Date: Fri, 17 Sep 1999 19:18:53 EDT
Subject: NEW: One in Five Billion (1/2) by Chi Phile
Source: xff

__________________________________________________________________

Title:  One in Five Billion  (1/2)
Author: Chi Phile
Classification: V, A, X
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Folie a Deux, Biogenesis, familiarity with the Gibson Praise 
storyline
Distribution: Archive anywhere, but keep my name and 
e-mail attached please! I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know where, too.
Disclaimer: To Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, Fox and 
whoever else might own a piece of X-Files: I know they're not mine, I just 
borrowed them for a few hours. You can have 'em back now. 
Please don't sue me. I need the money for the next wave of videos.
Summary: My version of the missing goodbye scene in Biogenesis.
Author Notes: Thanks to Agent N and KatyBlue for encouraging me 
to post, and thanks to all the great fanfic authors for inspiring me.
Feedback: Please!! But be kind. It's my first time. 
LHoward388@aol.com.
___________________________________________

My name is Fox William Mulder.

That much I am still reasonably sure of.

I no longer know what day it is or what time it is. My world has 
dwindled to this gray, windowless room where I mark time by 
meals and injections, and in the long hours between these 
milestones, I try to understand what has happened to me...
What is happening to me.

When they brought me here I was lost in the babble, the 
confusion, unable to sort out the voices in my head from 
the voices of those around me. I have been told I was 
violent, screaming -- as I fought to make myself heard 
over the noise, furious that everyone simply thought 
I was insane.
 
I have never felt so alone in the midst of so many people. 
I'm constantly surrounded, inside and outside my head, 
never still, never quiet, never at rest -- but always isolated. 

[I never you can't have seen this STOP that I wish there 
wasn't to pronounce the verdict two three four and again 
where oh where has my delusional with rapid progression toward]

You can't tell the inmates from the patients, at least not in 
their minds. There's a lesson there somewhere. Murmurs, 
chants, screams, shouts, words words words swirl around 
me, like being in a room full of people all talking at once 
without pause, without breath. Conversations, songs, speeches, 
prayers, like some cosmic hand is turning a radio dial inside 
my head. The cacophony becomesphysically painful, an 
assault on every sense, every nerve ending, like hail on an 
old tin roof, like a thousand needles pricking my skin. 
How can I make the doctors understand what I can't 
comprehend myself? I can't always find my own voice 
among the millions to tell them what is happening, to give 
them any key that might unlock my nightmare. The truth, it 
would appear, is in me. 
How ironic.

[there is never any we need to increase the dosage but 
where would he have gotten the knife in the middle of the 
floor please help me oh god i want out]

Of course, since they couldn't diagnose or explain my 
condition, the doctors pumped me full of drugs. That was 
the first time I wanted to die, unable to communicate or 
focus, seeing no escape from the prison of my own mind, 
no peace from the endless babble...and when I finally 
slipped into the darkness I was grateful. I don't know how 
long I spent in that half-waking, half-sleeping state before 
someone finally determined it was safe to approach and 
a simple touch set the voices off again. Terrified, angry, 
confused, I lashed out, connected with flesh, felt the warm 
splash of blood on my skin and then the rough confines 
of the straitjacket. 
Only temporary.
Only forever.

[he's faking, look at the report meet you for lunch in a 
half an hour and then to the store the fed ex guy should 
have can't sleep lost weight damn it why can't he leave 
me alone?]

After another period of time I'm thankful not to remember 
much of, when the restraints were released, I was very 
careful to be a good boy, even if I still could not hear the 
doctors over the roar in my head. I am  not entirely 
convinced they will ever be able to do anything to help me, 
but my survival, my sanity depends on playing the game. 
Cooperation and docility are the keys, and I have never 
been very good at either -- but I am learning. 
Basically, all they require is that I sit and nod occasionally 
while they discuss and poke and prod, and I survive 
relatively drug-free. 

In my time alone, and with my increased periods of lucidity, 
I am learning to focus, to push the voices to the back of 
my mind, where although they continue to murmur, never 
completely silent, at least I can have a few moments of 
near quiet. I am learning to identify my own thoughts, my 
own voice again, although sometimes it has no more clarity 
and makes no more sense than the rest of them. 

I probably should tell the doctors about my new-found 
skill, but in this place where even my bodily functions 
are monitored and recorded, I enjoy having my own 
small secret.
 
[what's his condition do you have any mustard and 
then my niece is going to Vassar but NO NO NO NO]

Sometimes I think about Gibson Praise and wish he 
was here to help me through this. We are brothers under 
the skin, under the skull, Gibson and I -- just two lab 
rats torn from normal life by some bizarre genetic 
mutation. I still remember the tiny body, the clumsy 
bandage and shaved head from a hasty brain surgery. 
How he must have laughed at our feeble attempts, our 
arrogance in trying to understand and protect him.

Will I be sacrificed to the great cause, the Project, 
as he was?

Panic sears through me, my heart begins to pound, 
sweat soaks through the thin hospital gown. The voices 
start to roar back as I lose concentration [anywhere 
call the doctor but the car isn't ready she's been beaten] 
and I fumble for my mantra [why didn't he could you 
move that to the right before i] my focus. My Scully. 
Think about Scully. [This won't hurt a bit] Now I 
imagine her by my side, I picture her hair, her eyes, 
her mouth. I shove back the voices with a physical 
effort that leaves me shaking and breathless. The 
vision of her calms me down, along with the knowledge 
that something of my old life remains in my battered 
brain -- and more importantly, that she was -- IS -- 
real and is out there...

Gradually my muscles relax and my heartbeat returns 
to a more normal rate. Where is she now? Startled, 
I suddenly realize that I am probably hearing her 
thoughts right now, somewhere in the midst of all this 
turmoil, if I could figure out the right frequency, the 
correct call letters for station DANA.  Ah, the great 
Mulder wit still thrives. All is not lost.

The nurse comes in to give me my daily drug regimen. 
They figured out I wasn't taking the pills, so now it's 
injections. I hate the drugs, but I hate needles more, 
and they tend to have trouble finding the veins when 
you're thrashing and cursing at them. I sit quietly and 
give her a smile in the hopes she'll be gentle, but it 
still hurts. They're running out of untapped territory. 
At least the voices will be quieter now for a while 
and I can sleep. I used to pride myself on only needing 
a few hours a night, thinking it was a waste of 8 hours. 
Now I crave the escape and I welcome the familiar 
heavy feeling that weighs down my arms and legs 
as the voices become muffled, indistinct. 

[windows are dirty...see the doctor now...Chardonnay, 
but more dry...escalator's down...so...]

My own thoughts spread out, moving away from 
my grasp like ripples in a pool and for a while I can 
forget about where I am and what's happening to me. 
I embrace the onset of darkness like a lover. Can't 
keep my eyes open. Don't want to. Ripples 
spread and fade ever outward into the calm, 
deep water....

"Mulder, it's me."
The words cut through the fog like the fierce, 
direct beam of a lighthouse, an illumination brief 
and transitory, gone before I can make sense of them. 
I know the voice, that one voice out of the millions, 
but the face, the name eludes me. I begin to 
grope my way back through the darkness like 
a swimmer almost out of air, dizzy and desperate 
for the sweet taste of oxygen...But the drugs are 
stronger than I am right now and I sink back 
into the depths to drown surrounded by the 
voices, the never ending voices until I reach the 
bottom where there is blessed silence... except 
for the one voice... I want to hear....
__________________________________________

Six years ago, Dana Scully would have been 
horrified at the suggestion of faking medical 
credentials to enter a restricted area of a hospital -- 
or any facility, for that matter, having a healthy 
respect for authority. Today she had suggested it 
herself -- no, not suggested, demanded -- that 
The Lone Gunmen supply her with whatever she 
needed to get into a heavily guarded padded 
room to speak with her partner. Her only contact 
with him in the last 12 hours had been looking at 
a grainy black and white image on a hospital monitor, 
where she felt as if she were watching a person 
she had known long ago, or some old video of a 
psychological case study, the patient long since dead. 
Perhaps the distance was what kept her from 
shattering into a million pieces when he looked 
directly at her and screamed her name.

The last few hours had seemed surreal, as if she 
were moving through a dream from which she could 
not awaken: the frantic phone call from Skinner, the 
endless hours in cramped and airless planes, then to 
arrive at the hospital and discover Diana Fowley, 
who smugly informed her that access was restricted 
and that she would not be allowed to see Fox.

Fox? Fox was someone Scully didn't know. He had 
no relation to her partner, Mulder, who desperately 
needed her help. But the doctor had stonewalled her 
questions, reluctant to admit that he had no idea what 
was going on. She recognized the arrogance, 
had cultivated it herself during her own medical training. 
Then there had been the whispered conversation in 
the hall, with Skinner acting as if he'd been castrated, no 
more able to help her than Mulder could right now. 
And Fowley, her face all anxious concern, 
insisting she only wanted to help, tossing little hints 
at Scully about her failure to be there, to have done 
something. As if Scully didn't have enough guilt. 
Her last conversation with Mulder had not been 
pleasant, one of their typical arguments when she 
disagreed with his theory, when she could not bring 
herself to face another extreme possibility. She'd never 
guessed those words might be their last...  

So she had gone straight to the hospital in response 
to Skinner's call, only to find her access denied and 
her questions unanswered. Then Skinner had lied, 
straight to her face -- perhaps the most shocking 
event of the last few days that had left her numb 
with confusion and exhaustion. At least in the past 
he'd had the courtesy to go behind her back.

Scully had been so furious after the confrontation 
with Skinner and Diana that she had simply walked 
out. She had to help Mulder and the only way she 
could was to get back on some damned plane 
and go to Africa. But before she left, she had to 
see him, tell him what she was going to do, seeking 
his approval as had become her habit. And on some 
primitive, superstitious level, she could not leave with 
the harsh words still between them, not knowing 
what she might come back to. Even if she found that 
elusive Truth, she might run back with the magic 
elixir only to find she was too late. She had learned 
over the past few years that life was uncertain at best, 
and suspected Mulder's days were carefully allotted 
and monitored by shadowy men in small, hidden 
rooms. How long would he continue to be useful 
to them? 

But her worst fear was that on some level he knew 
what was happening to him, that he was conscious 
of his descent into madness, powerless to stop the 
downward spiral, and his desperation might drive 
him to take his own life. If she could see him, make 
him understand that she was seeking answers, give 
him some kind of lifeline -- as he had done for her 
during her battle with cancer -- perhaps he would 
find the strength to hang on.

So she went to the Lone Gunmen. They were slump 
shouldered, glum faced, and she was hard pressed 
not to slap them as they spoke of Mulder in funereal 
tones, already in mourning for a man who wasn't 
dead yet. Still they had cooperated and prepared her 
some reasonably official-looking credentials -- as 
long as the guard didn't look too closely and see that 
her authorization came from M. Frohike.

She walked down the hallway now, her heels clicking 
authoritatively, head up, shoulders back in an 
unconscious imitation of Mulder-like bravado. He 
always managed to look like he was exactly where he 
was supposed to be, even when trespassing on 
government property.  She admired the sheer 
gutsiness of it, as he almost dared people to stop 
and question him while she followed along behind, 
trying to disappear. In the Scully family, authority 
was respected and feared and if challenged, you'd 
better have a damn good reason. She couldn't think 
of a better one right now than to see Fox Mulder.

The guard was young and bored, watching Saturday 
Night Live on a tiny portable tv, apparently unaware 
of the threat presented by the petite redhead who 
flashed him an ID in the blink of an eye.  Scully had 
half-expected to see wanted posters with her name 
and likeness, marked "armed and dangerous."  
She was both at the moment, and hoped that at 
some point Diana Fowley would see this videotape 
and know how easy it had been for her to infiltrate 
the fortress. Mulder would have been disappointed; 
he loved a challenge.

The guard accompanied Scully down a long, dimly 
lit corridor and she couldn't help reflecting that poor 
Mulder seemed destined to spend his life in basements. 
As did she. Finally they stopped outside a thick door 
with a small glass window and the guard unlocked it.
"I'll be back in a half an hour," he mumbled and she 
wondered if that was a hospital rule or just the next 
break between programs.  "Thank you," she said, 
and stepped past him to enter the room, flinching a 
little as she heard the door close and lock behind her.
 
Thirty minutes. She sensed they would be the 
longest -- and the shortest -- thirty minutes of her life.

end part 1
continued in part (2/2)

Title:  One in Five Billion (2/2)
Author: Chi Phile

(Disclaimers 'n' stuff in part 1)

______________________________________________
I hesitate near the door, getting my bearings, organizing 
my thoughts, which seem to have scattered like leaves 
in a brisk November wind. The reality of this place, 
of what has happened, settles upon me and my legs 
begin to shake. My throat goes dry and even if I can 
form the words, I don't know if I can get them out.

The room is small, approximately 10 x 12, and I don't 
know how he can stand it, my partner who never sits 
still, who requires endless distractions.  The walls, 
ceiling and floor are a uniform gray, cushioned with 
thick padding. I try to ignore the smell of antiseptic, 
urine and fear that permeates the atmosphere and 
distract myself by looking for Mulder. 28 minutes. 

He is curled in a corner as if trying to disappear, his 
legs drawn up toward his chest, his arms in front of his 
face like a little boy who thinks he is hiding. I would 
like to think he is sleeping a natural, healing sleep, but 
I have been in enough hospitals to know he has probably 
been heavily drugged. My hope is that Mulder is strong 
enough to respond to my voice, my touch, even briefly. 
Our bond is strong, so strong it frightens me sometimes, 
but now I count on that strength to bring him back from 
wherever he has gone. I walk slowly over to him 
and kneel down. 

Close up I can see his hair is dirty -- personal grooming 
probably is not high on his priorities right now, and the 
doctors and nurses have better things to do, but the 
neglect makes me angry. He is so pale I can trace the 
veins in his temples, and as I reach out to touch him, 
my hand trembles as he stirs.

"Mulder, it's me."
Our familiar greeting. I await for the green eyes to 
flicker open, for the smile that will reassure me and tell 
me that Mulder has returned so I can unburden my 
heavy conscience. Slowly, painfully, he turns his head 
toward me as if seeking the sound of my voice.

"Mulder, can you hear me?" I grasp his hand. The fingers 
are cold and limp in mine, and I will some of my warmth 
into his body. "Mulder, please..." 

His lips move and I notice they are cracked and bleeding. 
I chastise myself for not bringing lotion or ointment 
with me. Hospitals are notorious for drying out skin. As a
doctor I should know these things. One more black mark 
against me as a poor excuse for a partner, unable to attend 
to even his simplest needs. I squeeze his hand, holding it 
for a few seconds in another of our secret signals, 
our hospital code for "I'm here, where are you?"

As the seconds tick by I realize that he is lost. He is not 
coming back to me... not tonight, perhaps not ever. But 
in the hopes that somewhere, somehow he will hear me, 
I begin my confession.

"Mulder...I'm going to Africa as soon as I can. This 
artifact - it seems --" I can't finish even the first sentence. 
My mind flashes back to the hunk of stone, an inanimate 
object defying every law of nature as it spins around on 
the table in front of my eyes. I have seen so many things 
in the course of my work with the X-Files and have 
continued to deny the extreme possibilities, to assure 
myself of rational and scientific explanations for all we 
have discovered and experienced -- whether or not I 
actually find those answers for myself -- but this left me 
stunned in light of what Mulder and others theorized 
about the stone and its source.

I swallow my fear and try again. "The artifact seems to 
be possessed of some kind of supernatural quality." I close
my eyes, imagining the light in his at such an admission, the 
smile of pride at his stubborn student. "I'm going to investigate, 
to see if I can find the larger relic. I hate to leave you 
here, partner --" That is an understatement. I would rather 
lose a limb than leave him here at the mercy of cold, 
unfeeling physicians and the nameless men who are our 
enemies -- yet to bring down those enemies, I have no choice. 
A tremor goes through me as I realize I am utterly alone at 
this moment, even sitting here beside him, and that I may 
very well be alone for a long time.

Another five minutes has passed.

I find my voice again, remembering why I've come. 
"Anyway, I just wanted to tell you...I wanted to say I'm 
sorry. I'm sorry we fought, I'm sorry I wasn't here for you." 
Tears burn the back of my eyes, emotion clogs the back 
of my throat, clawing its way up from deep inside me. 

His hand lies unresponsive in mine. I will receive no 
absolution here.

"Whatever happens, Mulder, I want you to know --" 
What? That I love him? He would not accept it, doesn't 
believe he is worthy of being loved. I'm not even sure that 
my feelings are love -- whatever that word means. It's 
almost as elusive as "truth" to me -- but I know he is the 
most important person in my life. Should I tell him I respect 
him? I would hope he already knows that. Do I say I believe 
him? I can't lie. I have doubts about the claims he and 
others have made about these artifacts, and Mulder 
expects nothing less than the truth from me, as he does 
from everyone. But I don't know what the truth is anymore, 
and with that admission, I realize I have taken over his 
quest -- for now. 

Meanwhile, my sentence remains incomplete.

I sit silently by his side as I have so many other times on 
stakeouts, in hospitals, when I always seemed to know what 
to say, what to do. Here my words seem so inadequate in 
the face of what he suffers. I imagine my empty phrases of 
comfort drifting through the flood of other voices that clamor 
for his attention and despair that he would hear me anyway. 
So I leave the sentence unfinished. There is so much unfinished 
here. He cannot leave me yet.

Fifteen minutes. There is no reason for me to stay. I'm wasting 
time, and yet I cannot force myself to let go of his hand, to 
move away from his side for what perhaps will be the last time. 
I conjure up images of him: the times I made him laugh, even 
unintentionally; the sharp, dry witticisms delivered with all 
the precision of a surgeon; his audacity in the face of 
overwhelming odds; and the dogged determination to 
believe, to persevere, that has saved my life time and time 
again. Is there nothing I can give him in return?

"Mulder, please..." I hear the sob in my voice, the 
pleading note that he would hate. It's about me now, about 
the need to see him open his eyes, to know that I am here. 
I squeeze his hand tightly enough to send pain 
through my own fingers.

Ten minutes left.
___________________________________

[Mulder, please.] My hand hurts. The pain nudges me 
back toward the surface, toward the light, but I don't want 
to go. I float lazily like a corpse in the black sea, feeling 
weightless, untethered and for a moment I wonder if I've 
died, except there's still this pain in my hand and the soft 
mumble of the voices.

[Mulder, please.] A woman's voice. It comes to me 
clearly -- the other voices are for the moment muted. 
Soft, clear, but a tone of utter despair, and I wonder why 
she is sad. I want to comfort her, but I'm afraid to reach 
up out of the dark, for fear the voices will overwhelm 
me again. As she speaks, I drift in and out, sometimes 
catching words or phrases, and gradually, a faded 
picture appears in my mind: a woman. Red hair, blue 
eyes that rival the mid-summer sky. My partner. My 
one-in-five-billion Scully. She's here. I concentrate on 
the pain in my hand to bring myself up out of the muddy 
waters of my unconscious, no longer caring about the 
other voices if I can get back to her ....
____________________________________

I sense a change, and watch his face for any sign of 
returning consciousness. It seemed that his fingers 
tightened over mine, briefly, but that may just be wishful thinking. 

"Mulder...Can you hear me?" I speak slowly, in measured 
tones, praying that somehow my voice will pierce through 
the others that surround him. It takes every ounce of my 
legendary self-control not to shake him and scream, to 
demand that he hear.

Five minutes.

"Mulder -- " My voice is sharp with panic, not for him 
but for me. The guard will take me away before --

Mulder suddenly takes a ragged breath and his fingers 
curl weakly around mine. His eyelids flutter as he struggles 
against the drugs. My heart tries to leap out of my chest 
as I lean closer to him, to speak directly in his ear.

"Mulder, I'm here."

"Ssssk..."

"Don't try to talk." I don't want him to expend unnecessary 
energy, but a tiny frown creases his brow and he tries again 
to form words. He never listens to me.

"Ssssk...Skuh..."

I suddenly realize he is trying to say my name. Tears spring 
to my eyes and I blink hard. Can't lose control now. 
I raise his hand to my lips and kiss the scraped knuckles gently.

"I'm here, Mulder. It's okay," I murmur against his skin.

But it's not okay. I hear a noise behind me.

The guard opens the door and glares at me. I move to 
stand up, pulling my hand from Mulder's but he shocks me 
by hanging on.  Oh God. Not now. Not when I have to leave. 
I glance at the guard who regards me impassively, then looks 
at his watch. There'll be no help from that quarter.

"Mulder, I have to go. I'll be back. I promise."

"Nooo..." The moan tears at my heart as I work my 
fingers free of his. He opens his eyes, but they are cloudy, 
unfocused, and I pray now that he doesn't know I am here, 
even as I so recently prayed he would wake up and recognize 
me. I do not want his last vision of me to be as I walk away. 
The green eyes, pupils dilated so they look almost black, 
drift closed almost immediately. He has exhausted his small 
reservoir of strength, and his fingers relax.

I get to my feet and approach the door. I don't look back. 
If I look back, I won't leave this room, and I must. 
It's all I can do now.

Once again, I am Fox Mulder's only hope.

And once again, I am terrified that I will fail him.

The End
_____________________________________
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