me out of my soiled underwear and cleaned up the mess I had made. I 
never felt more humiliated in my whole life, I wanted to just disappear 
from the face of Earth. She understood that I needed some space; she 
closed the curtain and left me alone, I could never thank her enough 
for that. If she had tried to help me or even touch me while I was in 
the tub, I would have hated her.

I let the hot water relax my frayed nerves and only then I walked out. 
I found another fluffy towel and clean underwear, and there were no 
traces of my previous distress.
<Oh, Scully... I'd be so lost without you... so dead, indeed. How can you 
love me this much?>
Moved by her tact and instinctive wisdom, I crashed into her waiting 
arms, forgetting any grudge I might have carried against her.
"I'm sorry," was all that came out of my mouth.
"Don't be. It's okay."
I took a deep breathe and let it out slowly, basking in the comfort she 
offered. Her touch was soothing, feather-like fingers tracing the line 
from behind my ear to my shoulder, up and down.
It was amazing how such a simple thing could give me so much peace and 
reassurance.
"I guess I'll never be Mr. Emotional Stability, Scully, but at least I 
can promise you won't get bored around me. Angry, yes; frustrated, 
maybe, but not bored."
She chuckled. "I take it you're feeling better."
"Physically, yes. Otherwise, inadequate kind of describes how I feel."
"Don't be so hard on yourself. You're sick."
"It's good to have you hold me, but sometimes I feel guilty about it. I 
was more mature when I was twelve. I wanted my mom to hug me, but I 
could refrain myself from asking. I mean, look at me: I cry all the 
time, sleep all day... now I even vomit all over myself. The next thing 
I'll know, I'll be sucking my thumb and wearing diapers."

***********************************************************************

I supposed those were the kind of things you shared with your 
therapist, but I wasn't trained to give an answer to such statement. 
Then again, if Mulder wanted a therapist, he would have gone to one. He 
was talking to me about very private and personal issues because I was 
his friend, if nothing else.
I couldn't think of anything suitable to say to him, so I did what *he* 
would have done: I deflected the matter with humor.
"Diapers are not a bad idea, Mulder. You wouldn't have to worry about 
making it to the toilet."
"Yeeek! Scully!" he grimaced.
"You'd look cute, especially if you pout your lips like that! Hmm, will 
I get to change you?" I raised my eyebrows and gave him a predatory 
smile.
Mulder's face was priceless. 
"Geez, Scully! Hasn't anyone told you that you have a sick sense of 
humor?"

I couldn't help marveling at the fact that this man, even sick, 
depressed, damaged, was still sexy in my eyes. I wanted him so much, I 
needed him desperately, but I was afraid of how he might react if I 
tried to push him. He hadn't lain a hand on me since Colorado. Sex 
drive is one the first things to go during a bout of depression. People 
who are depressed often don't have the urge, or even the strength to 
sustain a sexual intercourse.
I could refrain myself from touching him, but there was no way I'd push 
him away if he touched *me*. I gladly welcomed his hands unbuttoning my 
shirt, I collaborated with my bra and jeans. Since he had taken the 
first step, I allowed him to do what he needed. The ghost of a smile 
lightened his eyes as he undressed me, the gossamer of his touch was 
slowly doing me in. Since we were in a playful mode, I made a mental 
note to tease him later about the source of his surprising abilities in 
this field.

I was ecstatic. God, he was *so* good at this, it was easy to 
relinquish control over him. Mulder was right, being around him was 
like having a non-stop ticket to a roller coaster. He felt things so 
deeply, he was always going to extremes. It shouldn't surprise anyone 
that he was so good at solving X-Files, he was an X-File himself.
"Scully?" His voiced startled me back to reality. He stared at me 
questioningly, and maybe a little hurt by my lack of attention.
"Hey, you can't blame me for taking my time to come down from such 
high," I teased him. "You're exceptionally good at this, partner. I 
won't ask how you learned all those tricks."
His cheeks blushed to a delicious red and I couldn't help laughing. 
"Okay, I think that just about answers my question!"

***********************************************************************

I was very pleased with myself, despite her off-color remark. My self-
esteem had suffered a major blown earlier, so her praise about my 
ability to turn her own was like a balm to my bruised ego. 
As wonderful as I felt about pleasing Scully, I wasn't so sure about 
letting her do the same to me. I had become self-conscious and insecure 
about my body, and the last thing I wanted was to embarrass myself even 
more if I couldn't 'function'.
My body was tense under her hand and I willed myself to at least 
pretend, if only not to hurt her feelings. I must have zoned out at 
some point, and a while later I realized that Scully was touching me in 
a different way. She wasn't interested in eliciting a sexual response 
any more, but in trying to soothe me. 
I should have been grateful for her insight, for knowing me and my 
moods too well, but instead I was utterly mortified. I batted her hand 
away and recoiled, giving my back to her.
"It's okay, Mulder. You're tired, and you're still running a fever."
"Spare me, will ya?"
"Please, don't make a fuss over this. It's nothing to worry about."
"Scully, just drop it. I don't want to talk."
She shut up, but obviously had no intention of leaving things like 
that. She scooted closer and caressed my hair first, then my shoulders. 
Damn her, why couldn't she leave me alone?
"Don't touch me!" I yelled. 

I half expected her to snap back at me, but to my surprise, she didn't 
seem in the least angry or hurt by my rejection. 
"Yes, I do touch you," she defied me. "See? I'm touching you," she 
threw her body over mine, immobilizing me under the comforter. "Are you 
angry? What are you going to do about it?"
"Dammit, Scully, get off me!" I tried to shake her away from me, but 
she was better positioned, and I practically couldn't move.
"No way."
"Yes way!"

We ended up rolling and wrestling on the bed, then on the floor. I was 
amazed by her physical strength, every time I almost caught her she 
managed to free herself; and only my being bigger prevented her from 
effectively blocking my movements. We killed a pillow and a couple of 
cushions during the fight, laughing hysterically. I remember thinking 
that if Scully's neighbors were as nosey as mine, the police might as 
well kick their way in any minute.
She finally managed to restrain me and stared at me with wild 
excitement.
"So you won't let me touch you, huh? Let's see what you think of this."

She started to tickle every inch of my body with surgical precision. 
Her knowledge of the human anatomy was paying off as I wriggled, 
screaming and fighting, while she cleverly pinned me down. I lost 
myself to the not entirely unpleasant sensation, in fact, it *was* 
turning me on. No one had ever tickled me like that before, not even 
when I was a kid. I used to do it to Samantha, but she was too small to 
get away with doing the same to me. In the Scully family, however, it 
must have passed from sibling to sibling. Poor little Charlie! My 
partner's relentless hand kept assaulting every vulnerable point for 
another few minutes, until I started to cough violently.

I was a puddle of trembling muscles, unable to move by myself, Scully 
had to pull me to a sitting position to help me catch my breath. It 
took a while, and all the time she held me to prevent my body from 
falling back to the bed. My midsection hurt, both from the previous 
cramps and from so much laughing. 
It had been ages since I laughed so heartily, and it felt incredibly 
good. Once my breathing was back to a slower pace, Scully fluffed the 
surviving pillow and cushions and laid back, pulling me with her. I 
rolled to my side and closed my eyes, sighing with pleasure at the 
slight touch of her fingers over my sensitized skin.
When she suddenly stopped I whimpered with frustration.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you didn't want me to touch you," she teased 
me, her voice thick and a little hoarse from the laughter.
"Sculeeee..."
With the little energy I had left, I lifted myself and placed my head 
on her chest, burying my face between her breasts and nuzzling against 
them like a cat. She let out a grasp and resumed her gentle stroking.
"Are you okay, Mulder?"
"Hm-hm..."
"That was fun, wasn't it?"
"Yeah... Scully?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you think I might be really sick? Not in the head, I know you 
already think that I am, but in my stomach..." 
She quickly added two and two and knew I had to be hurting to ask such 
a question.
"You're in pain, aren't you. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have tickled you so 
hard."
"Laughing felt good, Dana, but it hurts, yes. Not just my belly, all of 
it. My back, my legs, my head..."
"Tomorrow I'll set you an appointment, we'll get you checked out on 
Monday first thing in the morning."

Monday
7:45 am

Sunday was a very long day. As soon as I got up from the bed I was sick 
again, Scully didn't even bother in telling me to eat. Besides, as if 
the pain in my gut wasn't enough, I had a cold, and coughing worsened 
the pain to the point of bringing tears to my eyes.

I was pretty anxious about the appointment with the gastroenterologist. 
There's a simple fact about doctors: they won't tell you anything until 
they've poked and prodded you all over. Just trying to imagine the kind 
of tests they'd want to run in order to figure out what was wrong with 
me made me even more sick.

And of course, I wasn't disappointed.
By Monday morning I was feeling miserable, feverish, and crankier than 
a three-year-old. Scully was quite tolerant with my sulking, unlike 
other times we've been through this same routine. I stole a fleeting 
glimpse at her, wishing I could just go home to her warm bed and hide 
in her arms. But the waiting room was full of people so I wouldn't even 
put my head on her shoulder. 
"Do you want me to wait here, Mulder?" she asked in a low voice. "You 
could use some privacy during the examination."
I shivered at the implications of that statement. Sensing my 
uneasiness, she took my hand and rubbed it gently. Her gestured calmed 
me a little, but when I heard my name being called, I almost jumped out 
of my skin.
I stood up and looked at her with pleading eyes hoping that she'd 
understand, so I wouldn't have to make an ass of myself by looking like 
I was scared of the doctor.
"I think I'd better go with you. The mood you're in, Dr. Kendall will 
have a hard time taking a proper history."
I let out the breath I'd been holding and smiled gratefully.

***********************************************************************

Monday
8:03 am

I thought that Mulder might want to keep his distance while he was 
being examined, no one enjoyed being seen so exposed and vulnerable, 
especially in front of strangers. The way he looked at me in the 
waiting room, however, proved that he'd rather be a little embarrassed 
than being alone with another man touching him all over.
The memory of the abuse he had suffered as a child, buried for so long, 
was now too close to the surface and affected his perception of 
reality. He hated doctors and hospitals in general and had good reasons 
for it, and now that I was privy to them, I was considerably more 
indulgent with his sullen mood.

After a brief introduction, Mulder was asked by Dr. James D. Kendall, a 
forty-something, good looking man, to undress and put on the mandatory 
gown. In the meantime, and away from my partner's ears, I quickly 
apprised him to what to expect from his patient.
"He's suffering from depression and hates being around doctors," I 
explained.
"I thought you said you were one," Dr. Kendall replied with a smile.
"I'm a little more than that to him." I was kind of surprised by my own 
words, they came so naturally.
"I understand," he nodded, "but he'll probably be more comfortable if 
you stay out while I take a look at him."
Dr. Kendall's tone was polite but firm, and I didn't want to cross the 
guy. Instead, I simply sat down outside the examining room and waited 
for what I knew was going to happen, just like in Mulder's first 
appointment with Dr. Lenzi. I looked at my watch. Ten minutes, tops.
Exactly eight and a half minutes later, Dr. Kendall stepped out.
"Dr. Scully, would you please come in?"

Dr. Kendall left us alone for a few minutes. Mulder had been sick again 
and was sitting on a gurney, his long bare legs dangling, trying to 
catch his breath. I put a hand on his shoulder.
"Are you okay?"
He nodded. "I'm sorry, Scully, I can't do this. Let's go home."
"Mulder, you're sick," I put my lips on his forehead, his fever was a 
little higher than earlier in the morning. "You can't keep even water 
down, you're already dehydrated. Let the doctor do his job, he's not 
here to hurt you."
"Then stay. You're a doctor too, and you won't see anything you haven't 
seen before."

I fought the temptation to throw an 'I-told-you-so' look at the doctor. 
Dr. Kendall seemed a gentle guy, with impeccable bedside manners. He 
started again by asking Mulder questions, always keeping a 
conversational, friendly tone, and pretty much ignoring my presence. It 
was a good thing that he stayed focused on his patient's symptoms and 
not in the fact that he needed my reassurance, but I knew he kept it in 
mind. All the time he took careful notes, and I was impressed by his 
professionalism.
Mulder seemed to detect that I approved him and relaxed a little. He 
was positioned for an abdominal examination, laying flat on his back, 
with his arms stretched along his body. Dr. Kendall pulled up the gown 
and placed his palms over his dilated belly.
"Tell me if any of this hurts," he said, and then began to apply gentle 
pressure. He found a tender spot in his lower left quadrant but did not 
pursue his examination there until he was done with the rest of the 
abdomen. The doctor moved to Mulder's left side to make a more detailed 
examination, I stayed on his right, holding his hand. 
"I'm going to lower your underwear a little, okay?"
Mulder nodded, but his grip on my hand tightened considerably. When the 
pressure exerted on the affected zone increased, he let out a yelp.
"Your sigmoid seems to be a little tender, Mr. Mulder, but I'm done 
there," Dr. Kendall tranquilized him. However, his next words were 
quite disturbing. "I'll need to perform a digital rectal examination 
now, it's part of the routine."

Mulder's breathing literally stopped, his eyes opened wide with fear 
and apprehension. Once again, sensing his patient distress, the doctor 
made himself scarce under the pretense of getting the necessary stuff.
"Don't be scared, it won't hurt," I told him, trying to keep my voice 
casual.
"I can't let him do that. I can't," he whispered hoarsely.
"Yes, you can," I smoothed his damp hair. "Do you still want me here?"
He nodded briefly. "I'm pretty sore down there. Must be flaming red."
"Well, if you behave, I might rub some lotion later," I winked, again 
deflecting a serious issue with humor. It was *his* technique, after 
all.
"I'll take your word on that," he replied with a faint smile. 

If Dr. Kendall was surprised by Mulder's unwillingness to be alone 
during the embarrassing test, he did a good job hiding it. He worked 
with diligence, with his patient hiding his face behind his folded arms 
and me caressing the back of his neck. Mulder choked back a few sobs 
when the physician's finger delved deeper into him, and it broke my 
heart. Seeing him like hurting that, so defenseless, filled my mind 
with images of what he might have looked like when he was only nine 
years old, frightened and tormented by a man who should have loved and 
protected him. 
<How could you do this to him, you bastard? I hope you're rotting in 
Hell, damned beast!>
As soon as Dr. Kendall finished, Mulder jumped out of the gurney and 
headed to the small bathroom, the retching immediately followed.

"He was abused as a child, right?"
The doctor was asking gently and with genuine concern, but I was struck 
by his blunt honesty.
"It wasn't hard to figure out, he has all the tale-tell signs," he 
continued. "The scars, his unwillingness to be touched, especially by a 
man..."
"You wouldn't believe what he's been through," I whispered. "It was his 
own father."
Dr. Kendall was quite shocked at that piece of information. The 
uncomfortable silence was broken by Mulder's cough and retching.
"I'd like to admit him, at the very least he needs fluids. His symptoms 
are quite severe, and before I diagnose them as stress-related, I'd 
like to rule out other possibilities first."

Monday
1:16 pm

Despite his protests, Mulder was admitted and now was sleeping 
peacefully thanks to the sedatives he had been given. By the time the 
nurses finished taking samples of blood, urine, stool, and setting up 
the IV line, he was angry to the point of violence. He sat in his bed 
and accused me of cheating, of tricking him into an innocent 'doctor's 
appointment' to have him admitted into a hospital.
I wouldn't let his frustration get the best of me this time.
"Mulder, you're an adult, you can make your own choices. If you want to 
leave, then sign yourself out A.M.A. and we'll go home."
That quickly got the wind out of his sails and he lay down grabbing his 
mid-section and coughing. I tried to comfort him, but he turned to his 
other side to sulk and I left him alone. 
Soon after that, a nurse came in and injected him a mild sedative to 
help him rest.

***********************************************************************

Monday
4:49 pm

Dr. Kendall explained to me the nature of the next test he wanted to 
do, a sigmoidoscopy. I think I went pale, but I had decided not to 
break in front of him, or anyone else -- except Scully.
I liked the guy, he wasn't like other doctors. It was obvious that he 
had realized what had happened to me -- if the scars weren't enough of a 
hint, I was a walking case of post-traumatic stress disorder and not 
doing much to hide it. But instead of asking questions about the facts, 
he focused on the consequences.
"You can have your partner here if you think it'll help," he offered.
I was tempted to call her, but I didn't. A line had to be drawn 
somewhere, and this was it. She'd seen me at my worst many times during 
the past couple of months, but crouching on a gurney in knee-chest 
position, half naked and with a guy shoving a tube up my bare ass... it 
was too much. Scully didn't need to see that.
I shook my head, unable to speak.
"Okay, then. Get ready, I'll be right back."

If I have to be honest, I confess it didn't hurt. I was uncomfortable 
and embarrassed, but it wasn't particularly painful. Maybe it was the 
fever, or my own apprehension, but having a hard object inserted in my 
rectum triggered a cascade of memories.
I was back in Chilmark, lying on my father's desk, playing his 'games'. 
The physical sensations were so real, the cold... everything was cold in 
that room: the desk, the air, my skin...
The invading object was sinking deeper inside me, pushing, pulling, 
rotating. Latex-covered hands touching me *there*, spreading me. And 
I'd listen to the voices inside my head, ordering me to be still, not 
to move or make a sound. 
<Shut up! I don't want to hear you, boy. And keep quiet.>
<Don't cry, Fox. I will take care of you.>
I'm cold, it's cold in here...

I don't remember what happened, but the next thing I knew was that I 
was in a safe place, warm and comfortable again. The pungent smell told 
me that I was still in the hospital, but no longer in Dr. Kendall's 
office. As I surfaced back to consciousness, I found myself lying on 
Scully's lap, my face buried into her stomach, and her fingers running 
through my scalp.
I wanted to cry in relief. That was my hiding place, where I could let 
the scared little kid that still lived inside me get the comfort he 
desperately needed. Doing this made me feel horribly guilty and 
pathetic when I was back to my normal self, but this was one of those 
times when I couldn't care less. I didn't feel like going back to my 
adult persona just yet.
"Scully...?" I slurred.
"Hey, sleepyhead."
"How did I get here?"
"You went into shock during your test, the nurses brought you back too 
your room."
"Shit..."
"The good part is Dr. Kendall said there's no need to repeat it."
"Good, because I'm not about to allow it anyway."
"What happened, Mulder?"
"It felt like *him*, Scully. I was cold..." I muffled the whimper against 
her, "and it was so real..."
"I'm sorry, Mulder. I'm sorry that you have to go through this. Just 
rest now, you'll be okay..."
"Damn, I fucking hate hospitals!"

It turned out that everything was fine, Dr. Kendall didn't found 
anything suspicious, the lab tests came out clean too. They did a few 
more tests, an abdominal sonogram and an esophagogastroduodenoscopy or 
EGDS(even Scully had trouble pronouncing that one!). It feels as awful 
as it sounds. They knocked me out with some good stuff first; then they 
put a tube in the back of my mouth and made me swallow it to pass it 
into my stomach. I retched and gagged until they gave me more drugs 
that made me sleepy. I didn't take any risks this time, Scully was all 
the time by my side, holding my arm -- the other one was in restraints. 
The end of the tube had a tiny camera that allowed the technician to 
look inside my guts, but I couldn't look at the screen. Just the 
feeling of having that thing inside me was bad enough.

Once again, everything was perfect. I was the picture of health, except 
that I was still vomiting and having diarrhea, and no one could tell me 
why. I still needed the IV because I was dehydrated and my electrolytes 
were unbalanced, so they wouldn't let me go home. Oh, and I happened to 
be a little anemic, which earned me iron shots that hurt like hell.

Tuesday
5:52 pm

Being sick is bad, being depressed is worse, but being sick *and* 
depressed was hell. Dr. Kendall insisted that I stayed in hospital 
until I could keep food down. The antiemetics they were giving me 
seemed to be doing their job, but I wasn't hungry enough to eat more 
than a few spoonfuls of soup. 
Scully had called the guys and they stopped by, but I wasn't in the 
mood for The Three Stooges. If anything, their visit depressed me even 
more. They weren't good at hiding, and their shocked expressions when 
they saw me probably reflected how bad I looked. Skinner also came to 
see me, but I simply turned around and pretended to sleep. It wouldn't 
fool Scully, but Skinner didn't know me that well. He stayed for a 
while, though, he even offered Scully to watch over me while she went 
back home to change clothes and grab a bite.
To my dismay, she agreed.
"Thank you, sir. I'll only be out for half an hour, though. I'll go 
home later when my mom arrives," she informed him. I was getting 
nervous, but then she added, "oh, and sir, please don't wake him. He's 
not feeling well and needs to rest."
I smiled discretely under the covers, that had been her way to let me 
know she knew I was pretending but was willing to let me be.

The only other person whose presence didn't make me nervous was 
Scully's mother, Margaret. She had a soft aura of peace, which I knew 
Dana would have too when she turned her age. Margaret Scully had been 
my anchor during the time Dana was missing, and I was her only hope to 
see her alive again. Unlike my own parents, she never blamed me for 
losing her daughter; she supported me and gave me the strength I needed 
to keep searching for her.
When Scully woke up from her coma saying that the strength of my 
beliefs had helped her find her way back, her mother took me aside and 
cried in my arms.
"I don't care who took my daughter, Fox," she said, "all I know is that 
you brought her back, and I'll always be indebted to you for that. If 
you ever need anything, son, and I mean *anything*, just call me. I'll 
be there."
I never told Scully about that conversation, it was one of the few 
secrets I kept from her.

My fake sleep turned into a real one while Skinner was sitting beside 
my bed, and when I woke up I found Scully's mother in his place.
"Hello, Fox," she smiled.
"Hello, Mrs. Scully. It's nice to see you," I said, I was sincerely 
glad to see her.
"How are you feeling?"
"Not so good," I whispered. I couldn't lie to her, she seemed to see 
right through me.
"Do you need anything? I can call a nurse if you want."
"No, thanks. They'll probably want to give me another shot and I had 
enough for one day."
She smiled with sympathy and took my hand. The place where the needle 
was inserted had gotten a bit swollen, and she rubbed it very gently. 
She must have done this very same thing for her daughter when she was 
sick, and it was nice to see she was doing it for me too.
The simple intimacy of that gesture broke any resistance I had left and 
I was overwhelmed by the need to talk to her.
"Mrs. Scully, do you know why I'm here? Has Dana told you?"
"I asked, but she said you might want to tell me yourself. Was she 
right?"
I rolled my eyes. "Yes, as usual."
She smiled and winked, then she got up from the chair and moved to my 
bed.
"Then tell me, son. I'm all ears."

***********************************************************************

Tuesday
9:41 pm

After a shower, a change of clothes and the a few hours of sleep, I 
felt human again. I spent some time alone in my apartment, but it felt 
strangely empty without Mulder there. Not that he had been the most 
cheerful roommate lately, but something seemed missing.
I rushed back to the hospital asking myself how could I possibly miss 
him so much when it had only been a few hours away from him.

I wasn't at all prepared to see the scene that met me when I opened the 
door to his gloomy room. Mom was holding Mulder in her arms as he 
sobbed convulsively... and she was crying too.
"Oh, my poor boy, I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry, Fox..." she kept repeating 
as she rocked my partner's frail body back and forth.
I watched them from the darkness, mesmerized. Mixed emotions danced 
inside me. Part of me was glad that Mulder accepted my mother's comfort 
so freely after he had rejected his own mother. Another part felt bad 
for my mom, I knew how much she loved my partner, and his story must 
have broken her heart. I hadn't wanted to tell her to spare her the 
pain, but I knew she'd find out one way or another. At least now I 
would have someone with whom to share the burden, I wouldn't feel so 
alone with all this grief.

Wednesday
5:06 am

Mulder spent a terrible night. He woke up a dozen times, be it for the 
nightmares or the pain that wouldn't go away. I ended up climbing to 
bed with him to hold him, but by 5 am he decided that he didn't want to 
sleep.
"Scully, you owe me," he mused.
"What?"
"You promised me a certain rub with lotion, remember?"
"I do. Want to cash it now, partner?"
He rolled to his stomach in response and I undid his gown.
I took the tube of body lotion from my purse and spread some in my 
hands and on his back, then I started to massage his tense muscles. I 
slowly descended to his kidneys and then to his butt, and it saddened 
me that I was still afraid to touch him freely, I still needed some 
reassurance from his part that it was okay.
"Do it, Scully."
I gently rubbed my lubed fingers over the irritated and sensitive skin, 
but I couldn't help feeling a little uncomfortable; and once again, 
Mulder anticipated me.
"Dana, you can touch me if you want, I'm *asking* you to do it, or are 
you going to make me beg?"
"No, Mulder, I'll touch you all you want. God knows that *I* want it 
too."

I was pleased when he finally relaxed and fell into a deep, dreamless 
sleep, and I dozed off myself with my head lying on his bed. A few 
hours later, however, I was awaken by my partner's violent cough.
He's had it for days, but was it me or it had gotten worse? I'd get 
someone to take a look at his lungs later.
Mulder coughed again, convulsing on his bed.
<Or maybe right away.>

After such a difficult night, Mulder was royally pissed off at being 
awaken when he had finally fallen asleep. Dr. Reubens, a lung 
specialist recommended by Dr. Kendall, came to check him and found 
himself dealing with a barely cooperative patient.
After a very thourough physical examination, he ordered chest X-rays, 
more blood tests and some deep breathing exercises.
"Don't fight the urge to cough, Mr. Mulder. It's necessary to free your 
lungs from the secretions."
"Yeah, but it's not *your* ribs that are gonna break in the process!"
They took him to radiology, to the lab, and then back to his room, but 
as soon as he slumped on the bed, urgency hit again and he almost loses 
the IV line in his rush to the bathroom.
By the time he came out, he was downright furious.
"Scully, why don't you do me a favor and shoot me again? And aim a 
little lower this time, please."
I didn't take him seriously because I knew he didn't really mean it. If 
anything, I'd rather see him angry than despondent.
"I fucking hate hospitals!" he growled as he lay down again.

***********************************************************************

Tuesday
4:14 pm

Mrs. Scully came back that afternoon as she had promised, and I grinned 
when I saw her.
"Hi, Maggie," I greeted her, earning me a trademark Scully-look. "Well, 
she insists on calling me *Fox*."
"I think I'm jealous," Scully said, making a little-girl pout that I'd 
never seen on her face but made her look adorable.
"Hey, I told that you could call me that too, you just don't do it."
"Come on, children!" Mrs. Scully clapped her hands. "How are you doing, 
Fox? Have you eaten today?"
I smiled at such a motherly concern. My own mother couldn't care less 
if I ate or not; if she wasn't hungry, she assumed nobody else was 
either.
Scully caught the expression on my face and smiled happily too, she 
seemed pleased that I felt so comfortable around her mother.
"I've got something here that you might want to try," she announced, 
producing a plastic container. "Maggie's Famous Chicken Soup."
"Hey, I want some too!"
"You look perfectly healthy to me, young lady!"
Scully turned to me and explained.
"That soup was the only good thing about being sick when we were 
little. Charlie would even pretend in order to get some!"
I wasn't hungry, but I didn't have the heart to turn them down. I 
figured I could get past a few spoonfuls without hurting Maggie's 
feelings. However, the few spoonfuls turned into several, and before I 
knew it the bowl was empty. And man, I wanted more!
"See?" Maggie said, obviously pleased with herself. "You'll be feeling 
better in no time, Fox."
"If you keep feeding me that soup, it's a given! Thanks, Maggie, it was 
delicious."

Scully left for a few hours and I spent some time alone with the woman 
that was more a mom to me in two days than my own mother in thirty 
years. It still hurt inside to accept how much I resented her. And in 
the same way her daughter made me feel like a whole man and not a 
ccrippled freak, Margaret was showing me how much I had survived, how 
far I had gotten just by myself. It was such a warm feeling to know 
that there were people willing to pick me up and hold me when I was 
exhausted, decimated by all the tragedies in my life.
By the way, the soup stayed where it belonged, in my stomach. And I did 
feel better, at least until later that night.

***********************************************************************

Thursday
1:33 am

Dr. Kendall had concluded that Mulder had a functional bowel disease 
called Irritable Bowel Syndrome. No anatomical causes could be found to 
explain his symptoms, but he pointed out that abdominal complaints with 
no pathological sources were frequent in people with unresolved 
psychological issues. I thought that Mulder would hit the ceiling after 
such diagnosis, but he took it well. They discussed different courses 
of treatment and Dr. Kendall suggested to put him on antidepressants.
"They will help not only with the bloating and abdominal pain, your 
diarrhea will also improve. Besides, you'll need to adjust your intake 
of dietary fiber and avoid certain foods."
"So that's it? Take a few pills and don't eat burgers?"
"Mr. Mulder, your symptoms don't respond to organic reasons, but to the 
increased sensitivity of the bowel to food, drugs and stress. You're 
likely to experience more episodes like this, the therapy I'm offering 
is supportive and palliative. There is no magic cure, but your quality 
of life will definitely improve if you seek to resolve the underlying 
problems that cause you stress."
Mulder looked up to me and blushed, Dr. Kendall was all but confirming 
everything I had been telling him about seeking professional help.
"I'd like you to stay here for the night, Mr. Mulder. You're doing 
better, and if you keep it up, I'll discharge you in the morning," the 
doctor smiled, then looked at me. "And Dr. Scully, please tell your 
mother that she's welcome to come and work in our kitchen any time."

Mulder ate a light dinner and kept it down, and then quickly fell 
asleep. He'd been complaining of tiredness, to the point that he didn't 
even bitch for having to stay another night. I should have known that 
something was wrong, but when I realized what it was, it was late.
By 1 am, Mulder was shaking with chills. An hour later, his fever had 
spiked to 105ºF, his pulse was borderline 130 and his breathing was 
rapid and shallow. His nausea had returned with a vengeance and he 
threw up everything he had consumed earlier.
"Scully... I can't breathe... hurts... help me..."

His bed was surrounded by nurses who stripped him unceremoniously to 
apply ice packs on his groin, neck and armpits. Another one adjusted a 
full mask over his mouth and nose, while someone else was taking his 
blood pressure.
He tried to fight the intruding hands, but he was quickly restrained. I 
stood by, watching those people torturing him, unable to help him, and 
tears came down unabashedly down my face.
He was supposed to go home tomorrow, why couldn't he get a break for 
once? They took him to radiology again, and I was sure the chest X-ray 
wouldn't be clear this time: he had all the symptoms of pneumonia.

Dr. Reubens was called in a hurry.
He ordered Mulder to be taken to the ICU, and they wouldn't let me see 
him until they finished setting him up.
When I was finally allowed to his cubicle, my heart broke into pieces.
He was bucking against the restraints, two nurses were trying to calm 
him down without success.
"Daddy... no... no... no... please..."
I stopped cold, wondering how high his fevered had to be.
"Dana... Dana... help me, help me Dana..."
Oh Lord. I charged in and untied his arms before the astonished 
surprise of the ICU staff. His bed was in semi recumbent position, so 
it wasn't so difficult to pull him to my arms and embrace him.
"Shh... it's me, Mulder. You're safe, it's okay... you're going to be 
fine..." he was dead weight against me, and he was burning up with fever. 
I wasn't sure I was reaching him in the confused mental state he seemed 
to be. "You have a very high fever, please let us help you cool you 
down a bit, okay?"
"Hurts..." I could barely understand what he was saying under the oxygen 
mask, but his expression of agony was enough.
"I know, sweetheart. Just lie down, try to relax."
"Don't go..."
"I won't, Mulder. I'm not going anywhere."

When things go completely wrong, sometimes you find yourself counting 
your blessings for the little things that are right. In this case, it 
was the unusually quiet night in the ICU that allowed the nurses give 
the best possible attention to my ailing partner. They kept bathing 
him, changing his bed, they even got fans placed at his bedside that 
helped cool his burning body.
He was too tired to cough by himself to produce sputum, so they had to 
suction it out of him. It was quite a disgusting procedure, both to 
watch and to suffer, but I stayed with him, holding his hand, talking 
to him in whispers.

Thursday
11:00 am

I couldn't believe it wasn't even noon yet. Mulder's fever was still 
dangerously high in spite of the antibiotics he was being given. Doctor 
Reuben suspected he had contracted pneumonia, and the X-rays showed he 
also had pleurisy, an infection in the pleura, the outer membrane 
covering the lungs. That accounted for the severe pain and symptoms 
that mimicked those of abdominal distress, but the definitive diagnosis 
would only be available when the lab tests were back. Once they'd 
figure out which bacteria was causing the disease, they'd be able to 
strike with the optimum cocktail of antibiotics.

Due to the growing precariousness of Mulder's ability to breathe on his 
own, Dr. Reubens was cautious with the administration of sedatives and 
painkillers. 
"They might depress his breathing even further, and then we'd have to 
intubate him," he explained, as if I didn't know already. Having a tube 
inserted would be an open invitation for other microorganisms to invade 
his lungs, and Mulder was in enough trouble as it was.
The painkillers he was on were barely enough to keep him reasonably 
comfortable; so he woke up easily every time a nurse came to check on 
him, which happened every fifteen minutes.

By 3 pm it was obvious that the antibiotics weren't working, their only 
effect was giving Mulder severe intestinal cramps. I tried to ease his 
discomfort by rubbing his belly with my flat palm. I could feel the 
muscles contracting under my hand, provoking spasmodic movements.
Thanks to the ongoing cooling measures, Mulder's temp was stable at 
103.5º, but his condition continued to deteriorate. His heart rate was 
fast, his blood pressure dangerously dropping. Dr Reubens ordered a 
blood gas test, and in no time a nurse came in and stuck an large 
needle in Mulder's left wrist. I knew those were painful, so I held his 
other hand while he cried in pain.
"Shh... I know that hurt, but it's okay now, it's okay..."
The doctor also ordered a tray with intubation gear to be kept at his 
bedside at all times, should they have to resort to it in a hurry, but 
Mulder was fighting.
Drawing strength from who knows where, he was fighting.
"I'm so proud of you, Mulder," I whispered in his ear. "You're the most 
stubborn, obstinate and pigheaded person that ever walked on this 
planet, and I love you for that."

Mulder spent the rest of the afternoon in and out of consciousness, and 
all I could do for him was sit by his side and hold his arm. When he 
was awake, or at least conscious, he'd take my hand too, almost making 
sure I was still there.
He was getting tired of being bothered constantly. He wasn't really 
used to this, most of the times he'd been in the ICU he was in a coma, 
unaware of the nurses' attentions. He groaned through the mask every 
time someone walked into his cubicle with some torture element, he 
particularly disliked being suctioned.

My mom almost broke down into tears when she saw him. She came in, 
thinking *Fox* would be discharged and ready to take him home, only to 
find him in the ICU riddled with tubes and wires.
"You can't keep things nice and easy, can you, son?"
Mulder opened his eyes and smiled weakly under the mask. He leaned into 
her caress as tears rolled down his pale, consumed face.
<Oh Mulder...>

***********************************************************************

Thursday
3:08 pm

I would have cried my heart out if I hadn't been so busy trying to 
catch my next breath. I simply couldn't understand why was I being 
punished so much. Whoever was choosing this for me, why didn't they 
just kill me? A nice heart attack, for example. BAM! It's over. I was a 
coward, I couldn't do it myself, so why couldn't I get a little help 
for a change?
But no, I was going to die anyway, only gasping like a fish out of the 
water, with Scully and her mother watching. At least I could be at 
home, but no, it had to be in a hospital, with people torturing me 
under the pretense of helping.
Why the hell was I still fighting? Why? WHY????
I had to let go, to let all go.
Whatever happens, I'll leave it all to chance.

<Fox! Fox!>
<Sam? Samantha? Is that you?>
<Fox!> the little girl threw herself into my arms, wrapping her slender 
legs around my waist and her arms around my neck.
<What are you doing here, Sam? It's so good to see you!>
<What are *you* doing here?>
<Where am I?>
<Where you don't belong. Not yet, at least.>
<But I've been here before. I like it, it's so peaceful.>
<You came here looking for me.>
<I'm so sorry, Sam...>
<What for? What happened to me was not your fault. *I'm* sorry, Fox. 
You are the one who took the worst part. You suffered too much in my 
name, and you didn't deserve it.>
<Oh, Sam...>
<Go back, big brother. There's someone waiting for you on the other 
side.>
<I don't want to come back. There's so much pain, and I'm tired...>
<She will help you, Fox. She's the light, just follow it and you'll be 
okay.>
<Will I ever see you again?>
<No, but you'll know I'm there. And Fox...>
<What, squirt?>
<Don't believe their lies, Fox. You've been right all along.>
<What's that supposed to mean?>
<You will know. Soon.>

The vision dissolved into the darkness, and the darkness dissolved into 
a bright, piercing light. And before I could feel anything else, I 
sensed Scully's hand on mine.

Friday
5:45 pm

"He's waking up!" The voice contained such joy and relief that I barely 
recognized it as Scully's. "Mulder, can you hear me?"
I squeezed her hand with all the strength I could muster, but I'm 
afraid it was quite a poor attempt. She must have felt it, though, 
because she squeezed back.
"Thanks God!" she ran her hand through my hair. I tried to say 
something but I couldn't. "Shh... you're intubated, Mulder, don't try to 
talk. Geeze, you scared the hell out of me, partner."
I wanted to stay awake and tell her not to worry, that I was going to 
be okay...
Yes, I was going to be okay.
I opened my eyes and found three blurry figures over me. One was 
Scully, holding my hand and stroking me. Maggie was standing beside 
her, grinning, and the third was...
Wait. Stop the press.
The third one was my mother.

***********************************************************************

Saturday
2:50 pm

Dr. Reubens put Mulder out of the respirator that morning and he'd been 
sleeping since then. I slept a little too, I couldn't do it all the 
time he's been intubated. 
Two days before, all of a sudden, he had lost consciousness and stopped 
breathing, cold turkey. The nurses put the tube down his throat not one 
minute later, but instead of waking up, he went into cardiac arrest.
It was a nightmare.
They finally managed to stabilize him, but Dr. Reubens called me apart 
and suggested that I called his family. As a doctor -- as anyone who's 
been through something like that - I knew that those words were the 
closest to a death sentence you can get. I called everybody; Skinner, 
the Gunmen, but I couldn't get myself to hear Mrs. Mulder's voice. It 
was Skinner who had the dubious privilege.

To my surprise, she came.
And not only she came, she even broke down and cried over her sick 
son's bedside, holding his hand, whispering, pleading. I couldn't take 
it, I found my way to my mother's arms and cried much needed tears. It 
was the first time since Mulder had told me he had been abused that I 
had the chance to give free reign to my grief in front of another human 
being. I was so sad and desperate that I couldn't even begin to imagine 
what would happen if he died.

Dr. Reubens told me later that Mulder had contracted nosocomial 
pneumonia, meaning that the bacteria invading his lungs were resistant 
to common antibiotics. He took his chances and administered vancomycin, 
usually considered the last line of defense in antibiotic therapy. If 
Mulder's strain was resistant to it, his prognosis would be poor. 
We prayed, kept our fingers crossed, and celebrated when Mulder's fever 
began to recede in the wee hours of the morning.
That's how he must have felt when he knew my cancer was in remission.

Despite this new brush with the Lady in Black, Mulder wasn't up to so 
much cherish yet. He was achy and uncomfortable, sweating profusedly, 
and still nauseous.
His mother's presence had thrown him out of balance, and he was too 
weak to deal with the tide of emotions. But to her credit, Mrs. Mulder 
was very gentle with him, maybe acknowledging the fragile mental state 
her son was in. The only time I saw her express an inch of hurt was 
when she saw my mom with him. I felt sorry for her, truly sorry.
Mulder's room was crowded, and he was growing increasingly nervous. I 
wasn't surprised when he pulled me near and whispered with his still 
raw voice.
"Please, Dana, tell them to go. I want to be alone... with you."

Now that the respirator was gone, the respiratory therapists made their 
appearance. They'd put Mulder in different positions and clap his 
chest, sides and back in order to let loose the infection in his lungs; 
then they'd make him cough to expel it. It was better than being 
suctioned -- but only marginally.
He was tired and cranky after the session and didn't want to even see a 
nurse or a therapist anywhere near him, so I told the staff that I'd be 
taking care of his sponge bath.

"Do you want me to do this?" I asked softly. I still remembered my own 
not-so-distant hospital stay and how awful it felt to be manipulated 
and cared for by strangers, no matter how polite they tried to be.
Mulder nodded weakly and closed his eyes in a clear demonstration of 
complete trust that warmed my heart.
He allowed me to strip him naked so I could clean him up. I covered his 
privates with a towel most of the time to preserve at least part of his 
dignity, something that often came in second place in hospitals. I felt 
so much love for him during that intimate moment, more than I ever 
thought I could feel. I touched him very gently, trying not to rub his 
sensitive skin, not to make him feel uncomfortable for being in such a 
helpless state. My reward didn't come from his expressive eyes this 
time, but from the steady beeps of the heart monitor, indicating that 
he wasn't pretending, that he was truly relaxed. I finished the job by 
spreading some body lotion all over him to refresh and moisten his dry 
skin. It must have been a huge relief, because he was smiling as I did 
that. Grabbing my hand and pulling me closer to him, he took away the 
mask and kissed me.
"Thanks, Scully."

***********************************************************************

Saturday
A week later

I guess it's pathetic to say that I knew I was going to be okay when 
they took off the catheter and I could do something as mundane as 
peeing without being watched. I hate that about hospitals, how you 
become an specimen, a chunk of sick meat.
This last stay has been considerably harder than any other I can 
remember lately. I was very sensitive, emotional and self-conscious. 
It's a normal reaction, I learned that at college, but when it happens 
to you, all that knowledge only makes you feel worse. 

Once again I begged Scully to sign me out before time. She humored me, 
I knew she would. She tends to indulge me when I'm sick.
Maggie insisted in taking me to her place, so Dana could go back to 
work. She only worked part-time, though, so I got to spend late 
afternoons and evenings with her. 
Just like before, they agreed to release me early on the condition that 
I stayed in bed and not rush recovery. They made very clear that a 
relapse would surely kill me, so I took my anti-depressants and slept. 
They still had me hooked to the IV line because my stomach didn't feel 
right yet. Maggie's soup was working wonders, but I needed some heavy 
duty nutrition if I was going to get better, and the only way I could 
receive it was parenterally.

My mother was a little offended when I declined her offer to stay at my 
place and take care of me. I know she meant well, but I wouldn't have 
felt comfortable around her, and right now, I need all the peace and 
comfort I can get. I made Scully promise me that we wouldn't *talk* 
until I felt better. She must be anxious to have that talk, though, 
because she's putting great effort in healing me, both physically and 
emotionally. 
She took charge of the respiratory therapy and no amount of begging 
deters her from administering the torture, but then she makes it up by 
giving me a full massage that renders me boneless and babbling 
incoherently. Sometimes I can't believe how much I enjoy being touched 
like that; when she did it that night in the hospital I almost cried in 
relief, that feeling alone justified being alive. 

I haven't told Scully about Samantha and her mysterious words about not 
believing their lies. Was I clinically dead when I had vision? That 
would be one hell of an X-File.
I missed the X-Files. I missed my office, being on the road with 
Scully, working together like a neatly assembled team.
Not everything were lies.

I was dwelling in Charlie's old room, since it had a TV and a stereo.
"He was the spoiled child. Charlie was in his teens when I went to 
college, and being the only one left got him quite a few privileges," 
Dana told me. "He has lots of CDs, let's see if I can find something 
that won't break the glass of the window."
She chose three CDs, put one in each rack and hit 'random', then she 
stretched on the bed beside me. I wish she'd put her head on my chest, 
but it still hurt so she rested on my arm and ran her hand all over my 
belly and chest.
Hmm... I knew there was a reason to live.
The music played and I recognized the song.
"Hey, that's U2! Listen to it, Scully, it's beautiful."
"Sing it to me," she asked.

<Sometimes I feel like I don't know
sometimes I feel like checking out
I wanna get it wrong
Can't always be strong...
And love it won't be long...>

Okay, so it was a little close to home. My chest was getting tight and 
tears inevitably welled up in my eyes. Whenever I found my voice 
between my hiccups, I'd sing along.

<You know I need you to be strong
and the day is as dark as the night is long...>

"Oh Mulder, it's okay..." she whispered, aware of the effect a simple 
song was having on my fragile control.
I fought the urge to surrender until the part I liked best, the one 
that said the words that I really wanted her to hear, because I 
wouldn't find better ones.

<I remember when we could sleep on stones
Now we lie together in whispers and moans
When I was all messed up 
And I heard opera in my head
Your love was a light bulb
Hanging over my bed...
Baby baby baby, light my way...>

I finally gave in and cried in her arms like I haven't done in a long 
time. But these were cleansing tears, and she could tell the 
difference.
I was, after all, one tough, resilient and stubborn son of a bitch who 
had the most tenacious, loyal and beautiful woman in the world in his 
arms.

In a dark the corner of the room, the image of my little sister was 
waving her hand at me. I smiled to myself; if I was seeing ghosts 
again, I was *really* getting better.
I waved my hand too.
You were right, sis. She was the light. She'll light my way.

THE END

Well, folks, that's it. Thanks for staying until the end, I hope it was 
worth the wait. If not, you can always flame me! :)