From: skeeter@bcinet.net Date: Sun, 06 Jun 1999 14:31:49 -0400 Subject: xfc: NEW! "Return to Me" by Robby Keofe (1 of 1) Source: xfc TITLE: Return to Me AUTHOR: Robby Keofe FEEDBACK: Yes, please! RATING: G ARCHIVE: Anywhere, just drop me a line telling me about it. CATEGORY: SR KEYWORDS: MSR SPOILERS: Set during "Amor Fati" DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully aren't mine - they belong to CC, 1013, and FOX. AUTHOR'S NOTES: 'American Beauty' was released a few weeks prior to when this is supposed to take place; the timing's perfect, and I thought it was a nice inclusion. I don't own it, either. AUTHOR'S NOTES 2: That title . . . God, I hated to do it. I wracked my brain for an alternative, but that one just seemed to fit. For the record, we'll say I stole it from Dean Martin. (It was originally a Dean Martin song, right??) SUMMARY: "I miss your smile, and your hands, and your extraordinary eyes that are never the same color twice. I miss everything, Mulder. Everything about you." She leaned closer to him, gently touching her nose to his. "So come back to me," she murmured. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* RETURN TO ME by robby keofe The sky had never seen so dark a night as this one, with every glimmering star obscured by clouds, the sliver of a crescent moon resembling a knife that hovered above the world, ready to strike and splatter the blood of all its inhabitants. Dana Scully sat on the brick front steps of the hospital, awaiting affirmation that would never come, a hope for Mulder's life consuming her. She found Mulder under the most insurmountable of odds; strapped to a table in a facility whose function she was afraid to explain, and now she was left to wait for answers that were not forthcoming. She idly fingered the crucifix around her neck, a symbol of a faith that eluded her. ~*~ Mulder lay still, semi-conscious, his typically vibrant eyes that could speak volumes suddenly mute and dead. She stood a few feet from his doorway, returned from her midnight walk, hesitating while she wished she would walk in to see Mulder well and vital, yapping about conspiracies and extraterrestrials again. It was the Mulder she knew, the man she loved, and she longed to see him shed the shell of a breathing corpse he was trapped within. Breathing corpse. Such a paradox. An oddly appropriate one, a description for all that lay dying, hovering on the edge of mortality. There would be no greater illustration of fate than to see him endure these unnameable tortures, to survive them, to revive his life where it ended five months ago. And yet he would; somewhere inside of her, beyond the layers of logical doubt, her inherent sense of truth was certain of it. A man of such brilliance, so capable of compassion and good - this could not be all there was. He was meant for so much more than this, he deserved so much more than this. She carefully entered the dim room and sat beside him on the bed, both her tiny hands clasping one of his. "Mulder," she whispered, squeezing his fingers for emphasis. "You're going to get better. You have to. You have fish that miss you," she told him, forcing a smile that he couldn't see. "Don't worry, the Gunmen are feeding them. They only eat when you're not around." She paused, watching the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, the reassuring green peaks and dips reminding her of how much life he had left inside of him. "Mulder, you're going to get better, and we're going to play baseball again." Her voice cracked. "We're going to go see 'American Beauty,' Mulder, because it's supposed to be wonderful. And when you get out of here, I'll take you for lunch. We can go to any artery-hardening place you want - I don't care. I'll eat it. You missed the World Series, Mulder. But it's okay, because I taped it. Did you hear that? You have the World Series waiting for you at my apartment. We'll go to the real thing next year, Mulder, if the Yankees are in it, and maybe since we're in New York we can go see 'Fosse,' too. Did I ever tell you how much I love the theater, Mulder?" she asked softly, her eyes wet and shining with unshed tears. "But it doesn't matter, as long as you get out of this and talk to me again. Do you know how much I miss that? How much I miss just hearing you say 'good morning' to me, or tease me, or even give me some dramatic explanation of our cases? I love how you talk, Mulder. I want to hear it again, I want to hear it every day for the rest of my life." She swallowed, lifting one of her hands to push her hair off her face. "I miss your smile, and your hands, and your extraordinary eyes that are never the same color twice. I miss everything, Mulder. Everything about you." She leaned closer to him, gently touching her nose to his. "So come back to me," she murmured. ~*~ "Miss?" the nurse asked, tapping Scully on the shoulder. "Uh, miss?" Scully jerked awake, finding herself half on Mulder's bed, half on the floor. "Ugh, my back," she muttered, then looked over at the nurse. "Who are you?" the woman questioned, glaring at Scully. "Dr. Dana Scully," she answered curtly, standing fully and straightening her jacket. Her spine crackled and made a few unnatural popping sounds, but she opted to ignore them. "I came in with him last night," Scully added. "That must've been someone else's shift," the nurse responded. Scully said nothing as the nurse checked his vitals. "He's stable. His status really hasn't changed," she continued casually, as though brain trauma were no big deal. Scully reminded herself that the woman was a neuro nurse, and probably used to such situations. It was knowledge that kept her from killing the aloof bitch. "Then why isn't he conscious?" Scully pressed sharply. "Give it time," the nurse answered, making a few notations on his chart and exiting the room. Scully yanked the chart from its clear plastic holder and skimmed it, looking over his CT scans for the millionth time, analyzing the brain trauma that could kill him. "Dammit, Mulder," she grumbled, lacing his fingers with hers, hoping that on some inexplicable level he could feel her, as she always could him. ~*~ 24 hours later, he sat eating green Jell-O hungrily while she watched in disgust. "What?" he asked her, his voice raw from lack of use, around a mouthful of green Jell-O. "Nothing," she said weakly, poking at the salad of wilted lettuce she'd smuggled up from the cafeteria. "When can I go home?" he asked, taking a break from shoveling Jell-O into his mouth to form the words. "When you can stand up without blacking out will be a big part of it, Mulder," she said drily, remembering how he'd nearly killed himself earlier while trying to get up and walk around. This happened when she was out of the room, naturally. "What do they expect? Of course I'm going to get dizzy when I get up - I've been on my back for weeks." "Mulder, you've survived brain surgery under God knows what circumstances." "So? Take me home, Scully. You're a doctor. You can take care of me," he said confidently. She shook her head hesitantly. "C'mon, Scully, please. I hate it here." "Oh, and I don't?" "Yeah, but you have the option of leaving." "I wouldn't leave you, Mulder," she said softly, not looking at him. "Thanks," he answered. He looked down at his Jell-O. "Want some Jell-O?" he asked excitedly, sounding like a five-year-old who'd picked some weeds for Mommy and wanted so badly for her to like them. In his drug-laden mind, he probably equated the offering of Jell-O as something akin to the answer to all global dilemmas. "No, thanks." "That salad looks nasty," he announced, eyeing it. "It is," she answered, yet she wasn't hungry enough to be reduced to hospital Jell-O. When he fell asleep again, she decided, she'd run to the Burger King down the street and stock up on empty calories that would forever destroy that which she worked so hard to maintain with bee pollen diets. One would assume she had an aversion to all that was bee-related, but there was a surprising lack of animosity toward the creatures that infected her with an alien virus and left her in a frozen pod in Antarctica. Maybe I'll even get Mulder a milkshake or something, she thought idly. "I'm glad I'm alive," he said quietly, returning her to reality. "And I'm glad you're here," he finished, his solemn tone hinting at all that was left unsaid. She pursed her lips, his words, so powerful and soft, resonating in her mind. His eyes were averted. "Me, too, Mulder," she murmured finally, smiling faintly. He risked a look at her, and Scully recognized fear in his eyes, which, as always, he would verbally mask with nonchalance. Her heart contracted at the sight; he could never trust her not to hurt him, too much damage, pain she was not fully aware of, burned below the surface. "You're glad I'm alive, or you're glad you're alive?" He grinned. "Both," she told him confidently. They smiled at each other for a moment, a ridiculous sight; she hadn't showered, slept, or changed her clothes in days, and he had just undergone questionable brain surgery, with cups of Jell-O in front of him. There was something very sad about the realization that they'd each seen the other looking worse. "I'm going to talk to the doctor . . . maybe we can get you out of here earlier." She smiled. "Thank you!" he yelped. "They might not let me," she warned, though she knew they would. No one wanted to deal with Fox W. Mulder, irritating patient extraordinaire, longer than necessary. "Then we can sneak out," he said, waggling his eyebrows conspiratorially. "Yeah, Mulder, we're not suspicious-looking at *all,*" she said blandly, getting up from the uncomfortable chair that had become her home for the past few days. "And we'll have to get the Gunmen to bring you some clothes - as attractive as the hospital-gown look is on you, you might not want to walk out in public in something so revealing." He grinned. "I love you, Scully." She remained silent, as there was nothing to be said; a lifetime of insecurity could never be forgotten with a simple "I love you." He didn't expect a response. She smiled at him, her eyes telling him that he was loved, and her mind was peppered with hope that he would believe it. He grinned wider, then glanced around at his dull surroundings. "Scully, I want to go home," he whined. His eyes lit up with an afterthought. "I want to see that World Series video," he added sneakily. Her jaw dropped. "You were awake???" "I was kind of awake. I heard you, anyway," he answered, his voice light. "And you promised me lunch," he reminded her. She stared at him, her face red. "C'mon, Scully, it's not that bad." She looked at him doubtfully. "Come over here, Scully," he instructed, pushing the tray aside. She walked to him slowly and leaned over, mirroring her actions from Bermuda. Very carefully, as not to upset his fragile equilibrium, he bent forward. Their noses touched, and he tenderly rubbed his against hers. She smiled, her heart warming as he repeated her sweet action from the night before. "Oh, Mulder," she mumbled, straightening up. He took her hand and squeezed it. "Go talk to the doctor. I want out of here. We can go to your place and be domestic and stuff," he said happily. "I don't have the Playboy channel," she reminded him, and he pretended to look disappointed. "Fine, then, we'll call the cable company when we get home," he said, smiling. "We'll do no such thing," she said firmly. "Well, you have to go to work tomorrow, and I'll call the cable company *then,*" he amended, grinning wickedly. "You do it, and I'll shoot you again," she snapped, but she was smiling. He sighed dramatically. "Well, I'll probably only stay a few days, then. Any longer and I'll *really* miss my porn." She rolled her eyes and headed out, a smile dancing on her lips the minute her back was to him. "Oh, and Scully, love of my life - I want cheeseburgers for lunch," he called to her as she left. The smile became a grin. He was back, same as ever. The End ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Did you like it? This is the first thing I've ever approached seriously - let me know how I did at skeeter@bcinet.net.