From: DA Date: Tue, 21 Sep 1999 16:21:47 -0700 (PDT) Subject: xfc: New! LONG WEEKEND (1/9) Source: xfc From: DA Long Weekend By dee_ayy September 21, 1999 Category: MT, Rating: PG-13 for a little colorful language. Spoilers: None, but the story takes place in early season 6, when Mulder and Scully are still working under AD Kersh. Archive: But of course, but please let me know. Thanks: To three in particular, Vickie, Keryn, and Kristina, who read this as I went, and encouraged along the way. It took a lot longer than I--or they--anticipated! And also to all the other people who let me know that they enjoy what I do. Feedback: Is my lifeblood. dee_ayy@yahoo.com Disclaimer: Not mine! Mulder, Scully, and the Lone Gunmen all belong to Chris Carter's 1013 Productions and Rupert Murdoch's 20th Century Film Corp. (you know, that company that seems to like to cheat people out of their just earnings). Summary: Mulder takes a little trip with the Lone Gunmen, and things don't go as planned. ____________________________________________________________________________ Long Weekend By dee_ayy Fox Mulder slammed his desk drawer with a flourish, and spun his chair around to face his partner. "That's it, Scully, I'm out of here. See you on Tuesday." Dana Scully looked up from the report she was editing, and looked at her watch. "It's only 4:30, Mulder." "Ooooh, half an hour early. Fire me. I'm on vacation. I'll catch you later." "Mulder, it's four days. That's hardly a vacation; it's a long weekend. And I can't believe you let the Gunmen talk you into this. UFO-enthusiast conventions are beneath even you." Mulder laid his folded arms on his partner's desk, rested his chin on them, and focused his hazel eyes on her plaintively. "I'm bored and I'm desperate. See what Kersh has forced me to resort to?" "Speaking of whom, if he finds out where you are going this weekend, he'll. . . . ." Mulder cut her off and sat up straight again. "He'll what? It's not like I'm filing a 302. It's vacation time; I can do whatever I damn well please." "Okay, Mulder, okay. Just don't advertise where you're going on your way out the door. Where are you staying, anyway?" "The guys set it up. I think we're staying at the same hotel as the meeting. Some Hilton. I think Frohike said it was the Bev-something." "The BEVERLY Hilton?" "Yeah, why?" "Mulder, it's in Beverly Hills! It's just one of the most exclusive and expensive hotels in LA, that's all!" "Come on, it's a Hilton. How nice can it be?" Scully smiled sweetly at her partner. "A heck of a lot nicer than the places _you_ usually choose!" "My choices, Scully, have character. It's not too late, you can come too! You, four men, Beverly Hills, Rodeo Drive?" "And what men, too. I think I'll pass. Go on, get out of here. If Kersh comes looking for you in the next 15 minutes, I'll cover for you." "As if he'd ever come looking for _me_." Mulder turned back to face his desk, pulled his keys from his pocket, and locked the drawer. "Why do you do that, Mulder?" He looked back to face his partner, trying to convey the stupidity of her question by his expression. "So no one can get in my desk." "Who would want to do that? You think they're counting your paper clips?" "Who knows, Scully, who knows." "Sometimes I forget how paranoid you can be, Mulder." Her tall partner stood up and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. He looked back at her over his shoulder as he headed for the door. "I have a reputation to live up to," he said with a wink. "Have a good weekend." + + + + + Mulder was haphazardly tossing clothes in a duffel bag when the phone rang. "Mulder." "Hey, it's Langly. You about ready to go?" "We don't leave for 12 hours, Langly." "Yeah, I know. But it's gonna be a blast. There are a couple of guys who are gonna be there that you HAVE to meet. God, when we show up with _you_." "Stop right there, Langly. I don't want to meet anyone. I don't want anyone to meet me. Understand? I just want to lay low, wander around, soak up the atmosphere, so to speak." "Oh, come on, man, you're LEGENDARY! One whisper in the right ear and you'll have more people flocking around you than Elvis!" "Elvis is gonna be there?" Mulder paused a beat to give his joke maximum effect, but Langly didn't respond, so he continued. "Seriously, though. No, Langly, NO." Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Mulder figured he could trust Byers. Maybe Frohike. But this guy? No way he'd be able to keep his mouth shut. "Okay, okay, chill out man. The reason I'm calling--why don't you come crash here tonight, and we can all go to the airport in one car in the morning. We're closer to the 287 than you, and it will be the morning rush hour." "No that's okay. I'll meet you there." "Come on, Mulder, our couch is as comfortable as yours. We'll save time, save parking fees. Besides, Frohike made a batch of that chicken chili of his, and we gotta finish it." Mulder looked at his watch; almost 9pm. Langly did have a point. The gunmen practically lived off the exit to 287--he'd save at least an hour in the morning by going there tonight. It was weird enough that he was going anywhere with these characters, might as well start the fun early. "Yeah, alright. Let me finish packing and I'll be over. But we're taking my car to the airport. No way am I driving up to the terminal in that damn bus of yours." "Okay, Cool. See ya later." + + + + + Mulder tried to stretch, and banged his elbow on the arm of the sofa. This thing was NOT as comfortable as his. No way. He ached all over. He pulled his watch off the table by the couch, and checked the time--a little after six. The place was quiet, and if he got up now, he'd beat them to the shower. That is, provided they showered. He wasn't so sure about Frohike. He sat up, and when he did he felt an odd sort of twinge in his stomach. Probably just hungry, he thought. He had begged off on the chili last night; hadn't been hungry. He stood, got his shaving kit out of his bag, and made his way into the bathroom. + + + + + Mulder let the heat of the water envelope him. He wondered if maybe he was using up all the hot water, but he didn't much care. They'd deal. He needed to wake up, needed the pelting water to make him stop feeling so, so . . . weird. He couldn't put a finger on it, but he just felt strange. Vaguely queasy. He hadn't eaten anything since lunch yesterday, so there was no doubt he was hungry. And of course, he was about to head off into uncharted territories with the Lone Gunmen of all people. Scully had nailed it yesterday. How _had_ these guys talked him into this? Was he . . . nervous? If Langly didn't keep his mouth shut like he'd promised to, he could be in for a very long weekend. Oh well, too late now. He'd make the best of it; maybe even have some fun. The guys were amusing if nothing else. And if this hotel was as nice as Scully said, hell, maybe he'd get lucky. Yeah, with a woman from Illinois who was sure she was a multiple abductee. Mulder laughed out loud at the thought, and stepped out of the shower. He dried himself quickly, slipped on his boxers and jeans, and went into the main room sans shirt, still towel-drying his hair. He smelled it the moment he stepped out, and the aroma made his stomach do a minor flip. Chili. For breakfast. Figures. Langly had said they needed to get rid of it, and Mulder _had_ eaten the stuff before--it was pretty good, actually. He'd eaten worst for breakfast in his life. "You got coffee to go with breakfast?" Mulder startled Frohike; the shorter man spun around quickly. "Cripes, Mulder, don't go sneaking up on people like that! And put a shirt on, showoff. Of course there's coffee. Hawaiian Kona blend, hand-ground at the shop on the corner." Mulder grinned at the 'showoff' comment, and raised an eyebrow at the highbrow java. "Who died?" "Hey, man, we have very refined taste for the Juan Valdez. We only drink the good stuff. Help yourself. Chili's almost hot." Mulder poured himself a cup, and sat at the large counter in the middle of the room that served as workbench and dining table, purposefully ignoring his friend's request that he finish dressing. "Chili for breakfast, huh? I don't suppose you have an egg or two?" Frohike snorted. "Who needs eggs? This stuff'll stick to your ribs." "That's exactly what I'm afraid of. Where are the other two?" "Byers went next-door to shower. . . " Mulder took a moment to try and decipher what that meant. Did these guys own the loft next-door, too? That was news to him. Or did they just have an arrangement with the neighbor? Or was it empty? Ah, hell, he didn't care enough to ask right now. Some other time. ". . . And Langly's still asleep." Mulder checked his watch. "Shouldn't someone wake him? We have to leave in an hour." "Uh huh. So we'll wake him if he isn't up in 45 minutes. You wouldn't believe how fast he can be ready." "Sure I can. How long does it take to throw on jeans and a Led Zepplin tee shirt?" "It's a foolproof system. So you want some chili?" Mulder nodded. "Why not." He hopped off his stool, went to his bag, and yanked out a tee shirt to wear. + + + + + Mulder pulled the car into the long-term parking lot at Dulles and found a space. Why hadn't he ever noticed how noisy these three were? The whole 40-minute drive had been filled with nothing but the white noise of their chatter. It was making him sick. After a while he had just tuned them out and concentrated on the road. Before he could turn off the engine the three men had piled out and were waiting by the trunk to get their bags. He flipped the latch from inside the car, and slowly climbed out. He felt like an old man this morning. "Hey Mulder, you okay?" Mulder looked up to see Langly looking at him oddly. "Yeah, fine. Why?" "I dunno. You've been acting a little weird this morning. That's all." "You've been awake for less than an hour, Langly, how would you know? Let's go. We're late." Mulder swung his duffel bag over his shoulder and started the walk toward the shuttle bus to their terminal. "Don't worry, Mulder, I got your point last night. Mum's the word. I won't tell anyone who you are." Mulder shot a look back at the blond man trying to catch up. "Better not." + + + + + It was while they were at the gate waiting to board the plane that the pain started. At first Mulder felt a sharp cramp in the middle of his stomach, which went away. He didn't give it a second thought. But after a few minutes it returned, but this time it was just a dull ache. A stomachache? What the hell? He waited for a few minutes, hoping this pain would also be temporary, but it wasn't. In fact, a feeling of queasiness was added to his discomfort. Mulder paused to assess how he was feeling--was he gonna throw up? He didn't think so, but maybe a trip to the john wouldn't be such a bad idea right now. But how best to not tip off the guys? He looked at them for a moment. They were all in their own little worlds. Byers was reading, Langly was playing with some handheld electronic contraption, and Frohike couldn't seem to peel his eyes off the group of 15-or-so young women who would apparently be on their flight. None of them were looking at him. None of them had noticed; he was sure of it. He stood up. "Hey where're you goin' Mulder?" Guess those coeds didn't have _all_ of Fro's attention. "To the can." Frohike nodded knowingly. "I'll come with you. Long flight--avoid those tiny things on the plane if you can, ya know?" Shit. Now what? Well, there was nothing Mulder could do, he had to let him come with him. The two men started to walk, and Byers shouted after them "We board in less than ten minutes!" Mulder pushed his way into the men's room, and hastened his pace into a stall. He sat on the commode, and doubled over, tightly clutching his abdomen with his arms. God, he hated this feeling. Was this the result of that damn chili? The timing was right. Part of him wished he'd just upchuck and be done with it, despite the unpleasantness of that thought. But he wasn't that sick; he knew that. And besides, not with Frohike in the room. Mulder heard the flush of the urinal, indicating Frohike was done with his business. Figures, he didn't wash his hands. "You almost done in there, Mulder?" Sit up, make your voice normal. "Yeah. Go on back. I'll be there in a minute. Don't let the plane take off without me!" He was sure to make his tone light. It worked--Frohike chuckled. "Sure thing. Hurry up." Mulder let out a sigh of relief when he heard the door shut, and wearily laid his head against the wall of the stall. Now what did he do? He waited another moment, and the queasiness seemed to subside. Maybe it was just a momentary thing. It was gonna pass. He sat up straight, and actually felt a little better. Oh, thank God. It was just a momentary thing. Thank God. He left the stall, and doused his face with cold water. That helped, too. Okay, that was weird, but it was over. He didn't feel totally normal, but he felt 100 times better. He left the bathroom and confidently rejoined his friends. + + + + + As the plane taxied down the runway, any confidence Mulder felt quickly started to slip away. They were securely strapped into their seats, and he knew it would be many more minutes before the seatbelt sign would be turned off. And he was gonna puke. He could feel the telltale sensation building in his gut, there was no question in his mind. Damn Frohike and that chili. What had he been thinking? He took a few deep breaths and swallowed hard, willing his stomach to settle. The motion of the plane taking flight did not help matters at all, and Mulder found himself gritting his teeth. He wanted to lean forward, to double himself over in an attempt to keep his stomach from revolting, but the force of the plane's ascent made that much more trouble than it was worth. And besides, as much as he wanted this sensation to go away, he didn't want to let on how he was feeling, especially to his three travelling companions. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What was he going to do? He reached out, and flipped through the contents of the pocket in front of him. He hoped that anyone looking would think he was checking out the magazines, but in fact he was looking for an airsick bag. He'd never seen anyone upchuck on a plane before, yet those bags always seemed to be there. And he was thinking that if things continued to go as they were going, _he'd_ be the first person he ever saw use one. His fingers found it tucked behind the in-flight magazine, and he pulled on it until a corner was sticking up, making it quickly accessible if need be. God, he hoped there wouldn't be a need. He sat back and closed his eyes and concentrated on taking deep breaths. Mind over matter, mind over matter. He could make it until that damn light went off, or until the feeling went away. He knew he could. He didn't have any choice. Damn that chili. After what was surely an eternity, Mulder felt the plane begin to level out. This was it. He opened his eyes quickly and found Frohike looking at him. "Thought you were asleep already." Mulder grinned slightly, unwilling to say anything, lest the effort cause him to lose his battle with his stomach. But Frohike was looking at him expectantly. He opened his mouth, but before he had to form a word he heard the "ding" that signified the seatbelt light had gone off. He raised one finger to his friend, as if to tell him he'd be right back, unhooked his seatbelt, and flew down the aisle to the back of the plane. Fuck, he'd forgotten how small these damn bathrooms were. He'd never done anything but stand in one. He started to panic when he thought he wouldn't be able to lean over the bowl of the toilet to vomit. He looked at the tiny sink and immediately discarded that option. Instead he just backed against the door and crouched a little and bent over, and let it go, hoping his aim was good. Thank god he wasn't wearing a tie, he thought as he allowed the contents of his stomach to leave his body. He could only hope no one was standing outside listening to this. After he was done he leaned back against the door and allowed it to support him while he got his strength back. The worst part of barfing, he always thought, was that feeling right after, when you're sure your legs won't support your weight. It doesn't last long, but it's an altogether unpleasant sensation, being so helpless. It passed, and he turned and leaned heavily on the tiny counter. He dropped the lid on the toilet and flushed it, then set to cleaning himself up. The damn sink was one of those designed to make it impossible to leave on, so it only delivered a brief stream of water before automatically shutting off. It took five bursts of water before he felt he'd sufficiently rinsed his mouth out. He splashed another burst onto his face, and then another. With the eighth he wet a paper towel with cold water and pressed it hard against the back of his neck. He was just thankful this was over, and he felt much better. After a moment he stood up and scrutinized his reflection in the mirror. He looked a little out of sorts, but not so bad that the guys would notice something. Scully would be a different matter, and he was thankful she wasn't here. He was tempted to return to his seat and tell Frohike that his chili was poison, but decided it would be best to not mention anything. He opened the lavatory door and headed back. He was two feet from his seat when he encountered a flight attendant in the tiny aisle, and they had to pass in close quarters. As soon as she was past, the woman spoke to him. "Sir? Are you okay? You don't look well." Shit. "Yeah, ummm, fine. Nervous flier. I'm fine." He smiled at her to try and make his words more convincing. The woman nodded and smiled sympathetically then went on her way, and Mulder was able to sink into his chair. "You're a nervous flier, Mulder? But you fly all the time." Damn, he'd hoped the Gunmen hadn't been listening, but they obviously had been. Not only was Frohike calling him on it, but Langly and Byers were looking at him too. "Doesn't mean I have to like it. It's not like any of you have flown with me before." He'd just dug himself deeper with his story, he knew. It would have been so much easier to just say 'No, Frohike, I'm not a nervous flier. Fact is, your chili made me sick!' But it was too late now. He reclined his seat a little bit, and closed his eyes. When the drink cart came through he only asked for water. He still had a wretched taste in his mouth, and although he felt much better, he didn't want to risk things. He swished each mouthful around before swallowing it, and by the time he'd downed the glass his mouth felt much better. It took less than five minutes before Mulder knew that the water he'd just swallowed was on its way back up, and quickly. He stood again, as nonchalantly as he could manage, turned, and started to go back down the aisle. But the drink cart had only gone another three rows at best, and there was no getting around it. He felt a surge of panic rise in him, and quickly scanned the middle rows, hoping against hope that one would be empty, and he could cut across to the other aisle. On a Friday flight from D.C. to L.A.? Who was he kidding. He looked to the front of the plane, frantically hoping there were lavatories at the front of the cabin as well. No. It took him no time to decide that he had no choice. Desperate times required desperate measures. He turned and strode purposefully, quickly, toward the front of the plane. As he passed his three friends he knew they were looking at him and each other, but he didn't care. He reached the curtain that separated their coach cabin from first class, and went through. He was so single-minded in his mission that if one of the flight attendants up front said anything to him as he passed, he didn't hear it. He got to the bathroom and shut the door with relief. He immediately noted that the bathroom was bigger than the ones in back; maybe twice the size. Still tiny, but not obscenely so. He actually had room to kneel in front of the commode. As he vomited up the glass of water he made a mental note that in the future he should do all his puking in first class. This time when he was finished he dropped the lid on the toilet and sat down for a minute. His stomach hurt from the vomiting this time, no doubt because it had been all but empty. And he had that burning feeling all the way up his throat from bringing up bile. Maybe _that_ was the worst feeling associated with throwing up. And the shaking; the way your body shakes uncontrollably right afterward. He hated that, too. There were so many unpleasant sensations to choose from. Not to mention the desire to throttle the person who made you sick in the first place. He sat there as long as he dared, rinsed his mouth and washed his face yet again, and steeled himself for the walk back to his rightful cabin. This time he did hear a woman calling after him, but he didn't acknowledge her, and he noticed that the first class passengers were paying him no heed. As he reached the dividing curtain he heard the woman sigh exasperatedly, and when he did he sighed with relief. She'd just told him that she wouldn't be coming after him. When he got to his seat he was horrified to find a food tray sitting there. Runny scrambled eggs, it looked like. When Frohike saw him he picked up the food and lifted Mulder's tray table so the man could sit. "We got you the eggs, Mulder, but if you want the pancakes we can trade. I don't mind. You okay?" Mulder sat, and Frohike put down the table and set the food on it. The second the smell hit his nose, Mulder knew he had to get rid of the food immediately. Fuck. He examined the buttons on his armrest, found the one to call someone, and pushed it. "So, what'll it be, Mulder?" The agent suddenly realized his friend was waiting for his answer to the menu questions. "Oh, umm, I don't care, this is fine," he answered distractedly. He was busy trying not to smell it. "You okay? Why you keep getting up?" Oh, give it a rest, Frohike. He looked at his friend and shrugged. "When you gotta go, you gotta go." He sat back and arched his neck so he was looking up at the plane's ceiling--anything to avoid the smell that was everywhere. "Aren't you gonna eat?" He didn't change position, but glanced over at his neighbor. "How could I possibly eat this after eating your chili?" When Mulder saw Frohike smile, he realized his friend had taken that as a compliment. If only he could tell him how far off he was. Instead he just closed his eyes. "Excuse me, can I help you?" Mulder opened his eyes when he heard the woman addressing him. They had taken their sweet time answering his call, and trying to keep the smell of food out of his nostrils without actually plugging his nose had been taking all his concentration. "Um, yes. Can you take this away?" "They'll be by to clean up shortly. Aren't you hungry?" "Um, no. And I'd really appreciate it if you could take it away now." He looked at her earnestly, slightly desperately. This was the same woman who had passed him in the aisle earlier, and he silently entreated her to remember, and realize exactly why the food had to go immediately. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw understanding come to her eyes. "Of course." She gave him another sympathetic smile and took the tray away. Mulder sighed and sat back, but suddenly felt watched. He looked to his right, and found Langly staring at him. "What's the matter with you, Mulder?" he asked pointedly. God, could he keep hiding this? It seemed like everyone was on to him. But he wasn't ready to give up yet. The best defense, he knew, was often a great offense--or something like that. "WHAT, Langly?" He acted as annoyed as he could, hoping to put Langly on the defensive. Maybe he'd just drop it. "You paid for that, Mulder! You don't just send it back! I would have eaten it!" Mulder almost laughed with relief. "Sorry. I'll remember that next time." Maybe he was gonna get away with this. + + + + + He almost felt as if he could relax. It had been 40 minutes, and his stomach had remained settled. Sure, it hurt, but after vomiting twice that was to be expected. He'd been feigning sleep, because there was no way he wanted to be engaging the guys in conversation--it might turn to his recent runs to the bathroom. He did allow himself to relax, realized that he actually might be able to doze, and let himself drift off. He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep when the nausea returned bad enough to wake him. He looked at his watch and realized it hadn't been ten minutes. That would teach him to let up on his vigilance. He found himself once again fidgeting in his seat, swallowing heavily, and trying to fight down the queasiness. + + + + + Frohike really wanted to know what Mulder's deal was. One minute he's completely still next to him, obviously asleep, and the next he's squirming around like some hyperactive ten-year-old. It was friggin' annoying, that's what it was. "Mulder, what is your problem?" He looked over at his friend, annoyed, but when Mulder caught his eye Frohike realized something was wrong, and changed his tone. "Are you okay?" "Will you stop asking me that? I'm fine. I hate to fly." Why on earth was he keeping up this charade? Frohike figured that was a lie, but he didn't know what he could do about anything, so he let it go. By now Byers was interested in their conversation, so the older man looked over at his friend and shrugged. They all knew Mulder could be odd at times. A minute later Mulder was once again racing toward the back of the plane, only this time Frohike was close behind. He had to know what the hell Mulder was doing back there. He got to the lavatories just as Mulder's door closed, and he didn't have to wait long to figure out what the problem was. The sound coming from the bathroom was unmistakable. Mulder was throwing up. Frohike returned to his friends. "He's puking his guts up back there," he informed them. "No shit?" "No shit, Langly." "Why hasn't he told us if he's sick," Byers wondered. "I dunno. Stubborn?" "What do you think we should do? We should tell him we know, don't you think?" Langly hated that idea. "No way, Byers! If he wanted us to know, he'd tell us. Leave the guy alone." He looked suspiciously at Frohike. "Did you feed him that chili?" Frohike dismissed that implication with a glare. "Langly's right. We leave him alone. Since we know we can keep an eye on him. We can always say something later, right?" The short man suddenly sat down hastily. "Here he comes," he hissed to his friends. When Mulder sat Byers couldn't resist. "Are you sure you're okay, Mulder?" Mulder rolled his eyes. "I just want to get off this tin can." Well, that was the truth. As Mulder sat back and again closed his eyes, Byers leaned over and whispered in Frohike's ear. "If he gets up one more time, I'm gonna call Scully and ask her what we should do." Frohike nodded silently. + + + + + "Scully." "Hi Scully, it's Byers." "Byers? Aren't you. . . . Wait a minute, where _are_ you?" "We're on the plane." "You're calling from the plane?" Her voice suddenly turned somber. "What's wrong." "Scully, is Mulder a nervous flier?" "Not at all. He likes to fly, as a matter of fact. Why?" "Well, he's in the lavatory. For the fourth time in three hours. Last time Frohike followed him, and he says he heard him throwing up. When we asked him about it, he said he was a nervous flier." "If he is, it's news to me. I think he's pulling your leg. When he gets back let me talk to him." "Oh, no, Scully. We don't want him to know we called you--he'll be furious. But what should we do?" "I don't know, Byers! What do you want me to do, diagnose from 2000 miles away when you won't even let me talk to him? How does he seem otherwise?" She was exasperated with them; it was obvious. "He looks a little green around the gills, but he's alright, I guess." "It's probably nothing. Probably a stomach bug. Or maybe he ate something that disagrees with him. Do you know what he had for breakfast?" "Yeah." "Well, what was it?" More exasperation. "Chicken chili." Scully laughed. "That's probably it right there. I keep telling him he's getting too old to keep eating like a frat boy." "So what do we do?" "Make sure he stays hydrated. Make him drink lots of water; warm soda like Coke or ginger ale calms the stomach. Does he seem either hot or cold to you?" "We haven't touched him!" "Well, is he peeling off his jacket or asking for a blanket?" Again, Byers could hear the annoyance in her voice. "No, neither." "Well, if he does either--heat or chills, that's an indication of a fever--then you know it's probably not something he ate. If he has a fever, try to get him to a doctor, but good luck doing that! You guys are really staying at the Beverly Hilton?" "We are." "Under whose name?" "Langly's." "Okay, I'll call you to see how he's doing at, ohhhh, five. That's two California time. You should be there by then, right?" "Absolutely." "Okay. Make him drink lots of fluids. The more the better. Saltines, too, calm the stomach. All those things your mother did for you when you were a kid? They work." "Thanks Scully." Byers turned off the phone and immediately flagged === "I got game." --Fox Mulder "Thanks Scully." Byers turned off the phone and immediately flagged down a flight attendant. "Excuse me, but can you bring me a can of either warm Coke or warm ginger ale?" The attendant looked at him oddly. "Warm?" "It's for our friend," Byers motioned to the empty seat. "He has an upset stomach." The woman nodded knowingly. "Oh, right. No problem. We have antacids or Pepto Bismol if you think they might help." "No, not right now, thanks." The woman left for the galley. "Is that what she said, Byers? Warm Coke? We coulda thought of that!" "Well then why didn't you, Frohike? She also said to try and find out if he has a fever, and if he does, get him to a doctor." Langly snorted. "How are we going to find that out without him noticing?" "I don't know. . . . Frohike, switch seats with me." Frohike was happy to--it gave him the window instead of the center. As Byers was settling into his new seat, the attendant returned with a can of Coke and a can of ginger ale, and two cups. "Let me know if there's anything we can do." "We will. Oh, can you bring some water, too?" Byers flipped down Mulder's tray table, and put the two cans there. Within a moment Mulder returned to his seat. "What's this?" "Warm soda. Good for an upset stomach." Byers looked at his friend matter-of-factly. "Who says I have an upset stomach?" Langly couldn't resist. "Come on, Mulder, you've been up and down like a Mexican jumping bean! You're not fooling us. You okay?" "I'm _fine_." Byers moved the soda onto his tray for a moment so Mulder could sit down. "Coke or ginger ale?" "Neither. I'm not thirsty." He sank into his seat and wearily collapsed against the headrest. He really did feel like shit, but he just couldn't let them know that. "Really, Mulder, it will help. And besides, you don't want to get dehydrated." Mulder opened one eye and looked at Byers suspiciously. "You sounded just like Scully for a minute there, Byers." Byers tried to look offended. "That's not medical knowledge, that's just common sense." He flipped open a can and poured the contents into a cup. "Here, ginger ale." Mulder scowled, and lowered his tray so Byers could put the cup down. But he didn't. Mulder waited a second for his friend to finally put it down, and when he steadfastly held it in front of Mulder instead of placing it on the tray, the FBI agent finally took it into his hand himself. What the hell was Byers' problem? Couldn't he hand off a damn cup? He took his sweet time doing it, and there was a great deal of fumbling of hands involved before Mulder finally secured the cup in his own hand, and placed it on the tray. "Drink it, Mulder." "Would you guys just get off my back? I'll drink it, but I'm _fine_. Nothing to worry about." He picked up the cup and took a long drag on the liquid just to prove his point. God, he hoped this stayed down. As Mulder was drinking, Langly looked across at Byers and mouthed the words "Is he hot?" Byers shrugged. He'd tried, but he had no idea. + + + + + As Mulder put the glass down on his tray he found himself wondering what it was that made him believe it was preferable for the guys to think he was afraid to fly than it was to admit that he actually wasn't feeling well. Honestly, which was the worse weakness here? What was it about men that made them so loathe to admit that on occasion their bodies betrayed them? And even though he knew how stupid it was, here he was, powerless to stop himself, digging himself into a deeper and deeper hole. He should just say 'Look, guys, I'm sick.' He knew it. But he also knew that at this point there was no way in hell he'd say it. They obviously _knew_ it, anyway. His biggest priority, though, was on doing his best to make sure the ginger ale stayed where it belonged. "Do you think it's something you ate, Mulder?" The sick man almost laughed at the hesitantly guilty tone in Frohike's voice. "I don't know, Frohike." He turned and looked at his friend for maximum effect. "Maybe." Then Mulder turned back to face forward, reclined his seat, and closed his eyes. + + + + + When the seatbelt light came back on, Mulder remembered takeoff, and silently hoped his stomach would remain calm. It did, though the bouncing of the landing sent his stomach up his throat. But he was able to maintain control of it, and it settled back down as the plane taxied to the gate. He suddenly realized that he'd had his eyes closed for some time, and opened them to find Langly staring at him from across the aisle. "Are you _really_ a nervous flier, Mulder?" Here it was, a moment of truth. He could drop the charade right here and now. "It's not my favorite thing, Langly." Well, that wasn't a lie, anyway. He shook his head slightly, disgusted with his inability to put a stop to his own idiocy. Then he felt the plane come to a stop, and like any seasoned traveler, he quickly unhooked his seatbelt and leapt to his feet in a bid to be the first to his overhead compartment. It was reflex more than anything, and it was a big mistake. The head rush and wooziness sent him careening back down toward Byers, who put his hands up and steadied his friend. "God, Mulder, how sick are you? Sit down!" Mulder steadied himself with the help of his seat-back, and stood up. "I'm alright. I just want to get off this damn plane." He opened the overhead compartment, and ignored the pain the movements caused in his stomach while he pulled down everyone's bags. He dropped them on his vacant seat, and then moved forward slightly to join the line of passengers waiting to disembark. He wasn't lying. He really DID want to get off this plane. He just knew he'd feel better if he could breathe real air some time soon. When Mulder reached the terminal, he realized that the guys were all behind him. He turned and was dismayed to see them huddling together as they walked, clearly discussing something. They were still quite a bit behind him, and Mulder realized he felt lightheaded, and his stomach was killing him. He dropped his bag at his feet, and sank into a chair to wait for them to catch up. "So what are you three conspiring about?" he asked wearily as they reached him where he sat. Frohike sat next to him. "We were just thinking that we all don't have to go and pick up the rental. Two of us can wait here, and two of us can go, then come back to pick up the others." Mulder chuckled ruefully. "And let me guess. You figured I'd wait here." He was perversely pleased to see the slightly scared look on each of his friends' faces as they all nodded silently. He thought for a moment. He really did feel like shit, and he really didn't relish the idea of packing onto a shuttle bus and whatnot. What the hell. "Yeah, okay. Who's waiting with me?" The three men all let out relieved breaths. "I am," Frohike said. "They won't let me drive the rental, anyway. I had a slight, ummm, mishap with one once." Mulder nodded and pulled his driver's license out of his wallet, and handed it to Byers. "Here. Have me put on as a driver. No way do I want to be completely dependent on you guys all weekend." Byers took the card. "We'll pick you up right outside this terminal. Do you have your cell phone?" Mulder nodded. "We'll call you when we're about to pull up." The two men left, and as soon as they did, Mulder stood up slowly and started to move. Frohike jumped up and started to follow. "Where are you going Mulder?" "To the bathroom." "Do you have to puke again?" Mulder stopped in his tracks, then slowly turned. "No, I have to go. Watch my stuff." He left, but rather than stay there, Frohike grabbed both bags and followed. + + + + + When Mulder exited the men's room and found Frohike standing there, he grunted disgustedly. Frohike ignored him. "Come on, Mulder. I figured we could wait closer to the door." He led them to a bench about halfway between the terminal doors and the bathroom, and sat down. Mulder sat too, hunched forward at the middle. Frohike looked at him for a minute, hoping he'd say something. When it was apparent that nothing was forthcoming from his friend, he decided to speak up. "Look, Mulder, If you think, I mean, if I. . . ." He stopped, completely unsure of what he wanted to say, or how he wanted to say it. Mulder turned his head slightly, allowing him to see his friend with a sideways glance. "I _don't_ want to talk about it, Frohike. Just leave me alone. Don't say anything. Please." Frohike sat back and looked straight ahead. He didn't want to talk about it? Fair enough. He'd tried. + + + + + As soon as the four men entered the hotel, Mulder knew something was up. Scully was right, the place was unbelievably posh--too posh for them. The lobby alone was huge and golden, with crystal chandeliers. There was a UFO convention _here_? But it wasn't just that--he watched a transformation take place in Langly. The man instantly stood up tall, and marched purposefully toward the desk. Mulder lagged behind, and when he caught up, he immediately was alarmed by what he was hearing. The desk clerk had heard Langly's name, and become very flustered and apologetic, and called his boss over. What the hell was going on? "Mr. Langly. I am so glad to be able to welcome you back to a Hilton Hotel. We are so very sorry about the unfortunate experience you had when you last stayed with us, and hope we can make up for it here. Your party is four people, correct? We have set aside our Executive Suite. It has three bedrooms, we hope that will be satisfactory." The manager was practically running off at the mouth, so profuse was he in his efforts to make Langly happy. Mulder had no idea what was going on. He looked at Frohike, and when their eyes met, Fro had to turn his back on the desk, so the hotel staff would not see him stifling a laugh. And suddenly Mulder figured it out--they were scamming the hotel. Somehow Langly had convinced the hotel that they owed him a first-class stay. Were these guys nuts? He was a Federal Agent! He quickly walked away rather than hear the whole thing, and allowed one of the plush, overstuffed lobby chairs to consume him. These guys could be monumentally stupid at times. It was a good thing he felt like death, or he'd be packing them all off to the nearest Econolodge. "Come on, Mulder." He looked up to see Byers offering him a hand to help him up. He ignored it, and slowly pushed himself up from the chair. It took a great deal of effort, but he did it himself; he didn't want any help from these guys. Once he was standing next to Byers, he leaned in to whisper in his ear. He didn't want the bellhop to hear him. "What are you guys pulling here?" he hissed. Byers started to answer, but Mulder stopped him. "Wait. Don't tell me. I might have to arrest you if you do." They entered the elevator, and Mulder found himself standing slightly behind Langly. He leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "You are fucking nuts," he said. Langly clearly took that as a compliment, because he broke into a wide grin. The elevator reached their floor, high up in the hotel, and the bellhop opened the door to their suite with a flourish. Mulder noted that the kid refused a tip from Byers; they _really_ must have pulled a number on them. He wearily entered the room, and found a large main room, with two large sofas, a bar, an entertainment center, a dining area, and a pair of large sliding doors onto a balcony. There were two doors on the left, and one on the right, up two steps from the main room. That was clearly the master bedroom. "I'm taking that one," he said, pointing to the master bedroom, and daring them to complain. None of them did. Instead the three men looked into the other two doors, and Langly and Frohike silently agreed to share. Rooms chosen, the four men just looked at each other for a moment. But it was only a minute, because Mulder suddenly felt the need to run to the bathroom. He took the two steps up to his room as one, and raced through. Byers followed him, and stood in the doorway to the room. He listened for a minute, then looked back toward his two friends. "Not again," he said. He sighed, shrugged, and sat on a sofa, waiting for Mulder to come out. + + + + + === "I got game." --Fox Mulder There was something strangely comforting, if that was the right word, about being able to sit on the floor in front of a real toilet to throw up. So much for that ginger ale, which had stayed down longer than anything else he'd ingested today. Mulder stayed on the floor longer than he needed to, but he wasn't in much of a hurry to go anywhere. Except he was really hot. He shed his jacket, leaving it on the bathroom floor, and stood up carefully. He realized he could finally brush his teeth, and went back into his room to get his things. When he reentered the room, he finally saw the place. He'd chosen well. A king-sized bed, a 32-inch TV in a large armoire, a loveseat and chair, a mahogany desk, as well as a walk-in closet. It was fabulous. Mulder lifted his bag onto the bed, and noted that the motion caused a sharp pain in his side. Fuck, he must have pulled a muscle while puking. Just what he needed. He grabbed his shaving kit and a pair of sweatpants to change into, and shuffled back into the bathroom to brush his teeth. + + + + + Byers had taken a moment to put his bag into his room and check it out, but he quickly returned to the main room. He wanted to see Mulder, see how he was. He knew his friend wouldn't tell him anything--that much was obvious by now. So he knew they'd have to watch him closely. Mulder finally came out, looking pale and sick. He was moving slowly, and had a slight sheen of sweat on his face. Byers watched him scan the walls of the room. He found what he was looking for, by the door, and moved toward it. "Is it me, or is it hot in here?" he asked as he turned the air conditioning up. Hot or cold, that indicates a fever. That's what Scully had said on the phone. Byers didn't comment on the temperature; he just watched Mulder lie down on the sofa and curl himself into a little ball. "Room okay, Mulder?" "Yeah. It's great." Mulder didn't even open his eyes. "You okay, Mulder?" That got a look. "Yeah, great." He flipped over onto his left side, so his back was to his friend, effectively ending the conversation. Byers got up and hurried into Langly and Frohike's room. He quietly shut the door behind him, and turned to his friends. "Well, he's hot," he declared. The two men stared at him blankly. They clearly didn't remember. "If he's hot, he might have a fever." Frohike still didn't seem to get it. "Yeah, so?" Byers was losing patience. "Scully, remember? She said if he had a fever we should get him to see a doctor." "How are we gonna get him to do that? He'll never let us take him to a doctor." Frohike was right, and they all knew it. But suddenly Byers had a thought. "It's a big fancy hotel. Maybe they have a staff doctor! Langly, call the desk and see." "I don't want to call. You call!" Byers shook his head. "You have no problem letting an entire hotel staff think you spent a night in a rat-infested room in Kansas City, but you won't call to see if there's a hotel doctor?" He sat on the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed the front desk. + + + + + Mulder was still lying on his left side on the sofa, facing its back. He had his head buried in the back cushions, and his knees pulled up to his chest when he heard the doorbell ring. The guys must have decided to take advantage of the free ride, and ordered room service. The very thought of food sent another wave of nausea through him; he knew that even the smell would be enough to send him running for the bathroom, so he decided to clear out. He'd go to his room for a while. He pushed himself up and turned to face forward, putting his feet on the floor; he ran his hand through his hair and waited for a wave of nausea to pass. But before he could stand he noticed the strange man standing in the middle of the room. He was definitely not a room service waiter, and he was too well-dressed to be one of the guys' friends. Mulder looked at Byers standing next to the man, and the look on his friend's face was a mixture of concern, and fear. Or was that guilt? He looked back at the man, his eyes narrowing suspiciously, and then he saw it. The guy had a black bag. Fuck. "Mulder, we. . ." Byers was cut off by the stranger. "Mr. Mulder, my name is Stan Ashman. Dr. Stan Ashman. I'm the hotel doctor. Your friends tell me you're not feeling well?" Mulder slumped back against the sofa and put his hand over his eyes. How could they do this to him? He moved the hand, and surveyed the room. Figures that the other two would make themselves scarce. Oh well, he'd take what he could get. "BYERS!" "Mulder, you're sick. We didn't know what else to do!" "How about leave me alone and let it pass? It's a bug, or it's food poisoning. It'll pass!" The doctor took that as his cue to move forward. "Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Mulder turned his head away from the two men. "Oh, Christ," he muttered, then he turned back. "Honestly, doc, I'm fine. It's a stomach bug, not unlike a million other stomach bugs I've had in my life." The doctor smiled kindly. "I'm sure you're right, but I'm here anyway, so what's the harm? Humor me?" Mulder found his placating tone to be exceedingly patronizing, and was about to say so, when he changed his mind. It would require too much energy. "Just hurry up, will you? I was about to go lie down." The doctor had taken a seat next to Mulder on the sofa. "We can do this in your bedroom if you prefer. Maybe you would? More privacy?" "Oh no. I want witnesses when you tell me it's nothing." He glared at Byers, who shrugged helplessly. "Tell Frohike and Langly they'd better keep hiding." The doctor had picked up his wrist, and was taking his pulse. "So Mr. Mulder, can you describe your symptoms for me? Your friend just said it was a stomach complaint." "Stomachache, cramps. Nausea. Nothing special." "Any vomiting?" "Yeah. Once." "MULDER!" "What?" Byers had moved forward from the position he had taken up in the corner. "More than once! What about on the plane?" "How do you know what happened on the plane?" "Mulder, you threw up on the plane, too, and we both know it." "Those bathrooms are awfully small, Byers, and I _don't_ recall inviting you along." Byers scowled, and Mulder gave in. "Okay. Twice," he lied. He looked pointedly at his so-called friend. "Happy?" The doctor seemed bemused. "Any diarrhea?" "No." "Constipation?" "No." Mulder rolled his eyes at the personal questions, and made sure Byers caught it. Across the room he caught Frohike peeking in from his bedroom. "Frohike, old buddy! You can't hide forever. Come join us! Maybe we'll have the doc here check *you* out too, before he goes!" The door to the room closed quickly, and Mulder chuckled. The doctor ignored the drama going on around him. Discretion was part of his job, and besides, it was none of his business. "Any trouble urinating? Pain, difficulty voiding?" Mulder looked at the doctor incredulously. "It's my stomach, doc. NO." "Abdominal pain can be caused by any number of problems, Mr. Mulder, including kidney stones. That's why I asked." He felt Mulder's forehead. "Have you taken your temperature?" "Believe it or not, I don't usually bring a thermometer on vacation. No, I haven't taken my temperature." God, Scully would kill him if she could see how badly he was treating this poor doctor. But he was pissed off. These stupid guys never knew when to butt out. See if he ever went anywhere with them again! The doctor was coming at him with the thermometer, and Mulder opened his mouth, clamping down on the instrument so hard you could actually hear the click of his teeth hitting the glass. Cripes. "Can you sit up straight for me, Mr. Mulder? I want to listen to your lungs." Mulder did, and flinched away from the cold of the stethoscope's drum when it hit his chest. The doctor had reached up under his tee shirt. "Take a deep breath for me?" Mulder did, and he felt the stethoscope change position. "Again?" He did, and it moved again. "Again?" The doctor repeated the sequence with the stethoscope placed on his back. "Good." The doctor removed the thermometer from Mulder's mouth, and when he did he noticed something. He pulled Mulder's lower lip away from his teeth, and looked closely at his gums before he read the thermometer. "It's 100, Mr. Mulder, a little bit elevated." Mulder sighed heavily. "Look, doc, I've been up since dawn, Washington time. I just spent six hours feeling lousy on a plane. I'm exhausted and I feel like crap. Isn't that enough to elevate anyone's temp a little?" The doctor chuckled. "Indeed it is. When is the last time you ate something?" "Seven this morning. D.C. time, that is." "And what did you eat?" Mulder raised his voice, in hopes that the culprit could hear from the other room. "Frohike's Lethal Chicken Chili!" The doctor raised an eyebrow at that and stood. "Quite a breakfast. Can you lie down for me? I want to check your abdomen." Mulder swung his legs back onto the sofa, laid down on his back, and folded his hands under his head in his best effort to appear nonchalant. The doctor pulled the coffee table over and sat on that. "Is the pain located in a specific area?" "No, not really. Sort of everywhere. Right in the middle, mostly." "And how would you characterize it? Is it sharp, stabbing, or is it more dull and constant?" The doctor had pushed up Mulder's shirt and was pressing on his abdomen as he spoke. "It's mostly a dull ache. With some cramping right before I have to. . . . you know, puke." The doctor nodded, and noticed Mulder grimacing. "Does any place hurt more when I press on it?" "No, not really." "That's good." The doctor put his stethoscope back in his ears and leaned over Mulder's stomach with the drum in his hand. "Be quiet for a moment. I need to hear." The doctor began to listen to Mulder's digestive system, placing the stethoscope in various locations. The three people in the room remained silent, and Byers stepped forward expectantly. But just as the doctor slipped the stethoscope under the waistband of Mulder's sweatpants to listen to the lower part of his intestines, the spell in the room was broken by the ringing of the phone. Everyone jumped. From the other room they heard Langly yell. "Got it!" Mulder looked at his watch and then at Byers. "We've only been here a few hours. Who's calling already?" The bearded man took that as the excuse he was waiting for. He didn't think he liked the direction the examination was taking. "I'll go find out!" He hastily made for the door. Mulder chuckled and settled back on the sofa. "Are you almost done?" "Almost, Mr. Mulder, almost. Let me finish this, though." He put the stethoscope back in his ears. + + + + + Byers slipped into the room Frohike and Langly were sharing, quietly closed the door behind him, and took a deep breath. Langly was in mid-conversation. "The doctor is examining him right now. No, he still doesn't know we called you. We won't tell him--he'll kill us! He's mad enough as it is!" Scully. "Yeah. yeah, Scully, we'll call you as soon as we know something." Byers thought of something, and waved his hand to get Langly's attention. "Hold on, Scully." "Tell her we'll call her, okay? He's suspicious about the phone calls." Langly put the phone back to his ear. "Did you hear that? Let us call you. Our spooky friend is suspicious already. . . . Yeah, yeah, we'll call. Later, Scully." He hung up the phone. "Did she sound worried?" "Naw, Byers. Just curious more than anything." Frohike was lounging on his bed, saying nothing up to this point. "Hey Byers, you better get out there and hear the diagnosis. Mulder won't tell us anything." Byers glared at his friend. "You *could* come with me. Especially since you're probably the one who got him sick in the first place." Frohike turned indignant. "Did not! I ate it too, and I'm fine!" Byers looked at his rather rotund cohort. "That's because you have a cast-iron stomach." He opened the door and returned to the sitting room. + + + + + "Well, Mr. Mulder, from the looks of things, I'd say you are probably right. It probably is just a bug or a slight case of food poisoning." Mulder grinned smugly at the man. "You should just," Byers came through the door and back into the room, and Mulder put his hand up to stop the doctor in mid-sentence. "I'm sorry, but can you repeat what you just said for my doubting friend here?" he nodded toward Byers. Dr. Ashman turned and noticed the other man. "I was just telling Mr. Mulder that it probably is just a bug or food poisoning." Mulder couldn't resist, and a quiet "HA!" passed through his lips. The doctor turned back to his patient. "No 'I told you so's,' Mr. Mulder, they were merely concerned, and with good reason. Between your illness and the flight you _are_ quite dehydrated--your skin is too dry, and I could tell by looking at your gums. So I want you to drink as much as you possibly can, okay? Water, clear liquids like apple juice. And rest. Lots of rest. I probably don't need to tell you this, but as the bug moves through your system, the cramping and problems will probably move lower, and you may experience some diarrhea." He picked up the thermometer. "You can keep this. Monitor your temperature every few hours or so, okay? If it spikes, call me again. These things usually run their course in 24 to 48 hours. So if you don't feel any better by this time tomorrow, call me. If the vomiting gets much worse, call me. Okay?" "Okay." "And try to eat something in a couple of hours. See how you do. Do you know what the BRAT diet is?" "No." Byers did, and he spoke from behind the doctor. "Bananas, rice, applesauce, toast." The doctor and Mulder both looked at him. He shrugged. "Three nieces." The doctor turned his attention back to Mulder. "Your friend has it right. Those are things that don't upset the stomach too much. It's used mostly for children, but it works for adults, too. Start out with some of those things. Soft, plain, bland foods. Like I said, see how you do." The doctor stood. Mulder did too; he offered the doctor his hand, and they shook. "Thank you doctor. I'm sorry my overeager friends here _wasted_your_time_." He glared at Byers again as he spoke. "Absolutely not. That's why I'm here, after all. Take it easy, and I hope you're feeling better soon. No one wants to start a vacation this way." The doctor headed for the door, and Byers led him there. "So he's okay?" The doctor smiled at him. "He should be. But keep an eye on him. You can call me tomorrow if he gets worse, okay? I'll be on-site from 11 to 3." The two men shook hands, and the doctor left. Byers walked slowly back into the sitting room, preparing himself for the inevitable and justifiable wrath of his friend. But he stepped into the room just in time to hear the door to Mulder's bedroom slam as loudly as possible, and he found himself alone. Just as well, he thought. Byers heard a door open, and saw Langly and Frohike cautiously peer out of their room. "It's alright. He's in his room." He motioned toward Mulder's door. The other two men came out, and Langly spoke, quietly. "What'd he say?" "A bug. Or slight food poisoning. Should pass in about 24 hours." Frohike grimaced. "Oh, man, just like Mulder said. He's gonna kill us!" Byers nodded. "He's angry all right. But when he feels better he'll realize that we were just concerned." Langly nodded "We can hope, anyway. So what did the M.D. say he should do, Byers?" "Ummm, drink plenty of fluids. Rest. Monitor his temp." He looked at the coffee table and shook his head when he saw the thermometer abandoned there. "Try to eat in a few hours. The usual." Langly looked toward the closed door. "He gonna do all that in there?" Byers sat down on one of the sofas. "He's mad enough at us already for not trusting him to take care of himself. I think we just have to assume he will." Langly chuckled. "You know what happens when you assume. I think we really fucked this one up, guys." He paused for a moment. "So, who's gonna call her?" + + + + + Mulder remained curled up on his bed, where he'd collapsed after slamming his door for emphasis. If he strained his hearing, he could hear his three friends talking out in the main room. About him, no doubt, but he couldn't make out any words. And frankly, he didn't care what they were saying. His emotions at the moment were conflicted. He was furious with them for overreacting, for going behind his back, for hovering and watching him with a hawkish intensity. He wasn't used to it. Sure, when he really managed to do something to himself Scully was right there. But with everyday aches and pains and illnesses? She treated them with a respectful disdain. A simple "You don't sound too good," and nothing more. She simply acknowledged the ailment, and trusted him to take care of it, which he always did--usually by ignoring it until it went away. Isn't that what most people did? The attention these guys were paying to a case of bad chili was beyond too much. But at the same time, he really couldn't remember the last time he'd felt _this_ bad, so a part of him was actually relieved to have had a medical opinion telling him it was nothing to worry about. If he'd been home and feeling like this, he might even have buckled and given Scully a call. Who knows. He pulled his knees up tight to his chest as another sharp pain gripped his midsection. After a moment it subsided a bit, and he was able to relax. Fluids. The doctor had said to drink plenty of fluids. He made his way into the bathroom and got himself a glass of water. He sat back on the bed and drank it slowly, mindful of what had happened the last time he'd drunk anything. When he'd finally finished it, he refilled the glass and put it on the bedside table. He didn't totally disregard his health; never had. He'd take care of himself, this would pass, and the men outside his door would leave him alone. + + + + + Byers hung up the phone, and looked at his two friends with a grin. "She wished us luck," he said. "What'd she mean by that?" Frohike wanted to know. "She said that Mulder's at his worst when it's something minor. Said she has to make sure he doesn't notice that she's showing concern, or he'll clam up in a second. I think we've already seen that side of him." "What does she mean by that? What does she do?" "She downplays, Langly. Doesn't ask him if he needs something to drink, just gives it to him. Leaves a bottle of aspirin on his desk without a word, stuff like that. That's what she said, anyway. Suggested we try the same approach." Langly looked frustrated. "How the hell we gonna do that?" "I don't know. I'll call room service and get some juice in the fridge, for starters. Maybe a bowl of bananas. The doctor said to drink clear liquids and try eating bananas and applesauce, stuff like that." Frohike just shrugged. "He'll be fine." He got up and headed back into his room to unpack. One of the first things he found in his bag was his trusty bottle of Pepto Bismol. He never left home without it. Remembering what he'd just heard about Scully's approach of medication-by-suggestion, he took the bottle out into the sitting room, and put it on the table right outside Mulder's door. If he wanted it, it was there. But Frohike wasn't gonna cram it down his throat. + + + + + Mulder woke with a start, completely unaware that he'd even drifted to sleep. How long had he slept? As his vision cleared he looked to his watch, hoping it had been hours. Only five-forty? He'd only slept about two hours, and why he'd woken up was obvious. The pain in his gut was getting worse. Rather than just the intermittent cramps, it was almost constant now. But at least he didn't feel nauseous. The glass of water had obviously stayed down, and for that he was thankful. He rolled over to get the glass he knew he'd left there. He didn't relish the idea of putting anything in his mouth, really, but he knew dehydration was a bitch, so he drank it down. He felt hot, flushed. Was his fever up? He looked around, and realized that he'd left the thermometer in the other room. Well, he supposed he could make an appearance. Wouldn't kill him. He pushed himself up and wearily made his way into the other room. Langly was sprawled on a sofa, watching something on the Sci Fi channel, but the other two men were absent. His friend didn't even notice he was there until Mulder moved in front of him to get the thermometer off the coffee table where the doctor had left it. Langly jumped up, startled, when Mulder moved in front of him, and the sick man looked at him apologetically, then silently picked up the thermometer and started to move away. "Mulder?" Mulder stopped and looked back at the man on the couch. "Yeah?" He even sounded sick; he could tell. "Byers said to tell you that he got some juice--it's in the fridge. And some bananas? He said something about ordering rice, toast, some shit like that? I dunno." Mulder merely nodded and went behind the bar. Sure enough, there was apple juice, lots of it, in there. He took out one of the bigger bottles, and headed back toward his room. "You want me to order something for you to eat?" Mulder didn't even turn, he just waved his bottle of juice to indicate a no. "Not hungry." He arrived at his door and saw the bottle of Pepto. Who left that, he wondered? Might come in handy, though, so he picked that up, too. He was almost through the door and back to the sanctuary of his room. "Mulder?" He looked back out. "Yeah." Now what did he want? "Planet of the Apes is on at six. Wanna watch?" Mulder smiled slightly. "No, thanks. I need sleep." He shut his door behind him. + + + + + "Mulder come out at all?" It was the first question out of Byers' mouth as he and Frohike reentered the suite after a brief visit down to the convention floor. "Yeah, about an hour ago. Got some juice and went back to bed." "How'd he look?" Langly looked at his friend incredulously. "I don't know! He's looked better, I guess." "What about food? Did he eat anything?" "Said he wasn't hungry. I remembered to offer, though." Byers pursed his lips, clearly concerned. He looked to Mulder's door, then to the phone, and made his decision. He went to the phone and dialed. "Hi, yes, I was wondering if you could cook something special for us? You can? Great. Well, it's just rice. Plain rice. And some toast." Byers listened for a second, then smiled. "Yup, stomach flu," he said to the person on the other end. "Right, apple sauce, too. Great. Thanks." He hung up. "Don't you think you shoulda asked Mulder first? He said he wasn't hungry." "I know, Frohike, but the doctor said he should try to eat something." Langly was shaking his head. "Weren't we were gonna leave him alone? Leave him alone, Byers." Frohike agreed. "Yeah, you're the one who said we had to trust him." "Yeah, we should respect his privacy, shouldn't we?" Byers shook his head at Langly. "So it'll be here if he wants to eat it. Just because he's not hungry doesn't mean he shouldn't eat." Langly shook his head right back. "I still say we should just leave him alone." + + + + + Byers accepted the tray from the porter, and carried it over to the table by Mulder's room. He set it down, and quietly rapped on the door. He waited a moment, and when there was no response he knocked again, louder. Again nothing. He looked back at his two friends, and they were both watching him with disapproval written all over their faces. He reached for the doorknob, but Langly's voice stopped him. "He said he needed to sleep, Byers. Leave him alone!" Byers studied his blond friend's face for a moment, then acquiesced, and walked away from the door. "I guess cold rice is okay," he said by way of compromise. + + + + + Mulder let out a relieved sigh when there was no third knock on the door. Whoever it was had left, thank God. He had no desire whatsoever to see or hear anyone right now. He pressed his arms around his midsection tighter. He'd realized a little earlier that the pressure alleviated the pain slightly. The Pepto he'd taken earlier hadn't done any good, that was for sure. Maybe he hadn't taken enough? He opened the bottle and took another swig, which he followed with an apple juice chaser. If his illness didn't make him puke again, that combination, he realized, might just do it. But maybe that's what he needed. Maybe another good upchuck would ease the stomach pain. + + + + + As the credits to Planet of the Apes started to roll, the Gunmen were roused by the sound of Mulder's door opening. Suddenly aware of the mess they'd made with their own room service order, Byers sat up quickly and started stacking dishes. The three men silently watched Mulder as he slowly made his way back to the refrigerator. They all noticed that he reached out for every piece of furniture he came in contact with on the route. He didn't hold on for dear life or anything, but he clearly felt like he needed the support at hand. He looked pale, even in the dim light of the room. They all looked at each other silently, wondering what was going to happen. Mulder bent over to open the door to the small box behind the bar. When he stood up again, they all heard him gasp. Byers couldn't keep quiet. "How you feeling, Mulder? Any better?" He asked it hesitantly. Mulder turned, put down the bottle of juice on the bar, and rested both hands flat on its surface. "Yeah, I guess so. Nausea's gone, anyway." He was long past being mad at them, but he didn't feel the need to tell them that the nausea had been replaced by a fairly intense pain. "That's good. There's some food that we ordered." Byers motioned toward the food, still sitting where he'd left it. "It's cold by now; we can order you some more if you want." Mulder looked at the tray by his door, seeing it for the first time. All three men clearly saw him blanche at the prospect. "I'll pass." "The doctor said" Mulder cut him off. "I know what he said, Byers. But I can't. Just can't. Maybe tomorrow." He made his way back around the bar and gingerly traveled to his door. "Good night." He pushed the door closed behind him, and was gone. The three men just looked at each other, totally unsure what to make of what they'd just seen. + + + + + === "I got game." --Fox Mulder + + + + + Frohike tossed and turned. Why couldn't he sleep? Langly's loud snoring from the adjacent bed had nothing to do with it--hell, at this point he doubted he'd be able to sleep without hearing that. No, something else was the matter, but he couldn't put a finger on it. Christ, he was in Los Angeles: great weather, great chicks, really great hotel. What could possibly be wrong? Mulder. Yeah, he was putting up a good front, and the doctor had even said he was okay, but Frohike had a bad feeling. Something was wrong. Frohike couldn't shake the suspicion that Mulder was sicker than he was letting on. You're probably full of shit, Frohike, get over it. He rolled over yet again, and slammed his eyes shut in a determined effort to force himself to sleep. Count to 50. Count sheep. Count Scullys. Just go to sleep. Nope. Not gonna work. Something to drink, that oughta do it. It was nice to think they could raid the wet bar with impunity; he could get used to this. He got up and wandered into the suite's sitting room. The room was completely dark except for the pallor cast over the furnishings by the moon outside. It was just enough to ensure he didn't need to turn on a light, so he padded his way to the bar and opened the fridge. He found enough apple juice to fill the bathtub. Byers always erred on the side of caution--he'd obviously done that for Mulder. He also must have removed every other beverage stocked in there, in order to make room for the juice. Bottles of juice, cans of juice, and three bottles of Evian water for good measure. Frohike chose one of those and shut the door. As he was twisting the top off the bottle he thought he heard something coming from Mulder's room. Was he awake? Frohike wandered to his ill friend's door and stood outside for a moment, listening for signs of life from within. He heard them, but not what he wanted to hear. Mulder was moaning. No doubt about it. He _knew_ something was wrong. Shit. Okay, calm down. Maybe he was imagining it. "Uhhhhhhh." Nope. It was barely audible through the closed door, but there was no mistaking the sound. This did not sound good. Mulder was sick, really sick. To hell with respecting his privacy and trusting him to take care of himself. Frohike opened the door a crack. At least it wasn't locked. "Mulder?" Mulder had his bedside lamp on, so Frohike had no trouble seeing him. He was on his left side, curled into a tight ball, in the middle of the bed. Upon hearing his name, Mulder started, and immediately turned over to face the door. "Huh?" "What's wrong, Mulder?" He heard Mulder sigh. "Nothing." "I heard you, Mulder. You feeling worse?" "Heard what? I'm fine." Frohike could hear the stress in his friend's voice. He'd heard enough, that's what he'd heard. He pushed the door open all the way, and walked right in. "Bull shit, my friend. I heard you moaning." He arrived at the edge of the bed, and got a good look. "Jesus Christ, Mulder, you look like hell! What's wrong?" Mulder turned back onto his left side, wrapped his arms around his midsection, and buried his face in his pillow. "Nothing," he hissed into the pillow. "Come on, Mulder, enough! Are you in pain?" Frohike dared to reach out and feel the man's forehead. "Oh, man, you're burning up! Why didn't you call one of us?" "What, and let you guys totally overreact again? Just leave me alone. I'll be alright." "No, you won't." Mulder turned and glared at his friend. "Frohike, get the hell out of my room and leave me alone." "I'll go, but I'll be right back." Frohike left, absentmindedly pulling the door behind him, but not bothering to make sure it latched. Mulder buried his face in his pillow again, and bit the soft fabric in both frustration and pain. This could not be happening. The pain was unbelievable. All this from a bowl of chili? But then, Frohike wasn't sick. If it wasn't the chili, then what was it? And when would it pass? + + + + + Frohike left Mulder and made a beeline to Byers' door. He banged on it loudly, actually hoping he'd wake Langly in the process. Byers opened the door, impeccably dressed in pajamas; his eyelids at half-mast and slightly tousled hair were the only indications that he'd been awakened. "What, Frohike?" "It's Mulder. He's really bad." That woke the bearded man up. "What do you mean?" "I got up to get something to drink, and I thought I heard him moaning. He's in there curled up like I don't know what, he looks like shit, and he's burning up." "He's burning up?" "Uh huh. I think so." At that moment Langly stumbled out of his room, wearing the same shirt he'd worn all day, and boxers. Nothing more. "Do you guys mind? I'm sleeping here." Frohike looked at his roommate. "Not any more you're not. We got trouble. Mulder's really sick." Langly looked across the room at their friend's doorway. "Yeah?" "Yeah. So what should we do?" Byers was stroking his beard. "It might still be nothing. I don't know. Maybe we should" Before he could finish the thought, Frohike did it for him. "Call Scully?" "Yeah, I guess so. What time is it?" He looked at the watch he wore faithfully, even to bed. "It's almost two? God, we'll be waking her up. It isn't even five a.m. back home." Langly already had the suite's cordless phone in his hand. "Who cares?" He handed the phone to Byers, who took it and looked at Frohike. "Why don't you call her? You actually saw him." Frohike almost blushed. He couldn't. He wouldn't be the bearer of bad news, didn't want to be the one to upset her. "Oh, no, that's okay. You're better in a crisis, Byers. You call her." Byers rolled his eyes, and started across the floor to Mulder's room, phone in hand. Frohike stopped him. "Wait. Call her first, then go see him. Maybe he doesn't have to know we called her at all." Byers stopped and looked back at his shorter partner. "Not if he's as bad as you say he is." "Well, I don't know, maybe it just looks bad. Just call her from here first." "This is stupid. Someone get me her number." Frohike recited it from memory, and Byers dialed. From his place in bed, Mulder heard the whole discussion transpire. Frohike hadn't closed the door fully, and those three weren't exactly whisperers. They were calling Scully in the middle of the night, about him. As much as he hated the idea, as much as he wanted to spring out of bed and read them the riot act one more time, the better part of him knew that they were doing the right thing. So he just pulled his legs up closer to his stomach, and waited to find out what Scully told them to do. + + + + + When the ringing phone woke Scully up, she first looked at the clock: 4:48 am. What was Mulder doing calling her at this hour, from his vacation, no less? She leaned over and fumbled the telephone receiver until she had it to her ear. "This better be good," she mumbled. "Excuse me?" Scully was instantly wide awake, and she sat up. It wasn't Mulder. "Oh, I'm sorry. This is Dana Scully." "Scully, it's Byers." Byers? "What's wrong, Byers. Is he worse?" It wasn't Mulder, but it was about Mulder. She knew that instantly. "Yes, Agent Scully. Much worse. Frohike says he's burning up, and doubled over in pain." "Have you called that doctor who saw him earlier?" "Can't, Scully. He's not here, and I don't have any contact info besides here at the hotel." "What exactly did Frohike see? Put him on." Byers handed the phone to Frohike, who put it to his ear apprehensively. He hated being the bearer of bad news, especially to Scully. "It's Frohike, Scully." "What did you see? Why are you guys so worried? Didn't the doctor say it was nothing?" "I don't know about the doctor, Scully, but I heard him moaning. And when I went into his room he was curled up on his side, in a little ball. He's hot. I think he's burning up." "Did you take his temp?" "No." "Well, DO IT!" Scully was beginning to feel panic rising in her chest. She was three thousand miles away, and there was nothing she could do. The hundreds of possible diagnoses started swirling through her head. Bowel obstruction or perforation, ulcer, gall or kidney stones, appendicitis, hepatitis, pancreatitis, some sort of infection, liver abscess. There were far too many options. Or stomach flu, Dana. It could easily be just a bad case of stomach flu. + + + + + "She wants us to take his temp." Fro had his hand over the mouthpiece, and was relaying the message. Byers looked to the coffee table, and found it empty. "What happened to the thermometer?" Langly was scratching his head. "Mulder took it into his room." "Oh." Byers took a deep breath. "Well, here goes." And he walked to Mulder's room. "Mulder?" Byers stood at the door, but didn't enter. "Yeah, Byers." The man cautiously approached the bed. "Will you let me take your temperature?" "You, or Scully?" "What?" "You left the door open. I may be sick, but the hearing's fine. Do you want to take it, or does Scully _want_ you to take it?" Byers let out a sigh of relief. Mulder knew, and he didn't seem angry. "Scully told us to. Where's the thermometer?" Mulder gestured haphazardly toward the nightstand. "There somewhere." Byers found it, took it out of its case, and shook it down. "When's the last time you took it, Mulder?" "I dunno. Around ten." "What was it?" Byers was ready to insert the thermometer, but he waited for the answer first. "Around 101." Byers stuffed the instrument into his friend's mouth, and checked the time. "Didn't the doctor tell you to get help if your fever spikes?" Mulder grabbed the thermometer with his hand so he could speak. "101 is hardly a spike. So it's the flu instead of food poisoning. Big deal." He settled the device back under his tongue. Byers turned and walked toward the door, but Mulder heard what he was muttering anyway: "I don't think this is the flu." Truth be told, neither did Mulder. Byers called his two friends into the room, telling them it was okay, and that Mulder knew what they were up to. Mulder just lay there, trying to keep his discomfort from showing on his face. Byers was studying his watch, watching each second tick by as if their very lives depended on it. Langly just looked down at him, the concern showing clearly in his eyes. Or maybe it was pity; Mulder wasn't sure. Frohike had the phone stuck to his ear, but he said nothing. Either Scully was giving him an earful, or the two of them were anxiously awaiting the verdict from the stick of glass under his tongue, too. Finally Byers pulled the thermometer out, and stood by the lamp to read it. He looked at the three men in the room, with a slight look of fear in his eyes. "Was it really just 101 four hours ago, Mulder?" "Oh, just say it, Byers. Geezus." "It's 102.6, Mulder. That's a huge jump in such a short time." He looked to Frohike, waiting for him to relay the message to the doctor on the other end of the line. "Scully? It's 102.6. It was 101 four hours ago, Mulder says." "I know he's right there, Frohike, but don't pull any punches. How does he look?" "I dunno. It's kinda dark in here." "So turn on the _lights_, Frohike!" Did she have to spell everything out? Frohike turned on the overhead light, a move that was met by a feverish, yet steely gaze from Mulder. "He looks like hell, Scully. He looks sick. What do you want me to say? Here. Talk to Byers." Frohike practically threw the phone at his friend, and shrugged when Byers caught it. "Byers? Tell me what his skin tone looks like." "Ummm, he's kind of pale. I don't know. He looks feverish. He looks sick!" "Is his skin yellowish at all? What about the whites of his eyes. Are they yellow at all?" Byers got close and peered at Mulder. The sick man just sank as deep into his bed as he could, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He hated this; hated being the subject of so much scrutiny. In the process, Mulder also rolled his eyes, giving Byers the view he was looking for. "No, Scully, they're white. Why?" "If he was jaundiced that would indicate there was something wrong with his liver. But he's not, and that's good." So what was it, Scully wondered? She had to know how he was feeling, that was the only way she could get a clue. "Can he talk? Put him on the phone." "Yeah, he can. Hold on." Byers covered the mouthpiece of the phone, and handed it toward Mulder. "She wants to talk to you, Mulder." Half of Mulder's face was burrowed into his pillows, and he made no attempt to extricate it. But he did reach for the phone and rest it over his ear, returning his arm to his midsection as soon as the phone was balanced there. "Hey Scully." "Hey yourself, Mulder. What's the matter?" "I'm sure it's just stomach flu. I'll be fine." "Probably, Mulder, probably. Look, I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want you to promise me that you'll answer them completely honestly, okay?" "Yeah, sure." "I mean it, Mulder, don't mess around. It's important." "Fire away, Scully." She could hear the pain in his voice--he was making no effort to hide it. It had to be bad. "Where exactly does it hurt, Mulder?" "In my gut." "I know, but where exactly?" "Sort of on the right side. "Upper or lower part of your abdomen, Mulder?" "I don't know. Does it matter?" "Very much so. Concentrate. Where exactly?" Mulder did. It was hard to tell--by now he hurt just about everywhere, it seemed. But it did seem to be located mostly in the lower part. "Lower." Scully blanched. Right lower quadrant pain. She suddenly had a pretty good idea what it was. "Did it always hurt on the lower right, Mulder?" "No. At first it was in the middle." "By your belly button?" "Yeah." "When's the last time you ate anything?" "Can't eat anything. The very thought. . . ." He let his voice trail off. She'd get the idea. "How many times have you vomited today, Mulder?" Mulder sort of laughed. "Lost count." "Have you kept anything down today?" "Uhhh, not really. A little water; some juice. That's it." Scully was almost certain. Inability to eat, nausea and vomiting, right lower quadrant pain that migrated from the center, elevated temperature. It all pointed to one thing. But there was one more thing she wanted to check, just to be sure. "Mulder, I want Byers to press on your abdomen for me. Lay flat on your back and give him the phone." Mulder did as she asked, flipping the blankets down to his knees in the process, and handed the phone to Byers. "You get to play remote-control-doctor, Byers." Byers looked at Mulder wide-eyed, but took the handset. "What do you want me to do, Scully?' "Have Mulder show you where the pain is. Then I want you to place the fingertips of one hand over that area, put your other fingertips on top, and press down firmly for a second. Then just let go. Give the phone back to him so I can hear him when you do this." "Uhhh, okay." He handed the phone back to Mulder. "She wants you to tell me exactly where it hurts." Mulder took the phone with his left hand and used his right to indicate an area on the lower right side of his abdomen. "Kinda here," he told Byers. Then he spoke into the phone. "Now what?" "Byers is gonna press on the area for a second. It might hurt, but it will only take a second, okay? You tell him when you're ready." Mulder nodded, then realized that didn't help Scully any. "Yeah, okay." He addressed his next words to his bearded friend. "Ready when you are, doc." Byers looked at Mulder skeptically, but put his hands in place and did as Scully had asked. As he pressed, Mulder's face furrowed into a horrible grimace, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. But when Byers let go the pain got so much worse for a second that Mulder couldn't help himself, and he did yelp in pain. "Mulder? Mulder, you okay?" Mulder was panting. "What'd you make him do _that_ for, Scully?" "Tell me, Mulder, did it hurt more when he pressed down, or when he let go." "When he let go." That was it; all she needed to hear. Even from 3000 miles away, Scully was pretty sure of her diagnosis. Of all the luck, in all the places. In California with the Lone Gunmen. "Look, Mulder, you need to get to a hospital right away." Despite his pain, that news was enough to make him sit up on one elbow. "What?" "You have all the classic symptoms of appendicitis." "No way. You're overreacting." "No I'm not. Anorexia, vomiting, migrating right lower quadrant pain, fever, rebound tenderness. It's all there. And the longer you wait, the more dangerous it becomes. I'm not kidding, Mulder. This can be life-threatening if not treated immediately." The Gunmen saw the look of disbelief tinged perhaps with fear that had settled on Mulder's face. What was she telling him? "Are you sure, Scully?" "I'm sure. I wouldn't tell you this if I wasn't sure, would I? Now give the phone to one of the guys so I can tell them what they need to know." Mulder tossed the phone on the foot of the bed, and collapsed back onto the pillows. "One of you take it." The three men looked at one another for a moment, each hoping another would take the phone and get the news. It had landed closest to Langly, and so far he'd weaseled out of the unpleasant phone calls, so finally he picked it up. "Scully? Langly. What's the news?" "Do you guys know where the nearest hospital is?" "HOSPITAL?" Upon hearing the word released into the room, Mulder curled back onto his left side, and pulled his blanket up over his head. "Yes, hospital. I'm 90% sure Mulder is suffering from appendicitis." "No kidding? That's bad." "It can be. Do you know where the hospital is? If you do, then there's no reason you can't drive him there yourself. If you don't, then call an ambulance. I don't want you driving him all over Beverly Hills looking for the emergency room." "Hang on." Langly looked at his two friends. "Appendicitis. We need to get him to the hospital. Either of you know where it is?" "No shit?" Frohike had just KNOWN it was something bad. Both he and Byers shook their heads about where the hospital was located. They'd been there less than a day. How would they know? "Okay, then she wants us to call an ambulance." "NO!!!" Mulder threw the blanket off his head and glared at the three men. "There is NO NEED for an ambulance. Just drive me there. We'll find it." Byers adopted his most even tone of voice. "Mulder, it's a big town and we have no idea where to go--and every minute counts. An ambulance is the easiest thing to do." "No!" Mulder hissed at them. "If you won't drive, then call me a cab. No ambulance!" Langly spoke into the phone. "You getting this? He's going postal about the ambulance, Scully." "I hear him. Look, it doesn't matter how you get him there. Just do it, okay? Call a cab, get directions, hire a limo. I don't care. Just get him there right now, understand?" "Got it, Scully." "Look, Langly, find Mulder's cell phone. I know he has it with him somewhere. Take it with you. My home number is speed dial three on there. I want you to call me every half-hour with updates, understand? Even if there's no news. And if you don't call me, I'm gonna call you, so leave the phone on. Understand?" "Understood. We'll call you as soon as we get to the hospital, okay?" "Okay. I'll be waiting." She hung up the phone and ran her hand through her hair. It was only five in the morning, but there would be no more sleep. She got out of bed, flipped on her coffee maker, and went to the section of the bookshelf where she kept the medical texts. She knew she'd never get to LA before they pulled his appendix, so there was no point jumping on a plane. But she could refresh her memory. It was going to be a long morning. + + + + + Langly turned off the phone, and all three men turned their gaze on Mulder. He just looked at them and shrugged. "So now what do we do?" Langly wondered aloud. "We get _him_ to a hospital. I'm getting dressed, I don't know about you guys." Byers was at the door already. Frohike followed him and turned back to face Mulder. "Don't go anywhere!" Ha ha. Mulder watched the men leave, grabbed a pillow and pushed it down over his face, effectively smothering himself--and stifling the scream of frustration that he'd been waiting to release for a while. Of all the dumbass luck. As bad as he felt, as bad as the pain was, and as concerned as he was at the prospect of undergoing surgery in the next few hours, this was his overwhelming response to this whole turn of events. Of all the dumbass luck. But there was nothing to be done about it. He removed the pillow and carefully stood up, pausing as a wave of nausea and dizziness swept over him. He needed to find his shoes. "What are you doing, Mulder?" It had taken Langly 45 seconds to get dressed. He'd thrown on the jeans he'd been wearing yesterday, and his ratty pair of Converse All Stars. "Where are my shoes?" Mulder's voice was plaintive, almost childlike. Whiny. Even he could hear it. "I'll find them. You sit down and relax. Don't worry about a thing." The blond man gently placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, and guided him back down to sit on the edge of the bed. Wow, Langly really was concerned, Mulder realized as he doubled over in pain. That was unlike him. Flippant was his usual demeanor. "Got 'em!" Langly knelt in front of Mulder and picked up one of his feet to put it in the shoe. Mulder was still doubled over, but he lifted his chin off his chest to look at his friend. "I can do it," he rasped. Langly smiled kindly. "Yeah, I know. But I got it. Don't worry about a thing." Here's where he should sit up and assert himself, Mulder knew. He should scoff at the man currently tying his left Nike: accuse him of babying him, push him aside, and tie his own damn shoes. But instead Mulder closed his eyes and allowed his chin to fall down to his chest again. Let him tie his shoes; what was the big deal. As he felt Langly pull the laces of his right shoe tight, he ventured to look up at his friend again. "You guys are missing the convention," he offered as means of an apology. Langly looked up from the shoe, compassion in his eyes. "No problem, man. Truth is, we just come to these things looking for girls." Mulder felt one corner of his mouth turn up in a grin, and a breath of laughter escaped. Figures. The shoes tied, Langly patted the top of Mulder's foot comfortingly before standing up. "Hang tight, Mulder, let me go find out what our plan is. Be right back." The sick man watched as he was left alone again. He was cold, he realized, so he gathered the bed's blanket around his shoulders. He didn't want to lay down again, for fear that he wouldn't have the energy to get back up. + + + + + Langly entered the sitting room from Mulder's bedroom just as Byers was emerging from his room. Frohike was already waiting. "How is he doing?" "How do you think, Frohike? He looks like someone whose appendix is about to burst." "Hey, man, no need to get testy!" "Sorry. So what's the plan? We gotta get him out of here." Byers had the phone in his hand. "We can call the front desk, the concierge might be able to give us directions." "You really want to drive him, Byers? Just our luck we'll get lost!" Frohike did have a point. "I know, but what are our options? He won't let us call an ambulance. Let me just call and see what they suggest." He dialed the zero to get the front desk. "Front desk. How may I help you, Mr. Langly?" The man's voice was smooth as silk and extremely calm; faux upper-crust. It was off-putting. "This is Mr. Byers, with the Langly party. One of our companions is ill, and we were wondering if you might be able to give us directions to the nearest hospital." "Oh my. Hospital? Perhaps we should call an ambulance?" "No, no, that's not necessary. He's not that ill," Byers lied. "We just think it best that he be seen by a doctor immediately." "I understand. Let me transfer you to the concierge. She should be able to give you directions. One moment please." Byers got the distinct impression that this guy was passing the buck on them. So much for impeccable service. "Concierge desk. This is Kathleen!" Not only had the guy pawned them off, he clearly hadn't alerted this girl to the problem. She was far too upbeat. "Kathleen. I am Mr. Byers, part of the Langly party staying in the Executive Suite. One of our traveling companions has fallen ill, and the desk clerk told me you might be able to give me driving directions to the nearest hospital?" "Oh my, of course. But would you like an ambulance?" Byers sighed. "No, that won't be necessary. Directions would be fine." The woman started giving directions, and Byers tried to write them down. She said it was only a few miles away, but she gave him a dozen twists and turns to get there. When Byers interrupted for clarification for the fifth time, Kathleen gave up. "You know what, Mr. Byers? I know it's terribly complicated. Beverly Hills has the absolute worst road plans. Give me five minutes and come down. I'll have a ride for you here." "That would be wonderful, Kathleen, thank you." He hung up and looked to his friends. "Give her five minutes and she'll have a cab for us. Those directions were hopelessly convoluted." Langly looked toward Mulder's door. "Let's get going. I think it's going to take us five minutes to get him out the door." The three men went to Mulder's bedroom and found him huddled in his blanket, feet still on the floor. But he had given up at some point, and let his body fall sideways to the bed. Byers spoke. "Mulder? You ready to go?" "Yeah." The man's voice was weak, and he slowly pushed himself upright with his left hand. In the process the blanket fell back to the bed, but Mulder immediately gathered it back around his shoulders. "I'm cold." "Chills from the fever, no doubt. Are you okay to walk?" "Yes, Byers." His tone was annoyed, so Frohike and Byers both took him at his word and left the room; but Langly had seen him standing a few moments earlier. He held back, and watched. Mulder pushed himself up slowly and painfully. Getting his feet under him caused him to gasp, and when he tried to stand up straight he failed. He ended up hunched over at the middle. With his right hand he clutched the blanket to his shoulders. With his left he held onto his midsection for dear life. He tried to take a step, and everything wavered for a moment. For a split second he thought he might fall, but the sensation passed. And before he could take a second step, he felt a strong arm around his shoulders. It was Langly. "Let's get you out of here, what do you say?" Mulder grinned appreciatively. Langly could have sounded the alarm about his unsteadiness, could have tossed him back on the bed and insisted an ambulance be called--Mulder would not have had the strength to argue. But instead he just quietly offered aid when needed, and didn't make a big deal of it. Langly, the man who loved big deals, who was always sounding alarms. Who would have thought. Together the two made their way out the door. Before the door to the suite could close, Frohike ran back inside. He returned with a small trash basket. "Nothing worse than puking in the back of some poor Joe's cab." The elevator had arrived, and they all stepped in. + + + + + It was obvious to the Gunmen that Kathleen the concierge had been awaiting their arrival. The minute the elevator doors opened, she descended upon them. She eyed Mulder carefully. "Oh my goodness, he doesn't look well at all. Your car is right outside." Mulder wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. Keeping his feet moving, even with the steadying hand of Langly, was enough of an effort. He feared that if he didn't sit down soon, he might throw up again. Or worse. "THAT is our car?!?!" Frohike's incredulous shout was enough to inspire Mulder to lift his head and stop contemplating the spot of floor in front of his feet. They were at the front doors to the hotel, and sitting in the drive outside was a white stretch limousine. Surely that was not their car. He turned to look at the concierge, a small young woman in her late 20s, dressed in the blue blazer that was her uniform, looking professional and serious. "Indeed it is. A cab just would not do for a friend of Mr. Langly's. Allow us to offer the services of one of the hotel's fleet of limos. The driver has already been instructed to take you directly to the emergency entrance of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Despite feeling worse than he could ever remember, Mulder couldn't help but grin. This was getting more absurd by the moment. He glanced to his right, to Langly, and when their eyes met, Langly just arched his eyebrows, and shrugged. Kathleen held the limo door open, and Byers and Frohike climbed in. Langly helped Mulder enter the car, and then settled in after him. Mulder curled himself into a tight ball, facing away from his friends. "Wait till Scully hears about this," he muttered. Frohike chuckled. "Hey, nothing but first class all the way for you, my man. Isn't Cedars-Sinai the 'hospital to the stars?' Maybe we'll see someone famous!" The car started moving, and they were on their way at last. + + + + + === "I got game." --Fox Mulder The movement of the car seemed to lull Mulder to sleep--or into a stupor; the guys couldn't tell for sure. When they reached their destination, Langly tapped on Mulder's shoulder. "Hey, we're here." Mulder flinched at the touch, and looked up at the men. "Here?" His eyes darted around the space. "Where's Scully?" The three men looked at each other, surprised. Finally Byers spoke. "She's back home. We're in Los Angeles, remember?" Mulder allowed that explanation to satisfy him. "Oh, right. Sorry." The Gunmen helped Mulder out of the car, and Langly again helped him walk, this time through the doors. The receptionist at the ER entrance looked up and started to say "May I help you?" but one look at Mulder and she knew they had a patient on their hands, so she changed her tack. "What seems to be the problem?" Mulder didn't even look up at her, he just sighed and said "appendicitis." "Have you seen a doctor to arrive at that diagnosis?" Mulder just glanced at Byers in a silent plea for him to speak on his behalf. Byers nodded and stepped forward to the desk. "We spoke to his doctor on the phone--he's from D.C., here on business. His doctor diagnosed probable appendicitis, and recommended we bring him in." "I see." She looked directly at Mulder and gestured behind her. "Come around back here and take a seat, and I'll have the triage nurse come out and speak to you." Mulder nodded, and started to move away from his three friends. He was stooped over like an old man, and his movements were slow and deliberate, as if each motion required supreme concentration. He was using the edge of the desk for support, and when he rounded the corner and had to let go, everyone in attendance saw him wobble on his feet. Frohike was closest, so he put his hand on Mulder's back, and propelled him quickly and safely into the chair. Mulder shrank into the seat and muttered "Thanks." Frohike didn't bother replying, but the display had made Byers angry. "Look at him. He's in pain. He's in a great deal of distress. How busy can you be back there? Why does he need to talk to a triage nurse first?" The desk clerk became defensive. "I'm sorry, but he has to go through triage first. That is our policy for all walk-ins." Byers tossed his hand in the air in disgust. Walk-ins! That meant if they'd called the ambulance, his friend would be getting help right now. "Look, I have already put the call in. The nurse will be here momentarily." Momentarily was right. A nurse came through the emergency room doors at that precise moment. She looked across to the triage area, and the minute she saw Mulder huddled there her pace quickened noticeably until she was sitting opposite the patient. "You don't feel too good, I'd venture. What's your name?" Mulder didn't even look at her. "Fox Mulder. And no, I do not." "What seems to be the problem?" She lifted his chin so she could look into his face. She checked his pupils with a light. "What did she call it?" Mulder was addressing the question to the Gunmen, who were standing a few paces away. "Right lower quadrant pain. Can't eat. Puking. Fever. Appendicitis." The nurse felt his forehead and his pulse. "She?" "Doctor back home." "I see. Well let's get you back to see a doctor, shall we?" She hadn't done any of the normal triage procedures; one look was all she'd needed. She procured a wheelchair, and helped Mulder transfer into it. As she was pushing it away she turned to the men left behind. "One of you can come with him if you'd like." The three men looked at each other, unsure. Finally Frohike simply asked "Mulder?" Mulder looked over his shoulder wearily. "Yeah, okay." The nurse pushed him through the doors, and the Gunmen were left to decide which one of them was going to stay with Mulder. Before he had a chance to think better of it, Langly heard himself say "I'll go." He punched his way through the doors as Byers and Frohike found themselves looking at each other in disbelief. Langly? That had been unexpected. The ER desk clerk caught their attention. "I don't suppose one of you can help me with your friend's paperwork?" Byers looked at the woman, then pulled both Mulder's cell phone and his wallet out of the pocket of his jacket. He handed the phone to Frohike. "You call Scully, I'll give them Mulder's information." + + + + + Langly watched the triage nurse hand Mulder off to another nurse, a young attractive blonde woman, from a few paces away. When the nurse pushed the wheelchair through a set of doors and into a treatment room, he tried to follow, but was stopped. "We need you to wait outside for just a minute until we get him situated, okay? Thanks." She shut the door in his face. Why the hell had they invited him back here if he had to stand outside? Langly looked around cautiously, fearful of what he might see. Too many sick people. He hated sick people. What the hell was he doing? He hadn't even thought about it; it just seemed like the thing to do. He hoped he didn't regret it. + + + + + Mulder saw Langly's stunned face as the nurse closed the door on it. Why had they invited him back here if he had to stay outside? The new nurse yanked the curtain closed around the gurney he was situated next to. "We need to get you undressed, okay?" Mulder glanced up from his hunched-over position and nodded. He was beginning to think he'd never sit or stand straight again. He kicked his running shoes off as he sat, and the nurse helped him pull his tee shirt up over his head. She handed him a gown, and Mulder slipped his arms through the familiar garment. She snapped the top snap, but neglected the rest. "Okay, we've got to stand you up, okay?" "Okay." That was at least one 'okay' too many, he thought. But he pushed himself up slowly, using only his arms. As he stood, the gown fell down around him, to just above his knees. If he could stand straighter, he knew, it would only reach mid-thigh. Mulder transferred his right hand from the arm of the wheelchair to the side of the gurney; he was sure he wouldn't be able to stand without holding on to something. He tried to stand straight, and it caused him so much pain he cried out. "That's okay, you're doing great," the nurse said encouragingly. The woman was standing facing him, and she reached around the gown to latch her thumbs under the waistband of his sweatpants. She pulled both them and his boxers down to his ankles in one deft, face-saving motion. "Now if you hop up on the bed, I'll get these off your ankles." Mulder turned his back to the gurney, and tried to lift his right hip up onto the bed, but the pain was so intense he had to stop. The nurse saw this, and before he could try again, she'd procured a footstool, and Mulder climbed gratefully onto the bed. Christ, he couldn't even hop onto a bed. He immediately assumed his now-familiar position, curled on his left side. He didn't even care if it meant his ass was hanging out for all the world to see. He simply could not lie flat on his back. He heard the door open, and wondered if it might be Langly, but instead it was the desk clerk. She was carrying a hospital bracelet. "Mr. Mulder?" He nodded; she smiled. "Just had to make sure I had the right guy!" she said brightly as she snapped the bracelet onto his wrist. She turned to face the nurse. "There's a blond guy outside awfully keen to get in here." Langly. Mulder looked at the two women. "S'okay. Let him in." The nurse nodded and the clerk left. "Okay, I'm going to raise the head of the gurney, Mr. Mulder. You should be more comfortable that way, okay?" It wasn't a question, obviously, as she was raising the bed as she spoke. And he sure as hell wished she'd stop saying "okay." "Oh, damn." The nurse said that just as Langly moved around the curtain. She looked up at him. "I'm sorry, you need to step out again. Just for a minute. Okay?" Langly stopped in his tracks and looked at her in disbelief. Mulder wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention, it seemed, so he turned and walked out into the hall one more time. What was that all about? "Mr. Mulder, we're going to need a urine sample, okay? I should have done that before we got you settled in the bed, I know. I'm sorry. There's a bathroom across the hall if you're up to it, or I can give you a urinal here." Some choice. Mulder really didn't want to get up again, but at the same time, the thought of trying to piss in a bottle wasn't too appealing, either. Besides, he didn't think he had it in him, no matter which option he chose. "I. . . . I don't think I can." "It's imperative that you have an empty bladder for your exam, Mr. Mulder. If you can't, we'll be forced to insert a catheter." She went over to a shelf and picked up a portable urinal. "Why don't you give it a try. I'll give you a few moments, okay?" Mulder took the urinal from her hand "Only if you stop saying 'okay'," he mumbled. "Excuse me?" "Nuthin." Had she heard him? "Okay. I'll be right back, okay?" Obviously not. + + + + + "You haven't called her?" Byers was furious. He'd just spent 15 minutes fishing through Mulder's wallet looking for the information needed to get him admitted to the ER, and in all that time Frohike hadn't called Scully. "I can't Byers. I don't know what to say! I don't want to panic her." "And you think not calling is easing her panic? Give me the phone." Byers snatched the appliance from his friend's hand, and hit the speed dial. He heard the numbers dial, then not even half a ring. "How is he?" "We're here. At the hospital--Cedars-Sinai in Beverly Hills. They took him into the ER a few minutes ago. Langly is with him." "LANGLY?" "I know. He volunteered." "Ohhhhh kayyyyy" Scully was as incredulous about that as the rest of them were. "Have you talked to anyone yet? Tell me exactly what you know." "We don't know anything, Scully. We got here, they put him in the triage area, but the triage nurse took one look at him and sent him right in." "I bet. How was he doing?" "He looks pretty sick, Scully. He kind of spaced out on us in the car on the way here." "Spaced out?" "Got confused. Wondered where you were. We had to remind him where we are." "That's probably the fever and dehydration. They'd better get IV hydration in him fast or he could have a febrile seizure on them. . . ." Scully suddenly realized that she was thinking aloud. "Sorry. So how'd you end up getting him to the hospital." Byers chuckled. "In a limo." "What?" "A white stretch limo. The hotel lent it to us. It's a long story. We'll tell you all about it later, okay?" Scully chuckled herself. "Only in LA, huh, Byers? Too bad Mulder was too sick to enjoy the ride." "I suppose." "Did his pain suddenly get better at any time?" "No way. Walking was excruciating--he looked like a 90-year-old man. Why?" "If his appendix actually bursts, the pain would suddenly dissipate for a bit, then it would get ten times worse." "Oh. It didn't do that." "Good." There was an awkward moment of silence--the conversation had obviously run its course. Finally Byers spoke up. "So we'll call again in a little while, okay?" "Half an hour, Byers. In half an hour." "Okay, Scully. I don't think we'll know anything yet, but we'll call." He hung up the phone and handed it to Frohike. "YOU call next time." "Okay, Okay." + + + + + "Successful?" Mulder looked like he hadn't moved, but he had, in fact, been successful, and he handed her the urinal. "Excellent!" Mulder rolled his eyes as she took it over to the counter and prepared the sample for the lab. "Now I need to take down your vitals. The doctor will be here any second." "Can my friend come in here?" Mulder was feeling worse by the minute, it seemed. A friendly face would be welcome. "Oh, sure. I'll see if he's still outside, okay?" She went to the door and Mulder heard it open, heard mumbling, and then two sets of footsteps returning. "Hey Mulder. How you doin'?" Langly had walked around the gurney and crouched down so he could look Mulder in the eye. It was a nice gesture. "Been better. You got a chair?" "Oh, okay!" He heard the nurse behind him, and suddenly he watched a chair appear before his eyes so Langly could sit down and they could see each other. "But I might need you to move, okay?" "Yeah. Okay." Langly turned his attention to Mulder. "They do anything for you yet?" Mulder just shook his head. "Mr. Mulder, do you think you can roll onto your back for a minute? I need to take your vitals and it's hard with you curled up like that. Okay?" Mulder had his eyes clenched tightly shut, but he nodded and used his feet to move onto his back. His arms never left their protective place around his abdomen. He got onto his back with his knees up and his feet planted on the bed. But when he went to straighten his legs, he ended up screaming in pain instead. He instantly returned to his side. Langly was completely taken aback. He'd never heard Mulder cry out like that. The pain had to be really really bad. "Okay, Mr. Mulder, okay. It's okay. That's okay. You stay like that for now. I'll manage." She looked at Langly. "But you'll have to move out of the way, okay?" Made sense. In order to let Mulder stay in what looked like the only position that didn't leave him in unbearable agony, she had to be exactly where he was sitting. Langly stood, picked up the chair, and moved back. "Thanks." The nurse clipped the pulse oximeter onto Mulder's finger and recorded the first readings. She left it attached. She took his blood pressure. She took his temperature. That was one reading Langly was interested in. "What is it?" "102.8" "Up two-tenths." "Excuse me?" "It was 102.6 at our hotel." "Oh. Okay." She said it as if she didn't really care. "Now Mr. Mulder, I need to get an IV going on you. Why don't you tell me exactly what happened to get you here tonight, okay?" She was already kneading his right arm in search of the perfect vein. "Uhhhh. Got sick coming here. On plane. Thought it was food poisoning--throwing up, stomach cramps, you know. Just kept getting worse and worse. Pain got worse, fever got worse, here I am." "Okay, I see. Did you take anything at home?" "Tried Pepto." The nurse was suddenly alarmed. "Pepto Bismol? You did? When and how much?" "Hours ago. Dinnertime. Didn't work, so I didn't take it again. Took maybe two doses." "Oh, okay, good." Mulder didn't seem to care, but Langly was interested, so he asked. "Why?" "Well Pepto Bismol contains something that thins your blood. If he ends up in surgery and had taken a lot of it tonight, they'd have to be extra careful about bleeding, that's all. I don't think a dose or two is going to be a problem, but I'll note it in his chart to be sure. Are you allergic to anything, Mr. Mulder?" "No." Langly butted in. "What about morphine?" "Huh?" Both Mulder and the nurse said it simultaneously. "Doesn't it wig you out? Remember when Scully was trying to embarrass you? She told us about the time you got morphine and thought your IV was full of worms? She said it gave you the shakes, too. Like your body was doing the samba on it's own, she said, didn't she?" Mulder rolled his eyes at his friend. "Thanks for reminding me." He looked at the nurse. "No morphine." "That was a good catch. We probably woulda given it to you!" She pulled a bright red bracelet out of a drawer, wrote MORPHINE on it in marker, and attached it to Mulder's wrist. "Okay, you sit tight. The doctor will be here any second, okay?" "You said that already." "I know. But he will. I'll be right back, okay?" God, she was annoying. The nurse left and the two friends were left alone. Langly sat in his chair again, but he left it where he'd moved it--at Mulder's side, but fairly far removed from the man. "Really hurts, huh?" Mulder responded by taking a sharp intake of breath as another wave of pain hit. "Yeah." He shivered. "I'm cold." "I can help you there, I think." Langly got up and pulled a blanket off the supply shelf in the room. He unfolded it and placed it on top of his friend. "Better?" "Yeah. Thanks." "No prob. I wonder where Nurse Okay went." Mulder sort of laughed. "You noticed that too, huh." Before Langly could respond the door opened, and Nurse Okay returned with a doctor. He had Mulder's chart in his hand, and was reading it as he approached them. "Hello Mr. . . ." He was seeking the name on the paperwork. "Mulder. My name's Doctor Santana. I hear you have a bellyache." A bellyache? That was an understatement of epic proportions. "Uh huh. Appendicitis." The nurse spotted the blanket on Mulder, and pulled it off quickly, as if it was on fire. "Oh, no, no. You have a fever, Mr. Mulder. We need to keep that down, okay?" "But I'm cold." "Your nurse is right. You're feeling cold from the fever, but we've got to do everything we can to keep it down. Now just about everyone who comes in here with abdominal pain thinks it's appendicitis, and 19 times out of 20 it's something else. There are hundreds of other possibilities, many quite minor. So why don't you lie on your back so I can take a look." This doctor was all business. Langly stepped forward protectively. Who did this guy think they were, anyway, assuming they'd jump to conclusions. "He can't. Hurts too much." He noticed his friend giving him a look that said 'it's alright.' No, it wasn't. "Move slowly, and give it a try, Mr. Mulder. I can't examine you in your current position." Mulder did--he moved extremely slowly, and worked his way onto his back. But he kept his knees bent, and the doctor didn't object. The nurse took a thin paper sheet and draped it over the lower half of Mulder's body. "You couldn't use the blanket for that?" Mulder was actually shivering from time to time. She grinned at him apologetically and shook her head. As the doctor began to listen to his abdomen with his stethoscope, Langly watched Mulder stare intently at the ceiling, gritting his teeth but saying nothing. For his part, the blond man didn't know what to do with himself. Should he be watching? Should he leave? He wanted to leave; he was pretty sure of that. The doc was now tapping Mulder's stomach all over the place. He'd seen that on TV, but he didn't know what it was for. Hell, he didn't know what any of this was for. Mulder's expression didn't change. But it did when the MD started to press. Langly could tell he wasn't pressing down hard, but when he got to the right side, Mulder grimaced. At one point he actually gasped. "Hurts here?" No shit, Dr. Genius. He watched his friend nod through gritted teeth. "Okay, can you try and put your legs down for me?" Mulder put his left leg down fairly easily. The right posed more of a problem, but he eventually got it down. The doctor started pressing again. Sometimes he asked Mulder to take a deep breath and hold it while he did. Langly watched the doctor's maneuvers play out on his friend's face. Sometimes the palpation caused virtually no change in his pained expression. Sometimes the teeth clenched tighter. Sometimes there'd be a sharp intake of breath. And in one particular spot Mulder cried out in agony. So that, of course, is where the doctor pressed again and again. He'd move his fingers maybe a millimeter and press again. And Mulder'd cry out again. Langly noticed his friend's hands at his side, clenching the paper sheet in a death grip. He was amazed the man didn't make a fist and punch the doctor out. But by the fourth time the doctor pressed there, Mulder's cry was down to a whimper--probably because he was too worn out to scream. "Okay, Mr. Mulder, I'm going to press down one more time and let go. I want you to tell me if it hurts more when I press, or when I let go, okay?" That's what Scully had had them do at the hotel, Langly knew. "When you let go," he offered, and he saw the doctor dismiss him with a withering look. Bastard. The doctor pressed, Mulder winced. The doctor let go, and Mulder moaned. "When you let go." Told you so. The doctor had turned his back on them, and Langly couldn't hear what he was saying to the nurse, so he turned his attention to Mulder. He noted that he'd bent his knees up again, and he was almost panting. "Okay, Mr. Mulder, I've ordered some blood work and x-rays, to rule out a few things. And we'll give you something for your discomfort." Discomfort? Langly wondered what this guy would call pain if this was just discomfort. "And there's one more exam I need to do, and I think your friend should wait outside." Huh? What? They were looking at him. "Me? Yeah, okay." "It'll just take a minute." Langly pushed his way out the door, and when he got back into the hallway he gave serious consideration to going out to the waiting room and letting Fro or Byers replace him. What the hell was he doing back here anyway? But before he could act on that thought, the doctor was coming out the door. "You can go back in; stay with him until they take him to x-ray." The man kept moving, not even pausing for a second. Langly couldn't have asked a question if he wanted to. He went back in. The nurse was pulling a needle from the vein in the crook of Mulder's elbow. Gross. She stuck a piece of cotton there, bent the elbow, and turned away. She gathered the samples she had, and left. The second she was out of sight Mulder groaned and slid onto his left side again. "You doing okay Mulder?" "Not really, no." "Did the doctor tell you anything yet?" "Mr. Personality? Nope." "Why'd he make me leave?" "Let's just say he examined where the sun don't shine and leave it at that, okay?" Mulder's voice was weary, and his eyes were closed. "Oh." "I'm thirsty." Langly looked over to the sink on wall behind him and saw a dispenser with small cups in it. He walked over and filled one, and was bringing it to Mulder when the nurse walked in again. "I certainly hope that's for you, okay? Because Mr. Mulder can't have anything by mouth right now. Okay?" Langly stopped dead in his tracks and drank down the water where he stood. He could see a small smile on Mulder's lips, though his eyes were still shut. The nurse was injecting something into Mulder's IV. "Why not?" "Because pre-surgical patients should have an empty stomach, okay? What I just gave you, Mr. Mulder, will help with the pain. Okay. Someone will be by to take you to x-ray in a few minutes." She patted his thigh, surveyed the room for a second, and seemed satisfied. "Okay," she said one more time for good measure, and she left. Pre-surgical, huh? That was the only shred of information they'd been given so far. "God, Langly, you hell-bent on killing me, or what?" What? "What?" "Blankets when I'm cold, water when I'm thirsty. A regular Marquis de Sade." Langly grinned. "Shut up Mulder, I don't know what I'm doing here. What the hell am I doing here?" "Dunno, Langly." "The drugs working yet?" Mulder contemplated for a minute. "Yeah, Kinda taking the edge off. Still hurts, though." An orderly came with a wheelchair and Mulder was on his way to x-ray, leaving Langly alone. Guess this was a good time to update the guys, though he really didn't know what to say. He made sure he'd be able to get back in, and then went out to the waiting room. + + + + + "No, not a thing Scully. Not a word. Nada. Zip." Frohike was trying to think up other ways to convey the message when he saw Langly enter the room. He looked kinda sick himself, Fro thought. "Hold that thought, Scully, here comes Langly." Byers stood and was wringing his hands nervously. "Well?" "They took him to x-ray." "X-Ray, Scully, he's in x-ray." Frohike listened. "Okay." He held the phone away from his ear slightly. "She wants to know what the doctor said." "Nothing." "Nothing, Scully." After a second he addressed Langly again. "She said 'what do you mean, nothing?'" "Just that! Nothing! He poked and prodded, made Mulder scream, took some blood, sent him to x-ray. That's it." "Scully? He said he poked. Huh? Yeah, okay." Frohike handed the phone to Langly. "Here. She wants to talk to you, thank God." Langly sighed and took the phone. "Yeah Scully." "What do you mean made him scream?" "He musta poked that spot that really hurts a dozen times." "Oh. He has to do that. How's his temp?" "It was up a little bit. Not much." "Did they get him on an IV? He has to be dehydrated." "Yeah, they did that first thing. Gave him something for the pain before they took him away, too. Mulder said it took the edge off." "That's good. How about his other vital signs? Pulse, BP?" "Dunno, Scully." He could hear the woman sigh exasperatedly. "And the doctor didn't say anything about a tentative diagnosis?" "Nope." "And you didn't ask?" "I didn't get a chance. They kept throwing me out of the room." Quite honestly, Langly probably wouldn't have asked anyway. "They threw you out?" "Yeah. Ummm, when they," he turned his back on the other two men and whispered into the phone "uhhh, did a rectal. And also when they, uhhhhh, needed a urine sample." "Ohhh. They didn't need to use a catheter, did they?" A catheter? Had they and he just didn't notice? Oh, God, he hoped that hadn't been the case. Disgusting. "No, I don't think so anyway." "Mulder woulda been bitching about it if they had." "Maybe to you, Scully, but not to me, I don't think." "That's true. Did you happen to hear what kind of x-rays they're taking?" "Nope. Sorry. Why, don't you think it's appendicitis any more?" "No, no, I do. But if they were taking certain types of pictures then that's a clue that they might be suspecting something else." "Well, the doc did say they were to 'rule out' some things. Didn't say what, though." "That's good. Appendicitis doesn't really show up on x-rays. So if they are to rule out other things, then they probably do suspect a hot appendix." "I'll make sure to ask when I get to go back in, okay?" "Yeah, Langly, thanks." Scully hung up, and Langly did likewise. A few moments ago he was on the verge of abandoning his post in favor of one of his cohorts, and now he was vowing to go back in and get the complete picture. Quite a turn. + + + + + Scully put her cordless phone back on its charger. It was almost a waste of time, since she'd be removing it again in thirty minutes, but it was habit. She hated when she went to use the phone and it was dead because she'd let it sit on the sofa all day and night. Well, the latest news did nothing to dissuade her from her original diagnosis. Sounded like the doctors were doing everything right. She hated the idea of her partner being in so much pain he was screaming, but at least he'd been given something. Oh God, what had they given him? She picked up the phone again and dialed. + + + + + Langly still had the phone in his hand when it suddenly went off. He almost dropped it, he was so startled--as were the other two. But he caught himself and flipped it on. "Uhhh, hello?" "Langly?" The blond man relaxed when he heard Scully's voice. "Yeah?" "The pain. What did they give him for pain? Please tell me it wasn't morphine." Langly smiled victoriously. "Nope! I remembered what you told us about Mulder and morphine that time you wanted to embarrass him, remember? Mulder didn't even remember it. But I did, and they gave him something else." The man recounted the tale like a schoolboy telling his teacher how he'd saved his homework from the jaws of the family pet. "So what'd they give him?" Except that now it was slobbered all over, and unreadable anyway. A hollow victory at best. He didn't know. "I don't know. I didn't ask." Scully sighed. "That's okay. As long as it wasn't morphine. Thanks." She hung up again. Langly flipped the phone closed, and noticed a hospital staffer looking at him sternly. "Excuse me, was that a cell phone?" Langly looked at the phone as if he'd never seen it before in his life. "Yeah?" "You can't use them in here. They can disrupt sensitive medical equipment. I must ask you to turn it off. If you need to make a call, there is a pay phone on the wall, or you can step outside." While she was delivering her lecture Langly quickly passed the phone to Byers. But it didn't work, the blond man was still the recipient of the woman's ire. "Yeah, yeah, okay." Langly looked at the other two. "You hear that?" The two men nodded blankly, and the woman left. Byers looked at the phone in his hand. "Now what?" Frohike looked at the phone on the wall. "Guess we go the old fashioned way. The batteries on that thing probably wouldn't last much longer anyway." Langly wasn't looking at them; instead his attention was directed at the doors into the ER. He wondered if Mulder was back. Scully wouldn't want him to be alone, he rationalized. He should go back in. "I'm gonna go back in guys." Byers caught him before he left. "Do you want one of us to go in this time?" Langly knew the question was asked out of concern for his own wellbeing, not Mulder's. They always watched each other's backs. "Nah, I got it." He walked through the doors, once again wondering what the hell had gotten into him tonight. + + + + + === "I got game." --Fox Mulder