From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>
Date: Sat, 20 May 2000 15:46:55 -0500
Subject: xfc: New: Smoked (1 of 6)
Source: xfc

TITLE: Smoked
AUTHORS: Sally Bahnsen and Dawn
EMAIL: sunrise@avenew.com
               bahnsen@alphalink.com.au
ARCHIVE: MTA, Xemplary, Gossamer - others are fine, just let us know
SPOILERS: Brand X
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: XA
KEYWORDS: MSR, 1st Person POV
SUMMARY: Filling in the Brand X blanks through Mulder and Scully's eyes.

DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013
Productions. We just like to finish what he starts.
AUTHORS' NOTES:
Dawn: There I was, plugging away at Blood Ties 8, when Sally and I
started chatting about the missing scenes in Brand X and what we would
like to have happen. She wanted me to write 'em, I wanted her to write
'em - so collaborating seemed the only fair thing to do! This is the
first time I have co-written a story with anyone, and I have to thank
Sally for making it not only easy, but loads of fun. I hope this will be
the first of many.
Sally: Thanks, Dawn. I had loads of fun too. It was a great honor for me
to write with one of my all time favorite authors. <G> I'd better point
out that I haven't seen Brand X yet, so I had to rely on a transcript
from the episode and Dawn's advice. I did get to see an Internet clip of
Mulder's "code blue" scene, courtesy of Ten (thanks, buddy). As always,
a big thank you to Vickie for beta reading.
FEEDBACK: We'd rather not beg, but... PLEASE!!!



Smoked (1 of 6)
By Sally Bahnsen and Dawn


County Morgue
12:28 p.m.

******************
Scully
******************


How can the simple echo of shoes on tile provoke such a wide range of
emotion in me?

I'm standing in front of a lung unlike any I've ever witnessed - and
believe me, I've witnessed quite a few - carefully dissecting the tissue
to reveal hundreds of fat, wriggling larvae. I divide my focus between
trying to make sense of the gruesome sight and Skinner's somewhat
nerve-wracking presence just over my right shoulder. Until the measured
tapping of my partner's footsteps steals my attention as adroitly as
Charlie used to steal second base and initiates a cascade of feelings.

Relief -- that his return means I'm no longer alone with Skinner, whose
previous duplicity still troubles me in spite of Mulder's reassurances.

Irritation -- that he's ditched me once again to carry out his own
agenda, giving only a cryptic explanation for his whereabouts.

Warmth, affection, and a slight tingling that usually ends with a goofy
grin plastered on my face. It's been that way ever since Mulder
recovered from his illness last fall, but even more so since New Year's
Eve, when we finally stopped dancing around the truth and admitted our
feelings for each other. Still aware of Skinner, I carefully squash the
smile that tries to bubble up.

"Hi Mulder. Where've you been?"

There, that wasn't so hard, was it? Cool, professional, with no hint of
the way I'd really like to greet him. Mulder is right, we *can* keep our
personal relationship separate from the work. I'm so busy admiring my
self-control I only vaguely hear Mulder say something about trying to
get a look at Morley's records.

"Take a look at this," I tell him, indicating the lung with a tilt of my
head.

Mulder's eyes skitter briefly over the organ and he makes a face,
circling around to perch on a gurney out of the line of sight. I can't
help the small upward tilt to the corners of my mouth. This man has
faced down serial killers, flukemen, and a regenerating mutant, yet an
autopsy never fails to turn his stomach.

"They are the larval stage of the tobacco beetle, Mulder," I tell him,
since he's opted out of a closer look. "And somehow they've wound up
nesting in Thomas Gastall's lungs."

Mulder grimaces, and the thought that he's looking rather peaked, even
for a man less than comfortable in an autopsy bay, flutters across my
mind. Skinner's gruff voice distracts me from my observation.

"But what doesn't make any sense is why Scobie's lungs didn't show this
same condition," he says, moving around to my left and pinning me with
the intensity of his gaze.

I'm deep into a description of larvae pupating inside the lungs until
mature when I hear the first, husky rasp as Mulder clears his throat.
Nearly inaudible, but it pierces my rational scientific bubble. Suddenly
my mouth is on autopilot while my ears zero in on the sound of Mulder's
breathing like a satellite dish searching for a vital transmission.
Skinner, oblivious to all but the case, frowns at my explanation.

"That explains the condition of the face and throat. Only how..."

Skinner's voice fades to an insignificant drone, the words
indistinguishable over the pounding of my heart. No longer muted, Mulder
is coughing - make that hacking - into his fist in a futile attempt to
muffle the sound. The spasms subside and he slowly pulls his hand back
from his lips, then goes very still as he stares blankly at the palm.

"Mulder?"

I can't keep the edge of fear from my voice and my feet are moving even
before he lifts his head. Skinner is at my side, his long legs actually
working to keep up with mine as I stride rapidly over and seize Mulder's
wrist, swiveling the hand outward.

Crimson, shocking in its brilliance, splatters Mulder's palm and flecks
his lower lip.

Blood.

Ice envelops my body from head to toe and for a long moment I can only
stare, horrified, first at Mulder's palm and then into his wide-eyed
face. His panic face, a corner of my mind gibbers hysterically, but I'm
not laughing.

A tremor runs through the hand and Mulder tugs it from my grasp,
fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. He's trying hard to appear
impassive but I recognize fear simmering just beneath that cool
exterior. The faintest trembling of his fingers, the expressionless cast
of his features, and the rigid spine all betray him.

I turn to Skinner, a little surprised and quite gratified to see my
alarm mirrored on his face. "Call 911," I tell him tersely, unapologetic
for reversing our roles.

He simply nods, his cell phone appearing in his hand before Mulder's
vehement protest freezes his fingers.

"NO!"

I jerk my eyes from Skinner and give Mulder the look I reserve for his
most outlandish theories. The one that says he can't possibly expect me
to believe him.

"Mulder, you've obviously been infected and need immediate medical
attention," I tell him firmly. "Now let the A.D. call for an ambulance."

"Scully, I'll go to the hospital, just not in an ambulance," Mulder
replies with that mulish tone to his voice. He punctuates the refusal
with another jagged cough.

"Listen to yourself! You're respiratory tract is being compromised as we
speak. You've brought up blood, for heaven's sake! Sir, call for an
ambulance," I demand. I'm in no mood to get into a pissing contest with
Mulder over his health.

"I said no, Scully! There's no reason to make a scene and that's exactly
what will happen" - he coughs - "if you roll me out of here on a
gurney!" More hacking and now his breathing is more effortful, a
wheezing in his chest. "I'm perfectly capable of...of..."

The air catches in his throat and he sags forward, overcome by violent,
wracking spasms as fresh blood splashes the floor between his feet. His
eyes, the only spot of color in his face, latch desperately onto mine
for an instant before turning dull, lids fluttering.

"Mulder? Mulder!" I cry out, lunging for him as he begins to slide
bonelessly to the right.

Skinner is there first, catching Mulder under the armpits and lowering
him gently to the floor. I vaguely hear him barking orders for an
ambulance into the phone, invoking the powerful call for an officer
down, sure to get immediate results. It registers only on the most
peripheral level, my senses attuned to the man sprawled on the tile. My
eyes see only his wan, still face. My ears hear nothing but the rattle
of his labored breathing.

"Mulder? Don't do this to me," I say sternly as I loosen his tie and
undo his shirt buttons with clumsy fingers. "You've already ditched me
once today so you damn well better stay with me now." I reclaim his
wrist to check his pulse, dismayed by the results.

A couple weak coughs and he moans softly. Heedless of Skinner, I lean
over until my face is just inches from Mulder's and push the hair back
from his brow, letting my fingers brush his scalp the way I know he
loves.

"I know you can hear me, Mulder. Come on, show me."

Even down here I can detect the wail of sirens - they must be very
close. Mulder coughs, whimpers, and his eyelids open a crack to reveal a
glimpse of hazel. His lips move but what comes out is little more than a
breathy jumble of vowels. I lean closer, my lips nearly touching his
ear.

"I didn't quite get that, G-man. Try again."

Skinner stands, awkwardly rubbing his palms against the legs of his
pants. "Ambulance must be here. I'll send them down."

I don't even bother nodding, just maintain eye contact with Mulder as he
fights to make me understand. "Can't...breathe," he puffs, and for the
first time I notice the bluish cast to his lips.

My stomach twists painfully but I put on my doctor face. "I know,
partner. EMTs are on their way in and we'll fix you up with some oxygen.
Just hold on a little longer for me."

It breaks my heart to see how hard he fights to obey me. His eyes hold
mine as if he can draw strength through the simple fusion and his lips
move again, this time in a pattern so familiar I don't need to hear.

"Scully."

A volley of voices, the clatter of equipment, and Skinner bursts into
the room with the EMTs on his heels. Giving Mulder's hand a reassuring
squeeze, I move back just enough to allow them to work.

"I'm Dr. Scully. Agent Mulder is suffering from acute respiratory
failure and needs O2, stat," I tell them crisply as I struggle not to
hover. "Respiration is shallow, pulse weak and thready."

"How long ago was the onset?" the older of the pair, a woman of about
thirty with dark, cropped hair, asks as her partner dons a stethoscope
and listens to Mulder's chest, then starts an I.V.

"Approximately ten minutes."

"Is Agent Mulder allergic to anything? Sounds like it could be acute
anaphylactic shock," she remarks, slipping an oxygen mask over his nose
and mouth after checking his pupils. "Agent Mulder, can you hear me?
Don't talk, just squeeze my hand."

"It isn't an allergic reaction, it's a pulmonary infection of sorts," I
answer, relieved when I see Mulder's fingers tighten briefly.

The second paramedic, who looks more like a high school football player
to my critical gaze, stares at me quizzically. "An infection? You mean
like pneumonia? His lungs do sound terribly congested, but..."

"Let's just get him to Asheford Medical, Joey," the woman says briskly.
"He's stable enough to transport, they can sort it all out there."

They carefully shift Mulder onto the gurney, but his arms begin to
flail. Joey grabs for his wrists, pinning them to the mattress.

"Take it easy, Agent Mulder. You don't want to knock out that I.V. or
I'll have to stick you all over again," he warns good-naturedly.

I notice Mulder's head moving, as if searching for something.
Understanding, I insert myself next to his head, gently displacing the
woman, whose nametag reads Carolyn. Mulder quiets immediately, and
though his eyes are huge with fright I'm pleased to see that his lips
are no longer blue. He tries to tug away the mask but Carolyn snags his
hand.

"Ah, ah, ah. You need that to stay put," she tells him firmly.

I have to blink back tears when, sick as he is, Mulder rolls his eyes.
He tries to speak but only succeeds in bringing on another round of
coughs, more blood flecking his lips and the mask. Carolyn goes into
high gear, lifting the side rail and locking it in place.

"Come on, we need to move him. Now!"

Mulder's stubborn hand slips through the bars and clutches mine,
effectively stopping her. His lips move and this time I both see and
hear the plea.

"Stay."

For just a moment, I'm the one who can't speak. When I do find my voice
it's wispy with emotion. "Don't worry, partner. I'm not going anywhere."

"I'll meet you at the hospital," Skinner calls as I follow Mulder and
two glaring EMTs into the elevator.

They might not be happy about my company but no one says anything as I
climb into the back of the ambulance with Mulder and Joey.

A very wise decision.


******************
Mulder
******************


Well, that was a waste of time.  I trot down the stairs to meet up with
Scully.  The sound of my footfalls echo off the sterile walls,
punctuating my anger and frustration.  I *know* the beetles are
responsible for the deaths of Scobie and Gastall.  I *know* that Morely
Tobacco is involved.  But until I can come up with some hard evidence,
the likes of Voss and that smarmy bastard Brimley, will continue to hide
behind big time corporate lawyers, conducting their tests on innocent
people and getting away with it.

Scully should be finished with the autopsy by now.  I hope her time has
been more productive than mine.

I hit the bottom step the same time as my chest is hit with an untimely
breathlessness.  I puff and pant like a two-year-old attempting to blow
the candles out on a birthday cake.  I cast an accusing glance up the
two flights of stairs I've just jogged down, trying to figure out why my
short spurt of exercise would evoke this kind of reaction.

I pause, and clasp on to the banister, alarmed that my breathlessness
seems to be getting worse.  I can feel my lungs straining but nothing is
getting in.  I wouldn't say I am panicking, not yet, but it's not far
away.  My initial thought is to run back upstairs, head out into the
open air where an unending supply of oxygen is mine for the taking.  But
my legs are trembling and I'm beginning to feel decidedly lightheaded.
The hallway begins to shift like an out of focus computer image, each
individual pixel visible to the naked eye.

My knees give way and my butt hits the bottom step.   I continue to suck
in deep lungfuls of nothing.  What the hell is wrong with me?  Thoughts
of asthma and heart attacks flit through my mind.  A scratchy, tickling
feeling quivers deep in my throat.  My chest spasms and a series of
hacking coughs wrack my body.  I find out the hard way just how
difficult it is to cough when your body is incapable of drawing air. I
wouldn't recommend it.

 Something shifts.  A glorious path is cleared and I suck greedily as
air begins to fill my lungs.  I heave and gasp like a drowning man that
has just burst through the surface of a watery grave.   I sit until my
breathing returns to normal and my legs quit trembling, then haul myself
to my feet, using the railing as leverage.   My head throbs and my
vision dances, but it only lasts a few seconds.

Unbidden images of Scobie and Gastall scroll through my mind like
credits in a movie.  My skin crawls along my spine and over my scalp as
I recall the condition of the bodies; the decimated faces, the presence
of the tobacco beetles at both crime scenes.  The glass -- half full of
bloody water, the beetle lying belly up at the bottom -- and the handful
of squirming bugs surrounding Thomas Gastall.

My stomach does a slow roll and I swallow back the rising nausea.
Somewhere in the hidden recesses of my mind a little voice is warning me
and I don't like the implications of what it is has to say. I refuse to
listen to it.  I don't want to know.

I straighten my jacket and dust off my pants then head purposefully down
the hallway to the autopsy lab, hopeful that Scully has some answers for
me.

When I enter the room, Scully is huddled over the latest victim. Skinner
is peering over her shoulder.

"Hey, Mulder.  Where have you been?"  Her tone is light and
conversational.  I wonder irrelevantly how she is able to condition
herself to be so casual while poised over a dead body.

I explain where I've been and she seems satisfied with what I tell her,
or perhaps her priority is directed at what she has to show me.

"Well, take a look at this."  She indicates the body as if offering me a
banquet.

I take a quick look.  Jeezus!  My stomach perches itself on the edge of
a precipice and prepares to jump.  I stifle the urge to cough and vomit
and move myself to a nice secluded, "body free" corner.   I spy an empty
gurney that looks mighty inviting and head towards it.

Scully starts her running commentary on the gory details of Thomas
Gastall's death.  Under normal circumstances I would love to hear all
the finer points of bug infestations and their breeding habits within
the human lung.  Now is not normal.  In fact I feel far from normal.

My concentration is fully engaged in controlling the irritating tickle
in my chest.  A small cough escapes, but the sound is muffled by my
fist, held tightly against my mouth.  It is only a temporary measure.

I hear the deep rumble of Skinner's voice, the soft, earnest reply of my
partner.  The words "larvae" and  "pupate" hover in the air but the rest
is lost as my body is seized in another spasm of coughing.  I hack and
hack until something is expelled into the palm of my hand.

I pull my hand from my mouth and stare in morbid fascination at the
bright red splotch that is smeared across my skin.  Fascination quickly
turns into stunned horror as the full ramifications of what I am looking
at hit me.

Scully stands beside me, I wasn't even aware she had moved.  She pulls
at my hand, turning it to face her.  My eyes lock with hers and I know
my expression mirrors her own.  Unadulterated fear.

I snatch my hand back.  With trembling fingers I fumble in my pocket for
a handkerchief.  I wipe the blood from my palm and the expression from
my face.

"Call 911."  Her fear has joined hands with mine and ducked for cover.
She has armed herself in a suit of professionalism.  Entered her comfort
zone.  Gone is Dana Katherine Scully, friend and lover of Fox William
Mulder.  In her place is Dr Scully, FBI agent, forensic pathologist and
of late, taking in the last seven years, part time medical practitioner.

Skinner has his cell phone out, finger poised, ready to punch in the
magic numbers, when I voice my protest.

"No!"

Scully turns to me, her expression incredulous.  Not a new thing for
Scully when dealing with me.

"Mulder, you've obviously been infected and need medical help."  Her
features are set, her tone firm, indicating there is no room for
negotiation in her instructions.

"Now let the A.D. call for an ambulance."

"Scully, I'll go to the hospital, just not in an ambulance."  My case
loses ground though when I end my statement with a cough.

That's all the encouragement Scully needs.  She starts quoting chapter
and verse all the reasons why I *need* to travel to hospital by
ambulance.

I pay little heed to her warnings and counter her attack with one of my
own.   I am perfectly capable of walking, and I refuse to be the main
topic of mortician gossip for the next month.  No way, Jose`.

I'm almost all the way through my argument when another round of choked
coughing cuts me off.

This is the worst one yet.  Not only do my lungs feel like they are
being squeezed in a vise, but there seems to be something caught in the
back of my throat.  My panicked mind immediately turns to the beetles.
My chest crackles with each new cough, my lungs are being sliced by
razor blades.

Blood sprays from my mouth decorating the floor between my feet with
bright crimson dots.  Now I'm scared.  No more Mr. Tough Guy.  I search
out my partner, desperate for some reassurance.  I see her, but she's
bathed in a shimmering mass of shapeless color.  I feel myself begin to
slide sideways, completely out of control.  Then...

"Mulder don't do this to me."  I search through my mind.  What have I
done now?  Who the hell is sitting on my chest?  Why am I lying on the
floor?   I feel frantic, busy hands fiddling with my tie, my button.  Is
that supposed to help me breathe?  Just get that bastard off my chest,
Scully.  GET HIM OFF!

What's that about ditching?  I didn't.  God, it hurts.  Please, Scully,
help me.

Soothing fingers stroke across my brow.  I gasp for breath. It makes me
cough.

"I know you can hear me Mulder.  Come on, show me,"

Yes Scully.  I hear you!  Can you hear me?  Help me.  I can't breathe.
Something in my throat.  My chest hurts.  I force an eye open.  Maybe if
I look at her she'll understand.  Know what to do.  Silent communication
is not working today.  I'M SUFFOCATING, SCULLY!  I tell her over and
over.  Make it stop.

I feel her warm breath against my ear.

"I didn't quite get that, G-man.  Try again."

I find her eyes. I draw on all my energy and try to make myself heard.

"Can't...breathe."

For one fleeting second she lets her defenses down and I see the
devastation on her face.  She recovers quickly, doing her best, as
always to comfort me, reassure me.

"I know partner.  EMTs are on their way in and we'll fix you up with
some oxygen.  Just hold on a little longer, for me."

Anything for you Scully.  I never want to hurt you.  I see the pain in
her eyes and I know I am failing dismally.

"Scully."    I'm sorry.

Her hand tightens around mine then she's gone.   Mild panic grips me.  I
search the room for her.  I recognize her legs, she's still by me but
now there is a whole bunch of other people here.  I hear the familiar
clatter of a gurney being rolled in.  Voices.  I'm not sure what they
are saying.  I pick out Scully's determined manner, issuing orders and
instructions to the new comers.

A mask is slipped over my face.  The cool hiss of oxygen fills my mouth
and nostrils.  I suck greedily at it, but it's still a fight to get any
in.  Don't they realize there's plenty of air available, I just can't
get my lungs to breathe it ?

The cold surface of a stethoscope skates across my chest.   The jab of a
needle.  A very large needle. Feels like a steel spike in my arm. They
don't know what's wrong with me.  Only Scully knows. The bugs are
growing in my lungs.  Where is she?

The paramedics are tossing conventional words around.  Pneumonia,
infection.  Congestion.  NO! No, No.  None of those, it's nothing you've
ever seen before.

Strong hands lift me under my arms, under my feet and place me on a
gurney.  Strangers' hands.  Where's Scully?  God, I still can't
breathe.  Scully!   It's not pneumonia.  Tell them.  It's the tobacco
beetles.  They won't know how what to look for.  How to treat me.

I try to voice my fears, but any sound I make is muffled under the
oxygen mask.  Gotta get it off.  I make a grab at it but someone pounces
on my hands, pushing my wrists into the mattress.

NOOOOO!

I move my head, trying to shake off the mask, searching for Scully.  I
need her with me.

One more shake of my head and this time Scully is right in front of me.
King Kong has released my wrists.  I bring a hand up to the mask but
it's nabbed and back by my side before I get the chance.

The paramedic is saying something to me.  Speaking to me like a child. I
roll my eyes.  They have this compulsive behavior pattern of treating
sick people like children or idiots.

"Scu..." More coughing.  Shit.  I groan.  I want to cry.  It hurts so
damn much.  I gag and another spray of blood coats the oxygen mask.

I hear the paramedic barking orders.   The side rail is lifted.  Scully
is still by the gurney.  I quickly snake my arm between the bars and
latch onto her hand.  Don't go.  Don't leave me.

"Stay."  I gasp out.

"Don't worry partner.  I'm not going anywhere."

Thank God.


Continued in part 2

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>
Date: Sat, 20 May 2000 15:53:33 -0500
Subject: xfc: New: Smoked (2 of 6)
Source: xfc

Smoked (2 of 6)
By Sally Bahnsen and Dawn


Asheford Medical Center
1:44 p.m.


******************
Mulder
******************


"...anaphylactic shock.  Is he allergic to any foods?"

"No.  Listen to..."

"Is he on medication?  Allergic to any drugs?"

"No, he..."

Does he suffer from asthma?"

"No, Doctor..."

"Has he come in contact with any chemicals? Insects?  Such as..."

"DR KLEIN!   STOP!   He is not suffering from anaphylactic shock.   Nor
has he been exposed to toxic chemicals, at least not in the way you are
suggesting.  Please, just hear me out..."

I gasp.  A band tightens around my chest.  Scully's voice disappears,
lost among the voices that surround me.   A male voice rises above the
din of activity.   I hear words, commands.   My head swims as I fight to
draw air.

"Agent Scully, please step back or I will have to ask you to leave." The
man.

No, Scully.  Stay.  I call her name, but there's no sound.  I can't
breathe.  Scully!

"...and a portable X-ray.  Come on people I want action, here!"

"Heart rate is climbing.   Respiration..." Their voices make no sense.
My chest aches with the effort of breathing, my head throbs. Where's
Scully?   I try to find her.  No energy.  Scully!  Help me.

"Okay, I want 5mgs of epinephrine..." In between my own harsh gasping I
hear the doctor issuing orders.

"Mr. Mulder.  Try to relax, we're going to give you something to help
you breathe."  A woman.  Not Scully.   I open my eyes.  Bright lights,
faces.  No Scully.   I move my hand but nothing happens, it's made of
lead.

"Heart rate's still up."

A spasm of coughing seizes me.  More blood sprays from my mouth,
dribbles down my chin.  The oxygen mask is removed.  I hear my own
wheezing. My chest is on fire.

"Damn it.  What the hell is wrong with this guy?   Where's that
medication?  Hold him still while..."

Hands, on my arms, my legs.  Someone holding my shoulders.  The mask is
back on my face.

I gasp.  Again and again.  Then... air.  A little at first.  Then
more.   I can breathe.  My body starts trembling.  I'm so cold.

"Mulder?"  Scully.

I stare at her.   She's here.

"Mulder, listen to me.  The doctor's given you something to open your
airway.  It's only a temporary measure till we figure out how to treat
you, but it should help you breathe a little better.  Do you understand
what I'm telling you?"

She takes my hand.   I feel her thumb caressing my palm and I give her
hand a little squeeze and nod my head.

"We're going to get some pictures of your chest, we need to know more
about what we're dealing with.   I want to go and speak with Dr Klein,
he's running with a theory of..." She sighs.  "He thinks you've been
exposed to some kind of toxic chemical..."

No!   No don't go.  I try to tell her with my eyes.

"...I won't go far.  Right outside, okay?"

"Agent Scully?"    A nurse is standing by Scully.   "We're ready to do
the X-rays now."

Scully smiles at me.   She pulls my hand to her lips and lightly kisses
my knuckles.   "I'll be right back, partner."  Her eyes leave my face
and she gives the nurse a meaningful look.

"He'll be fine, honey, we'll take good care of him."

The nurse sets up the X-ray.  It's cold.  I'm cold.  My teeth start
chattering.   Makes it hard to breathe.

"We'll just be few minutes Mr. Mulder, then we'll get you nice and
warm."

My shirt is gone.  The pictures are taken.   I stare at the roof.  I'm
scared.  I have bugs in my lungs.  Oh, god.  Bugs.  Growing in my lungs.

My stomach heaves.

"He's vomiting!  I need help here!"   Hands grip my body and roll me
onto my side.   Someone has my head, the oxygen mask is whipped away.
It hurts.  My stomach, my chest, my throat.   Hot bile fills my mouth.
I spit.  And spit.  A bowl is under my chin.  I spit again.  The
retching stops.  I can't move.   I don't have to.   Gentle hands lower
me onto my back.  A wet cloth wipes the inside of my mouth and around my
chin.  A hand brushes across my forehead.  Not Scully.  Someone else.

"You better now, honey? "  The nurse.  I open my eyes.

"We're all done with the X-rays.  Let's get you settled somewhere more
comfortable.  We've still got a few more tests to run."   I feel elastic
tugging on my hair.  Oxygen mask.  No, not this time.  Plastic tubes in
my nose. Cannula.  I shiver, harder this time.

"Cold."  Did she hear me?  I'm so cold.

A blanket is placed over my body, the edges tucked under my hips and
feet, then another.  I drink in its warmth.  A heaviness descends on me
and I sink into oblivion, too exhausted to resist.


*****************
 Scully
*****************


The frenzy of activity surrounding Mulder has abated and I'm actually
able to resume my post at his side. Thanks to a combination of oxygen
and bronchodilators, his breathing has eased from frantic to merely
labored. Of course, there's nothing "mere" about the way his chest works
to pull air into lungs whose capacity is so dramatically reduced. He's
learned to refrain from speech, conserving precious oxygen and energy,
but his expressive eyes, dark with exhaustion, follow my every movement.
It's as if I'm the only tether grounding him, preventing his fear from
spiraling out of control.

It didn't help that during the initial flurry of carefully controlled
chaos that characterizes an ER I'd been forced to abandon Mulder to
engage in a battle of wills. My opponent?  An overly zealous resident
who possesses even less of an appreciation for extreme possibilities
than I.

Imagine that.

This kid took one look at Mulder's gasps for breath intermingled with
violent coughing spells that produced bloody sputum, and came up with a
preliminary diagnosis of exposure to a toxic substance. Not so far off,
really, except that the wet behind the ears Dr. Klein insisted the toxin
must be chemical in nature - something, most likely an inhalant, so
caustic that it had essentially burned Mulder's bronchial passages and
caused massive tissue damage and edema.

Naturally, I immediately reneged on my promise to be a good little
observer and stay out of the way. As a nurse rolled in the portable
X-ray equipment I pulled Klein aside and explained in detail exactly
what kind of toxic exposure he had on his hands, including my fledgling
theory that the victims somehow inhaled the beetles' eggs. Klein, in
return, looked at me...well...the way people usually look at Mulder after
he's just spouted one of his outrageous theories. Two thoughts chased
each other through my head in that instant:

*Oh my god, another seven years with this man and I'll be watching
movies that aren't mine and renewing my MUFON membership.*

And:

*How many times has Mulder wished he could slap that look off my face?*

"Agent Scully, while I would never dispute the role of tobacco smoke in
lung cancer, I hardly think it could transmit mutant tobacco larvae into
your partner's lungs," Klein told me condescendingly. "You're
understandably distraught and lacking objectivity, so if you'll just
stand back and let us do our jobs..."

Dr. Klein owes Walter Skinner his life. Before I could pull out my gun
and shoot the sanctimonious little bastard, Skinner walked in bearing a
specimen jar that contained a section of Thomas Gastall's lung and its
uninvited guests. That, coupled with the chest films, left Klein green
around the gills and hollering for a pulmonary specialist.

More tests, some stopgap measures to ease Mulder's immediate distress,
and now we wait.

With Skinner off calling the Bureau for a progress report and Mulder
relatively stable, I relegate both Agent Scully and Dr. Scully to a
distant corner of my mind and look at my partner through the eyes of the
woman who loves him. With my alter egos, unfortunately, goes my
professional detachment, and the rapid deterioration of his appearance
hits me like a physical blow.

Skin too pale, except for the bruised shadows beneath his eyes; pain
etched in fine lines across his brow and around his mouth; and perhaps
worst of all, his body sprawled limply on the bed. No whining about the
I.V. and the oxygen mask, no snide remarks about hospitals in general
and this one in particular, no protestations that he's fine and we're
overreacting. Each shuddering, inadequate breath taps his strength, and
it's not hard to see the reserves are running dangerously low.

I slide my right hip onto the mattress and enfold Mulder's hand between
mine. He watches me solemnly as my fingers flirt with his. Mulder has
beautiful hands, with long, elegant fingers much better suited to a
pianist or a surgeon than a FBI agent. I'm tracing the pad of my index
finger over the ridge of his knuckles, trying to ignore the bluish tint
to his nail beds, when he musters a rough whisper.

"What's...up...doc?"

He's scared. Seven years and a plethora of terrifying situations have
given me ample chances to learn that Mulder deflects fear with humor. I
know his "panic face," in all its disguises.

"Doctor McManus is checking the second set of chest films. Barring
complications he's recommending deep suctioning," I answer, trying to
keep my voice light and optimistic. "You remember what I described?" He
was in and out during McManus's consultation so I figure I'd better ask.

Mulder rolls his eyes. "The...crazy straw," he rasps.

He opens his mouth to continue, but a succession of jagged coughs slips
out instead. I can only stand by, helplessly stroking his sweaty brow
until the spasms ease up. Each of these episodes takes a little more out
of him -- he's limp and passive as I use a cool cloth to wipe
perspiration and blood from his face, eyes at half-mast. I turn to rinse
the cloth, struggling to maintain composure. A break in the relentless
rhythm of Mulder's breathing steals my attention and I freeze, spinning
around when it is repeated, like a record skipping a groove.

"Mulder?"

I don't mean to speak his name as an accusation, but alarm seizes
control of my vocal chords. Mulder jerks in response, hazel eyes flying
wide open for a moment before relaxing. I lay an apologetic hand on the
crown of his head and weave my fingers through his hair.

"Sorry, I... Just stay with me, all right?" I stammer lamely.

His gaze is that of a marathon runner miles from the finish line.
"Tired."

My throat tightens. "I know you are, love. I know you are."

Sick as he is, his eyes widen and one corner of his mouth turns up.
Unlike Mulder, who can be practically effusive with sentiment, it
doesn't roll easily off my tongue. Seeing the power in that simple
endearment, the rekindled spark in his gaze, I silently vow to do a
better job of reminding this man of his place in my life.

"Agent Mulder, Dr. Scully."

Dr. McManus hovers in the doorway a moment before entering. One look at
his grave face and I know the news isn't good. Dr. Scully steps forward,
elbowing Dana gracelessly out of the way.

"Dr. McManus, did you look at the films?"

McManus's eyes graze Mulder and he tilts his head toward a lightbox
mounted on the wall. I turn, flash Mulder a reassuring smile, and
follow, cringing internally as the doctor snaps two views of Mulder's
lungs into place. The white patches, signaling larval infestation, have
grown and spread in the hour between X-rays. As if to confirm the
diagnosis, Mulder begins to cough.

"We need to get him upstairs right away," McManus says, terse but not
unsympathetic. "If we don't clear his airways soon he's going to go into
pulmonary failure."

"You have to anesthetize him for the procedure, don't you?" I ask
quietly. "Isn't that dangerous? Won't it depress his respiratory system
further?"

"We'll use light sedation and monitor him carefully," McManus replies,
still staring at the X-rays. "We really don't have an alternative. He's
weakening rapidly, and his pulse ox is dangerously low." He sighs.
"Would you like me to talk to him?"

I shake my head. "I've already explained the procedure. I'll tell him
we're going ahead with it."

McManus finally abandons the x-rays to meet my gaze. "A nurse will be
right in with the sedative. We'll take him up as soon as he's under."

I draw myself up to my full height and square my shoulders, trying to
look as intimidating as a petite redhead can manage. After growing up
with two brothers (one of them a bully, and I'll bet you can guess
which) and joining the FBI, I've become surprisingly good at it.

"I want to observe."

I can see him weighing his options - say no and piss off the federal
agent or say yes and go against his professional judgement. In the end
he caves to pressure with a reluctant tip of his head.

"Very well. You can follow him up. One of the nurses will get you a pair
of scrubs."

I tell him thank you, which he acknowledges with a wave of his hand, and
walk back over to Mulder. One look at his face tells me that he already
knows what I'm going to say.

"This...really...sucks," he croaks. "Right?"

"Big time," I confirm, and even manage a ghost of a grin.

On cue, a nurse enters with a stainless steel tray and a no nonsense
smile. "I've got something to guarantee you'll sleep through the
procedure, Agent Mulder," she says, swabbing the rubber port on his I.V.
and uncapping a syringe.

Mulder's hand latches onto mine in a death grip and there's no
camouflaging the fright in his suddenly rigid posture. I instinctively
recognize the source of his panic and hasten to reassure him.

"I'll be right there the whole time, Mulder. You wouldn't want to be
conscious for this, it's worse than being intubated, and you *know* how
you feel about that," I warn him, watching as the nurse injects what is
probably Versed into the line. "Trust me, you'll be awake in no time and
breathing much easier."

In his weakened condition, the drug hits him like a truck, and within
seconds his eyes are glassy and drooping shut. I stroke my thumb
soothingly over the back of his hand as his fingers turn slack and
pliant. He mutters something just as he slips into sleep, and between
the sandpaper voice and a tongue thick with drugs it takes me a moment
to decipher and another to match it with my plea for his trust. I bite
my lip and blink hard.

"Only you."


******************
Mulder
******************


I watch Scully pace.  Not a nervous, erratic stride.  Her movements are
slow, cautious.  She checks my IV, my chart, the heart monitor.  I
follow her with my eyes.  She is no longer hiding behind her
professional facade.  The worry lines are set around her eyes.  I know
she's scared.  It's bad this time.  I'm amazed I'm still alive.  How
long did it take for those other people to die?  How long will it take
for me...I don't want to go there.

Scully stops her restless movements and sits on the edge of my bed.  She
picks up my hand and starts caressing it, playing with my fingers.  Her
brow is locked in a perpetual frown.  What is she thinking as she toys
with my hand?

"What's...up...doc.?"

I listen to Scully as she explains what is in store for me.  Deep
suctioning.

"The...crazy...straw."   Three little words and it exhausts me to say
them.  A spasm of coughing grips me.   I close my eyes and wait for it
to stop.  God, my chest feels as if it might explode.  I think I hear
myself groan.

Scully strokes my brow.  I feel a cool cloth glide across my chin,
around my mouth.  I open my eyes, the cloth is tinged with pink.  More
blood.  It's such a struggle to breathe.  I feel my eyes slip shut.  I'm
so tired.

"Mulder."

Scully.  I jerk awake.  What's wrong?

"Sorry, I...Just stay with me, all right?"  Her eyes are pleading.

"Tired."

"I know you are, love.  I know you are."

The fact that she has slipped that term of endearment in tells me more
than all the medical jargon combined.  It can't be good if Scully is
calling me love in a public place.  But even under these circumstances,
it 's nice to know what I mean to her.

"Agent Mulder, Dr Scully."   Scully drags her gaze from me and turns to
face the man lingering in the doorway.

"Dr McManus, did you look at the films?"

The doctor casts a glance in my direction, then indicates he'd like to
speak with Scully.   She gives me a quick smile then joins him to view
my X-rays.  I lie quietly and concentrate on breathing, leaving the
medical details to Scully.   Something itches deep in my chest.  It sets
off another bout of coughing.  I no longer bother trying to stifle it,
too much energy is required.  The hacking goes on and on, when it stops
I am left weak and breathless.

I try to listen to the Doctor and Scully.  Their conversation floats
across the room, soft and barely audible.  I hear the no nonsense tone
of Dr McManus, the quiet, resigned quality of my partner's voice,
discussing the best course of action.   I know they want to use deep
suction, and I know they want to put me under for the procedure.  While
the idea of being awake is repugnant to me, the option of sleep scares
me more.   What if I never wake up?

Scully walks back to my bedside.  I can guess what she is going to say.
Her expression is pained, somber.

"This...really...sucks.  Right?"

"Big time."  The pained expression leaves her face.  She tries for a
smile.

A nurse enters the room.  She carries a tray littered with an assortment
of medical paraphernalia.  She speaks to me, but I take no notice.  Now
that the time has come to put me to sleep, I feel my courage sink to my
toes, cowering out of sight.   I grab Scully's hand, holding on for dear
life.  God, I don't know if I can go through with this.

Scully speaks to me, assuring me she will be by my side the whole time.

The familiar feeling that accompanies anesthesia washes over me.  My
mind becomes sluggish, my thoughts thick and tangled as if wrapped in
cotton. I sense each individual beat of my heart as it pumps the drug
through my system. Tingling, around my lips, my tongue.  I feel myself
slipping under.  Scully's voice drifts through the heaviness in my head.

"Trust me...awake...no time...breathing... easier..."

Trust me.  Trust me.  I do Scully.

"Only you."


Continued in part 3

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>
Date: Sat, 20 May 2000 15:55:38 -0500
Subject: xfc: New: Smoked (3 of 6)
Source: xfc

Smoked (3 of 6)
By Sally Bahnsen and Dawn


Asheville Medical Center
4:20 p.m.

*********************
Scully
*********************

I can't believe what I'm seeing. Simultaneously fascinated and repulsed,
I can only watch as one by one, fat wriggling larvae are drawn up the
tube inserted into Mulder's lungs. The collection jar contains a
gruesome cocktail of bloody mucous and the soft, pale bodies. Thank God
that Mulder lies there in drugged oblivion, spared the horror of
witnessing his body's insidious invaders.

Not that his waking will be pleasant. I warned Mulder that this
procedure would be even more disagreeable than intubation, and I wasn't
exaggerating. The suction apparatus is invasive, abrading the soft
tissue of Mulder's trachea, and Dr. McManus has literally rooted around
the delicate bronchi in search of the insects. He's going to have one
hell of a sore throat when they're done.

Another maggot shoots up the tube with a wet, squelching sound and I
can't help wincing. The walls around me press inward and the sterile
mask clings like Saran wrap to my nose and mouth, suffocating me. I
catch sight of Skinner peering through the window, brow contracted in
apprehension and concern, and jump on the excuse to flee the O.R.

"How is he?" Skinner asks before I can even remove the mask.

"They're using a deep suction technique that's been designed for asthma
and cystic fibrosis," I explain, feeling myself slipping into the safety
of doctor mode. "And, so far, we're having some luck at clearing his
lungs."

*That's it, Dana, accentuate the positive - there's so little of it.*

Skinner has never been satisfied with half an answer, and now is no
exception. "But?" he prods me to continue.

"For every one of those things that are in his lung tissue there may be
a dozen eggs that have yet to be hatched."

Skinner, only marginally better at assimilating extreme possibilities
than I am, squints at me in disbelief. "Eggs?"

"His pulmonary tissue is riddled with them," I tell him, anger and
frustration bubbling up inside me. "And they're going to hatch. It's
just...we're buying time."

I want to weep. I want to scream. I want to throw an adult version of
the childhood temper tantrums Mom loves to remind me I had. But I am a
special agent of the FBI, this man is my boss, and in this particular
arena Mulder is only my partner. As I've done too many times in the
past, I tuck my own feelings safely out of sight.

Skinner, on the other hand, is visibly shaken by my revelation. His eyes
slip shut and he glances away, swallowing hard. Finding his voice, he
steers the conversation away from the emotional quicksand of Mulder's
death sentence to the safer ground of the investigation - how did the
eggs get into Mulder and Scobie's lungs? I'm only too glad to oblige,
spouting information on the tobacco beetle's life cycle and my personal
theory that the genetically altered eggs were transmitted via cigarette
smoke.

We're not so different, Walter Skinner and I. He hides his emotions
behind authority and procedure; I bury mine beneath logic and science.

*Unquestionably an X-File*

Mulder's voice, complete with smirk, echoes in my head, accompanied by a
bright rush of pain that steals my breath.

I turn to stare through the window of the O.R., peripherally hearing
Skinner take his leave. He's on a mission, determined to acquire the
warrant necessary to search Morley and hopefully persuade Dr. Voss to
talk. A part of me envies his ability to act, to immerse himself in the
hunt for the truth, while I'm reduced to a helpless observer.

And yet I must admit the catch-22 in this whole nightmare. If I was out
there with Skinner right now, I've no doubt I'd be fretting over Mulder
and longing to be by his side. When I fled to Africa, desperate to
silence the voices in Mulder's fevered brain, I nearly went crazy with
worry. Had he gotten sicker? Did he understand where I'd gone, that I
hadn't abandoned him? Had I done the right thing? For the first time I'd
truly comprehended what Mulder had endured during the end stages of my
cancer.

I should probably go back inside now, but my leaden feet won't
cooperate. I recall the gurgling sound as the larvae pass through the
tube, the rapidly filling jar, and Mulder's deathly pale face, and
shiver. There's a reason that doctors make it a policy not to treat
their loved ones, and I'm brutally reminded of it now.

I'm not sure how long I stand with one hand on the door, waging an inner
battle, when the decision is taken out of my hands. Dr. McManus removes
the suction apparatus from Mulder's body and steps back, stripping off
mask and gloves. He steps out into the hallway and pulls the surgical
cap from his curly head with a sigh.

"I think we've done all we can. Your partner's breathing should be
significantly improved." He shakes his head in a mixture of amazement
and disgust. "I can't believe how many of those things we extracted.
It's amazing Agent Mulder functioned as well as he did."

I glance through the window as a nurse carefully wipes Mulder's face and
mouth. "Agent Mulder has had to overcome more than his share of
obstacles." I allow my lips to curve. "And he has a stubborn streak a
mile wide."

McManus chuckles wearily. "Well, it's served him well today." He sobers.
"You do realize..."

"Yes," I say, more sharply than I'd intended. I suck in a slow, deep
breath of air and lace my arms across my chest. "He's only been given a
temporary respite. The larvae will continue to hatch and his condition
will continue to deteriorate."

McManus brushes his fingers fleetingly against my shoulder, his brown
eyes honestly sympathetic. "The nurses will finish cleaning him up and
take him back to ICU. The Versed probably won't start wearing off for at
least an hour. You've got plenty of time to change and grab a cup of
coffee, maybe something to eat." He starts down the hallway toward the
changing room but tosses over his shoulder, "You look like you could use
it."

Though my impulse is to return immediately to ICU and wait for him,
common sense and McManus's not so subtle comment on my appearance
convince me to take a short break. Mulder, sick as he is, will be the
first to notice if I look like something the cat dragged in. The crazy
fool would be just as likely to start worrying about *me* when he should
be concentrating on his own health. So I change out of my scrubs and
spend some time on damage control, splashing cool water on my face,
finger-combing hair flattened by the surgical cap, and endeavoring to
erase the fear from my eyes. A trip to the cafeteria for a cup of bad
hospital coffee and a carton of yogurt, and I'm headed back, my steps
quickening as I draw closer.

I'm sidetracked, however, when my cell phone chirps cheerfully, drawing
the hostile stares of several nurses. I give them my best Special Agent
Dana Scully glare in reply and duck into an out of the way corner to
take the call.

Skinner's report, confirming what I had suspected, gives me a seed of
hope. If we can find this man, Darrell Weaver, and if he does have some
kind of immunity to the beetles, and if we can figure out how to
transfer that immunity to Mulder... The number of "ifs" involved
overwhelms me, crushing the hope before it can begin to take root. I
tuck the phone back into my pocket and work hard to regain my game face.

When I walk into Mulder's cubicle he's still asleep and for a moment I'm
content with looking, mesmerized by the steady, if shallow, rise and
fall of his chest. No matter how many times I'm forced to see Mulder in
these circumstances, I never grow used to it. The man possesses such an
incredibly intense drive, always moving, always seeking. To witness him
as he is now - so still, so passive - is almost more than I can bear.

I walk quietly over and take his hand, weaving my small fingers among
his larger ones. Like our lives, I muse, surveying the tangled digits.
Hopelessly entwined, so that I am no longer able to tell where he ends
and I begin. With my free hand I stroke the soft skin between knuckles
and wrist, not caring that the unpartnerly gesture can be easily
observed by the nurses just a stone's throw away.

Mulder's eyes flutter, then slide slowly open and he solemnly absorbs
the fact that I'm breaking rule number two - no public displays of
affection. (Rule number one being no private displays of affection -- in
the basement office.) Never one for subtlety, Mulder has been amazingly
cooperative when it comes to our "rules." I suppose eventually the truth
about the shift in our relationship will get out, but for now, like a
precious jewel, we hold it close and guard it jealously.

"Hm. Must be bad," Mulder rasps, his voice rough and thin.

I keep my smile in place. "How do you feel?"

Mulder grimaces. "Like a dust buster attacked me." Even the abbreviated
reply provokes a cough.

My mouth quirks half-heartedly as thoughts of a hospital in Alaska and
freezer burn float through my head. "We're looking for someone who may
be able to help you," I explain. "A Morley test subject by the name of
Darrel Weaver."

"Mr. E Pluribus..." Mulder rolls his eyes and gives a comical shake of his
head that I can only assume is an imitation of Mr. Weaver.

I'm in the middle of explaining my hope that Weaver just might provide a
cure for what's ailing Mulder when on odd look crosses his face and he
gasps.

And gasps again.

Panic replaces puzzlement and he's struggling in earnest now, his mouth
opening and closing ineffectually as he wheezes and can't fill his lungs
with oxygen. I've only been fishing once in my life, lured into the
outing by Charlie and Bill when I was only eight years old. I've never
forgotten the sight of the poor fish as they lay on the bottom of the
boat, mouths working impotently in their efforts to breathe. Mulder's
eyes lock onto mine and I feel as helpless as that eight-year-old child.

"Mulder...!"

The machines are going crazy, readouts dropping and alarms blaring. I
finally shake myself out of immobility.

"DOCTOR!" I call frantically, trying to elevate Mulder's head to ease
his breathing.

By some miracle McManus is right there, circling to the other side of
the bed. Unfortunately, my manipulation of Mulder's position has had no
discernable effect. My heart hammers wildly in my chest, a counterpoint
to Mulder's.

"His SAT's down to 72! Get some O2 on him and call the code!" I snap,
heedless of etiquette and the fact that I have no authority to give the
man orders.

McManus, a true professional, accepts my instructions graciously.
"Susan, Code Blue," he barks as he slips an oxygen mask over Mulder's
nose and mouth.

The next several minutes pass in a blur as Susan rolls the crash cart
into place and McManus runs the code. Relief leaves me weak-kneed as
Mulder demonstrates his stubborn streak yet again and comes back from
the edge of the abyss. Until my eyes catch a flicker of movement beneath
the oxygen mask and the noise and activity around me is drowned out by
the ringing in my ears.

A beetle.

Crawling over Mulder's lip, INSIDE the mask.

And suddenly Mulder isn't the only one who can't breathe.


******************
Mulder
******************


I awake to the reassuring pulse of a heart monitor.  Yes, I amaze myself
that I would consider being attached to a machine reassuring.  Each high
pitched beep reminds me that I am still breathing in my own special,
wheezing, ragged way.  I am alive. I made it. Although the way my throat
feels I'm wondering if that's such a good thing.

I push my negative thoughts temporarily to the side as I recall the look
on Scully's face.  The devastation she tried so valiantly to hide, the
worry lines framing her beautiful eyes, the quick upturn of her mouth as
she realized she'd let her defenses slip.  If for no other reason, she
is enough to make me fight this.  That, and I want to get my hands on
Voss and his cronies.  To have the opportunity to prove that their
unlawful tests are responsible for the deaths of Gastall, Scobie and who
knows how many more.  The truth is in me.  I chuckle, then regret the
action.  Pain in my throat and chest quickly reminds me that there is
nothing humorous about this situation.

I sink back into my pillow and concentrate on not swallowing, not
coughing, and not laughing.  My breathing is better than earlier but
that depends on how you define the word "better."  Better than a dead
man?  Based on that benchmark then yeah, sure, it is better.

I try not to think about how close I came to reaching that particular
milestone, how close I probably still am.  Did they get all the beetles,
all the eggs?  Are more hatching in me right now?  A chill runs up my
spine and I shiver at the image that thought conjures.

I wonder where Scully is?  I'm not used to waking without her by my
hospital bed. Perhaps she has a lead, an answer to how these beetles can
be killed.  I hope she comes back soon.  I feel safe when she is around,
I trust her judgement.  No matter how difficult this is for her to
believe, how extreme the possibility, she has seen the evidence and she
has seen what is happening to me.  I know she will do everything in her
power to help me, to save me.  But I can't help wondering how strong
that power can be against something that defies the laws of nature.

I sigh in frustration.  A cough slips out, then another.  I hate this. I
hate being sick and I hate the fear and vulnerability that I am forced
to deal with.  All I can do is lie here and wait.  And hope that Skinner
or Scully can find a cure before it's too late.  My head aches, my chest
hurts and my throat feels as if there's been a layer of skin torn from
it.  As soon as I can talk without pain I'm going to let that doc know
exactly what I think of his surgical skills.

 The continuous rhythm of the monitor has a calming effect on me,
lulling me into a state of sleepiness as easily as a mother rocking her
baby and humming a gentle tune.  I let its monotonous tone wash over me
and concentrate on regulating my breathing to match the beat.  My mind
is dull and tired -- sleep is not far away. Maybe when I wake Scully
will be back.  And then...maybe...she...she...she will...maybe...

Mmmm.  Soft.  Gentle.  Someone drawing little circles over my hand,
around my wrist.  Cool, strong fingers entwined in mine.  Scully.  She's
back.  Guess I drifted off after all.  Things are not looking too good
if she's showing another open display of affection.  She really is
letting her hair down.

I push my eyelids up and gaze at her hand caressing mine.  She doesn't
let go.

"Mm. It must be bad."  Was that really my voice?

"How do you feel?"  She offers me a smile.

Truthfully?  "Like a dust buster attacked me."  And its cousin, uncle,
auntie, bother, sister...  Hell, like a whole brigade of dust busters
attacked me.  My throat constricts and a cough escapes.  Right now
talking is way down low on the "top ten" list of things I'd most like to
do.

Scully is speaking again.  "We're looking for someone who maybe able to
help you.   A Morley test subject by the name of Darrel Weaver."

Oh yeah.  Mr. "I'd like to quote you the whole damn constitution if you
try and step on my civil rights."  I give Scully the condensed version.

"Mr. E. Pluribus..." I wonder if she'll get my weak attempt to
impersonate the man himself.

"Well, Mr. Weaver seems to have some kind of tolerance or immu..."

I hear her talking to me, but my attention has been drawn away by
something moving in my chest.  Oh, Jeezus.  It's not in my chest, it's
crawling up my throat.  Scully.  No sound.  NO AIR.  I gasp.  Shit,
still nothing.  Can't cough.  Can't breathe.  Scully!  Help me!

She's looking at me.  Her mouth is moving but I can't hear words above
the roaring in my ears, the hammering in my chest.

Hands.  Lifting my head.  I gotta get out of here. I move my arms, my
legs.  My head is spinning.  Noises.  Beeping.  Voices.  People all
around me.  I struggle to get up.  Can't.  Hands pushing me down.  Mask
on my face.  No effect.  A spasm hits my chest.  I cough.  Again.
Gasping.  AIR!  I suck it in.  Oh god.  It's in my mouth.  Crawling.
Slithering.  Tickling across my tongue, my lips, on my chin.  But I can
breathe.  I can breathe.  I search for Scully.  I see her face hovering
above me.  It's twisting and rolling and shrinking into blackness.  All
around me.  It's dark...


Continued in part 4

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>
Date: Sat, 20 May 2000 15:57:29 -0500
Subject: xfc: NEW: Smoked (4 of 6)
Source: xfc

Smoked (4 of 6)
By Sally Bahnsen and Dawn


Asheford Medical Center
10:34 p.m.


******************
Scully
******************


Like a rock tumbling downhill, picking up speed as it nears the bottom,
Mulder's condition continues to deteriorate. I grudgingly allow the
nurse to shoo me from the cubicle so that she can run Mulder's vitals,
but hover near the window. I know it's ironic and out of character for
the rational Dr. Scully, but I can't bring myself to let him out of my
sight. I have the overwhelming sensation that if I do something terrible
will happen.

Well, he got into this mess without me beside him, didn't he?

Ever since McManus and the nurses pulled him back from respiratory
failure, Mulder has drifted in and out of consciousness. The sheer
effort of trying to fill his lungs with air coupled with repeated bouts
of coughing up blood has weakened him, and I know he won't be able to
breathe unassisted much longer.

Intubation. Mulder hates it even more than the Foley catheter I've heard
so many wise remarks about. Looking at him now, though, I realize he's
probably past the point of caring. He's so tired...

"Doctor Scully?"

Dr. McManus strides down the hallway and hands me Mulder's chart,
complete with the latest set of films. "We've got him stabilized on ECMO
for the moment but we're not going to be able to maintain him on it for
long.  Of course, you see why."

Oh God. I stare at the X-ray in disbelief, a prickling feeling not
unlike the legs of certain black, hard-shelled insects creeping up and
down my spine. The image is no worse than I should have expected, given
the downward slide of Mulder's condition. Yet confronting the raw,
physical evidence of just how drastically he has lost ground rocks my
determination not to give up hope.

Larvae. Lots and lots of larvae. Clogging Mulder's airways and
interfering with the crucial transfer of oxygen into his bloodstream.

"There's more now than there were six hours ago," I say, unable to mask
my disbelief.

"They're beginning to block the flow of blood.  Our best bet is to go
back in there," McManus says soberly. He hesitates a moment before
adding, "I think this time, we have to crack the chest."

His suggestion rips my gaze from the X-ray to fasten on his face. "No.
No, I...  He's too weak for thoracic surgery.  He...he'd die on the
table," I tell him vehemently.

I won't let him die alone in a cold, sterile operating room, cut open
like a slab of meat, damn it! Skinner is still out there, tracking down
the elusive Darrell Weaver and our miracle cure. I'll do whatever I can
to hold Mulder together long enough to grant Skinner the time he needs.
And if... If death comes for Mulder in spite of our efforts to hold it at
bay, then by God I'll be holding onto him, kicking and screaming, until
the very end.

McManus shakes his head in resignation, a little frustrated with my
refusal to capitulate with his suggested course of treatment. "I don't
know what our other options are."

Now, more than ever, I must not lose credibility with this man. I fight
to keep the tremor from my voice with only moderate success. "I'd say
for the time being, we just wait."

Disapproval darkens the doctor's face. Though his tone is not unkind,
his words bludgeon me. "That'll definitely kill him.  Sooner or later."

I turn back to watch the nurse finish working on Mulder, listening to
McManus's receding footsteps. Susan looks up and nods, clearing out of
the way when I practically charge back through the door. She catches my
elbow before I can reach the bedside chair.

"His pulse ox isn't good. I'm going to talk to Dr. McManus about getting
him on a respirator," she murmurs, eyes warm and sympathetic. "I thought
you'd want to know."

Mulder's eyes are closed, and I mistakenly think he's slipped back out
of consciousness until his hoarse protest startles me.

"No."

I pick up his hand and his eyes drag slowly open, a bit glassy with
exhaustion and pain, but aware. He licks dry lips and gives a small
shake of his head before repeating the word.

"No."

"Hey," I greet, trying to ignore the negative. I know all too well what
he's trying to tell me. "How are you doing?"

"No...respirator."

Stubborn bastard. I feel my forehead contracting in a frown of
disapproval and ruthlessly smooth the lines away.

"Mulder, you aren't getting enough oxygen on your own. Your lungs have
to work too hard and you aren't strong enough."

Sensible words. If only this were a sensible situation.

"Hate it." He coughs feebly and a small trickle of blood spills from the
corner of his mouth.

Focusing on the task, I pick up a moist cloth and swipe it gently across
his lips and down his chin. "I know you hate it, G-man, but we don't
have a lot of alternatives. Skinner is out there right now, tracking
down Darrell Weaver, and we need you to hold on until..."

"Long shot."

Mulder has always had a way of taking the wind out of my sails, even
lying half-dead in a hospital bed. He takes a little hitching gulp of
air and his eyes bore into mine. My smooth exterior develops a few
hairline cracks, but I struggle on persistently.

"We investigate long shots, Mulder. That's what the X-Files is all
about."

He blinks, surprised and even a little amused by my answer, if the
slight curve of his mouth is any indication. The humor fades quickly,
however, and he squeezes my hand.

"Don't want...be...produce section."

My eyes burn. "Mulder, I don't..."

"Promise."

I stare helplessly into those beautiful eyes and nod, my throat tight
and sore. I reach over to stroke dark hair back from his sweaty brow and
he leans into the touch. "If it comes to that... I know what you'd want,
Mulder. But it hasn't come to that yet."

He's either satisfied with my response, or just too tired to put up
further resistance. Susan comes back with McManus on her heels and they
proceed to set up the respirator. McManus, obviously still miffed at me,
speaks only to Mulder.

"Agent Mulder, you aren't getting enough oxygen on your own power. We're
going to have to hook you up to a respirator and give you some help. Do
you understand?"

Mulder's eyes lock on mine for a long moment before he nods. McManus
looks at me from the corner of his eye as he continues.

"We're going to give you a little something to help you relax through
the procedure. Not much, because we don't want to compromise your
respiration any further. It's important you hold very still until we get
the tube in place."

Mulder grimaces. "Been...there."

McManus grins just a little. "Okay then, here we go."

Susan injects the sedative into Mulder's I.V. port and McManus opens the
pack of sterile tubing. Mulder's eyes droop and lose focus and I can
feel his fingers trying to hold onto mine. Susan fastens a restraint
over his free wrist but indicates with a tilt of her head that I can
continue to hold the other.

The next several minutes are highly unpleasant. Sedative or no, Mulder
tugs reflexively against the restrictions of the cloth strap and my firm
grip, gagging helplessly. Even when the tube is in place and the machine
engaged he persists in the frantic choking gasps.

"Agent Mulder! Agent Mulder, don't fight the respirator," McManus orders
sharply. "Let it do the work."

When his commands have no effect I insert myself between him and Mulder,
leaning over the bed so that I fill his vision. McManus makes a small
huff of annoyance that I ignore, cradling Mulder's face in my palms and
chasing his wildly darting eyes with my own.

"Mulder. Mulder! Look at me."

The urgency in my voice along with my touch captures his attention and
he ceases his thrashing, though his body continues to tremble.

"Relax," I tell him, stroking my thumbs over his cheeks. "Breathe with
the machine. In. Out. In. Out."

Mulder slowly submits, settling into the rhythm of the machine, which is
set to augment his own respiration. As the adrenaline rush dissipates
and I keep up my soft patter, his body relaxes and he drifts into an in
between state - not awake, but not quite asleep. I move back down to
reclaim his hand and McManus scribbles a few notations on the chart.

"We'll adjust the respirator accordingly as his breathing declines. And
if you change your mind about surgery..."

"I won't," I reply firmly.

He shrugs and hangs the chart back on the end of the bed before walking
over to the nurses' station to consult with Susan. I look back at
Mulder's wan face and sink into a chair, the confidence I just projected
deserting me.

*Hurry up, Skinner* I think. *Miracle cures don't help dead men.*


******************
Mulder
******************

The incessant beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor is no longer the
comforting, reassuring companion it was just a few short hours ago. Now
it is a constant source of irritation, reminding me of my tenuous hold
on life, that there are beetles growing inside of me, reproducing,
thriving on my lung tissue, my blood, and that in due course they will
probably kill me.  If I had the strength I would yank the damn lead out
of the wall.  Why do they have to hear my heart beat to know I'm alive?
Surely the crackling, rasping sounds of my strangled gasps for air are
enough to tell them I'm still hanging on.  Tethered to this life by some
fraying, tattered will to live that I've managed to dredge up from who
knows where.

And then she's back by my side.   I no longer wonder where the will
comes from.  She is my reason for fighting the infestation residing in
my lungs.  Scully's face swims above me.  I don't know where she has
been this time.  She alternates between holding my hand and accosting
the various medical personnel that stroll past my cubicle.  I stare up
at her through heavy lids, trying to bring her into focus.  I'm not sure
if it's the drugs or lack of oxygen, but my brain has been taking it
easy for awhile, my eyes struggling with the concept of remaining open
and peering at the outside world.

I blink once, twice, and for a second Scully's face is clear and looking
like it should.

"The nurse needs to check your vitals, love.  It should only take a few
minutes, okay?"  She twists her fingers through my hair, then sweeps
them across my brow, the way she knows I like so much.  My lids flutter
and begin to slide shut again.  I strain to keep them open, not wanting
to miss one second of Scully's face, not while it's clear and in focus.
And not while it's wearing one of those all too rare killer smiles.  She
leans in and kisses my forehead.  Oh yeah, this is bad.

"Back soon, partner.  Play nice for the nurse."  Her words are barely a
whisper against my ear, then she's gone.  No reason to keep my eyes open
now.  I let them slide shut and turn back to the task at hand.

Breathing.

Scully is right.  The whole procedure of checking my vitals takes only a
few minutes.  I have no need to open my eyes to know she is back in the
room.  I hear the hushed whispers between her and the nurse.  Most of
their conversation is too quiet for me to make out the words, except for
one.  It hangs in the air like a death sentence.  "Respirator."

"No."   I gasp. Not the tube. The thought of anything being forced down
my throat is almost unbearable.  It feels raw and swollen.  Swallowing
is a nightmare, talking almost impossible.  Not to mention the act of
breathing.  But I *can* do it.  I *will* manage. No more foreign objects
shoved down my throat.

I feel Scully take my hand.  I know this is the prelude to her
explanation of how necessary it is to use the respirator to keep me
alive.  I open my eyes.  I at least owe her the courtesy of looking at
her as I present my argument, however limited and feeble that may be.  I
lick my lips in preparation.

"No."  I repeat.  Okay so I'm not going to win any points for my
debating team, but hey, that took a lot of effort.

"Hey, how are you doing?"  Don't ignore me, Scully.

"No...respirator."  Please, don't make me do this.  It hurts too much to
talk.

She gives me the facts.  The Dr Scully sensible facts, and I know that
what she is saying is right.  But I can't do it. I just can't.

"Hate it."  More coughing.  More blood.  It's getting worse.  I know it
is.

Scully wipes my mouth and explains what Skinner is trying to do. I
appreciate his efforts, but what are the odds of finding this guy and
then him being able to help me?

"Long shot."  I rasp.

"We investigate long shots, Mulder.  That's what the X-Files is all
about."

That takes me by surprise.  Very clever, Scully, play me at my own
game.  She's learning.  But I have to make her understand. Unless they
can find a way of killing the beetles and their eggs there's no point to
the ventilator.  How long is it going to keep me alive? Days? Weeks?
Years?   Until my lungs are so completely full of squirming, wriggling
bugs that the damage is irreversible? So, I get to live here like a
vegetable, machines replacing my brain, doing the work of my lungs, my
heart, my kidneys, living my life for me?  Scully visiting me, wearing
herself down.  Never moving on because I continue to exist in a hospital
hooked up to life support, reminding her of the past.  No.  I won't put
her through that.  I won't be that kind of a burden on the one person
that has ever really given a damn about me.

I muster up what's left of my waning strength.  "Don't
want...be...produce section."

"Mulder.  I don't..."

"Promise."  Please don't argue with me, Scully.  You, of all people
should understand what I'm asking.

She strokes my brow again.  It feels so good.  I lean into her touch,
savoring the feel of her hand against my skin.  She speaks to me as she
touches me, and I know she understands.  Relief floods through me. I
knew I could trust you Scully. Knew I could.

The moment is broken by the clatter of more equipment being wheeled into
the cubicle.

"Agent Mulder," Dr McManus addresses me,  "you aren't getting enough
oxygen on your own power.  We're going to have to hook you up to a
ventilator and give you some help.  Do you understand?"

Scully?  My eyes latch onto hers, and I see it.  Love, hope,
desperation.  She feels all those things for me?  How can I give up?
Wouldn't I expect her to fight if our situations were reversed?  Damn
straight I would.  Should I be asking her to expect any less of me?  The
short answer is no.  I make my decision and nod, giving the doctor the
go ahead.

He starts explaining the procedure, what he's going to do.  Don't waste
your breath, Doc, you're talking to an old pro.

"Been...there."

McManus seems to find that amusing. "Okay, here we go."

I watch the nurse inject something into my IV.  A sedative, I suppose.
Almost immediately I feel its effects.  My eyes grow heavy, my tongue
thickens, and I feel my grasp on Scully's hand begin to loosen.  I try
to hold on but my fingers will not co-operate.  Cloth around my other
wrist.  Restraint?  Then the torture begins.

Accustomed as I am to this procedure, I'm pretty sure most of the
insertions have been done while I've been unconscious, only the
unpleasant extubations taking place while I've been awake.  If I ever
thought having the tube pulled free was bad, it is nothing compared to
this.  My gag reflex kicks in instinctively, trying to repel the
intrusive plastic tubing that bumps and scratches its way along the back
of my throat to my lungs.  I gag again.  This is much worse than I
expected.  I start to pull at the restraint. Get it out.  Get. It. Out.
STOP.  Scully.  No.  I can't do this.  I thrash and gasp, but still they
persist.  SCULLY!  Help me.

"Agent Mulder!  Age..."

McManus is yelling at me.  Get the hell away from me.  You're choking
me.  I should never have agreed to this.  I shake my head but it's held
tight.  McManus disappears from my line of sight.  In his place is
Scully.  She holds my face in her hands.  Lemme go, Scully! Please, make
them stop.  I feel myself gagging, my stomach heaving.

"Mulder.  Mulder!  Look at me."

Scully?  I fix my eyes on her face.

"Relax."  She strokes my cheek.  I try to do as she says.  Relax,
relax.  "Breathe with the machine. In.  Out.  In.  Out."

Right.  In. Out. In. Out.  It gets a little easier.  I make a conscious
effort to relax my muscles.  Shoulders, arms, legs, neck.  Yeah, it's
getting better.  Easier.  Scully keeps up her gentle crooning.  I focus
on that.  I'm breathing, the machine is breathing.  I let it do the
work. Tired again.  Can't sleep, might not wake up.  Don't have a
choice. Eyes won't stay open.  Head won't stay clear.  The rhythmic hiss
of the respirator fills my ears.  Can't fight it any more.  Don't...
want... to.


Continued in part 5

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>
Date: Sat, 20 May 2000 15:59:05 -0500
Subject: xfc: NEW: Smoked (5 of 6)
Source: xfc

Smoked (5 of 6)
By Sally Bahnsen and Dawn


Asheville Medical Center
11:58 p.m.

******************
Scully
******************


Susan gives an apologetic wince as she adjusts the respirator to further
augment Mulder's breathing. He's past the point of protesting, barely
even lucid most of the time now, and though I know he hears me I'm not
sure he understands. The machine may be doing most of his breathing but
it can't compensate for diminished blood flow through the lung tissue.

Time is running out.

I can't stop agonizing over whether I've made the correct decision or
consigned Mulder to a death sentence. Maybe if I'd allowed McManus to do
the surgery, to really clean out Mulder's lungs... But no, he never would
have survived the strain on his heart and lungs, he was much too weak.
Still, just sitting here and watching him slip away, doing absolutely
nothing...

My cellphone trills and I scramble to answer it with trembling fingers.

*PleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGod*

"Scully."

"We've got Weaver and are en route to the medical center. He's taken a
hit in the shoulder and will need treatment ASAP. I'd say we're about
ten minutes out."

Skinner's voice, clipped and gruff, may just be the sweetest thing I've
ever heard. I realize I've snapped to attention and am nodding in spite
of the fact that he can't see me. The man's presence, even over the
phone, is larger than life.

"Yes sir. We'll be standing by."

I tuck the phone back into my pocket and stand, staring down into
Mulder's pale face. I have to get McManus, prepare things for Weaver's
arrival, but leaving Mulder proves to be much more complicated than
simply making my feet move. I glance furtively over my shoulder to be
certain I'm unobserved before brushing a kiss over first his forehead
and then the corner of his mouth.

"Don't you quit on me now, Mulder," I whisper, my attempt to sound stern
spoiled by the quaver in my voice. "Help is on the way - do you hear
me?"

Amazingly, his eyelids drift open a crack to reveal a glitter of hazel.
I have no way of knowing if he comprehended what I just said, but the
display of stubborn determination comforts me.

The next ten minutes pass in a jumble of activity, and by the time the
EMTs rush Weaver into the ER my heart is pounding with nervous
anticipation.

"How's Mulder?" Skinner calls immediately, and despite my anxiety I'm
warmed by his concern.

"Not good," I reply shortly. To say more would be to betray the depth of
my feelings - something I can't afford. "Let's get bloodwork on this
man."

We rush Weaver into an exam room, McManus on my heels. I force myself to
look at Darrel Weaver through objective eyes, though my brain screams
that he's the reason the man I love knocks at death's door. Rather than
the devil incarnate, I see a fairly unremarkable man with thinning hair
and grubby clothing. He evidently doesn't spend much time on personal
hygiene, I note sardonically as my eyes travel down his grime-streaked
arms to his yellowed fingertips. Maybe if he put out his cigarette and
climbed into the shower...

Everything around me, the bustle of ER personnel and McManus's quiet
instructions, fades from existence as my eyes lock onto those callused
yellow digits. Nicotine stains, my mind notes absently. Something only
the heaviest of smokers develop. How many packs has Weaver been smoking
each day, to wind up with those stains? Far more than the average one to
two packs of a moderately heavy smoker.

Unusual to smoke so much. Very unusual. Imagine the nicotine level in
Weaver's blood stream...

My heart lurches. "Wait a minute.  Wait a minute," I mutter, frowning to
combat the sudden surge of hope that blindsides me. "Get me 30
milligrams of methyl pyrrolidinyl pyridine."

McManus's eyebrows skyrocket. "Nicotine?"

*Do not question me on this* I think, knowing I've just made a
Mulderleap. If the answer could only be this simple...

"Yeah," I confirm, ignoring his doubts and my own. I look up at
Skinner's puzzled face, half-afraid to voice my hopes. "I think this
could save Mulder's life."

The nurse looks to McManus for confirmation and he reluctantly nods.
While she prepares a syringe I turn back to Skinner.

"Nicotine is a strong poison," I explain, trying not to chafe at the
delay. When Skinner continues to look baffled I add, "It was actually
used as an insecticide at one time."

Understanding floods his face. "Do you really think it will work?"

I tip my head toward Weaver. "Look at his fingers. He's obviously an
incredibly heavy smoker. Could be that's what kept him alive."

"Maybe we should go with a lower dose," McManus cautions. "Thirty
milligrams could result in overdose."

"We can't afford for even one of those things to survive," I argue.

"So you're hoping the nicotine will do for Mulder what smoking did for
Weaver," Skinner muses.

"Exactly. If I'm right, the nicotine will kill the bugs, the larvae, and
even the eggs."

"If it doesn't kill Agent Mulder first," McManus mutters.

I glare at him and accept the proffered syringe, heading for ICU as fast
as my legs will carry me. How dare McManus be the voice of doom?

How dare he verbalize my fears?

"Pull the tube," I order Susan as I breeze into the cubicle.

"Pull...I don't...?" She looks at me as if I've lost my mind, then over to
McManus to see if he'll protest.

"If this drug has the effect that I think it will, those things are
going to do whatever they can to get the hell out of Mulder's body," I
snap, swabbing the injection port on the I.V. "I intend to give them a
path of least resistance."

I see McManus nod out of the corner of my eye, and I empty the syringe
as Susan disconnects the ventilator and removes the tube from Mulder's
throat. I stand rigidly, eyes darting between the monitors and Mulder's
face. For a long moment nothing happens. Then, abruptly, the monitors go
wild.

And so does Mulder.

His eyes fly wide open and he gags and chokes, his body convulsing. His
heart monitor beeps wildly and Susan desperately attempts to restrain
his flailing limbs. McManus darts to the other side of the bed just as
Mulder's heartrate plunges.

"He's not breathing! Code Blue, get the..."

His command ends in a horrified gasp as black tobacco beetles squirm out
of Mulder's nose and mouth only to drop onto the bed and floor,
lifeless. Susan shrieks and scoots backward so fast that she nearly
knocks over the ventilator. Shaking off my immobility, I grab Mulder,
roll him to his side, and wait helplessly until the last invader drops
onto the pillow near his cheek. The convulsions abruptly cease and
Mulder goes completely still. Brushing stray insects out of the way, I
turn to look for Susan.

"Get the hell over here and run the code, we're losing him!"


******************
Mulder
******************


"Hello Fox."

"Who are you?"

"I think you know."  Can't see.  Too dark.  How did he get in?

"What are you doing here?"

"This is my domain, Fox.  You're here because I invited you."

"No.  This is a hospital, you can't be in here."

"Take a look around you.  Does this look like a hospital?"

Smoke, thick and heavy with the stench of tobacco.  All around me. Where
the hell am I?

"Very good Fox.  Hell.  That's one word to describe it."

"What do you mean?"

"It's time to choose, Fox.  This is all about choices."

"What choices?  What are you talking about?"

"You still don't know which side you're on do you, son?"

"I'm not on *any* side."

"You know Fox, most people believe they're on the side of angels.  Is
that what you believe?"

"I don't believe in angels."

"Ah.  But that's not true.  What about your sister?  What do you believe
happened to her?"

I feel a cold sweat trailing down my back.  Soaking my under arms.  Who
is this guy?

"Come on, Fox.  I'm waiting for an answer."

"Well, go ahead an wait.  I have nothing to say to you.  I don't even
know who you are!"

"You'd like to know though, wouldn't you?  What if I could give you the
answers, Fox?  All the answers to all the questions you've ever asked?
Whose side would you be on then?"

"Are you offering me the answers?"

"It's your choice, Fox."

"And what's in it for you?"

"Why, you join me of course."

"I don't even know who you are!"

"Does it matter?  To have the knowledge you so desperately seek.
Wouldn't it be worth it?

"What are you talking about?  Come out and show yourself."

Footsteps.  Muted.  Dull.

"YOU! "

"Do you like what you see?"

"Yes.  I do. I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch!"  And I lunge at
him.

My feet.  Stuck to the ground.   I look down, searching for the reason I
am unable to move.  Oh God.  Snakes.  Around my ankles, twisting up my
legs.  NOOOO!  Higher.  Hissing.  Slithering.   I lose my balance, crash
to the floor.  Another one.  Coiled around my chest. Squeezing.
Crushing.  I can't breathe.  I try to pull it off.  Arms, won't move.
More snakes around my wrists.  Holding me down.  I twist my head.  No,
no, no, NO!  Beetles.  Crawling over me, surrounding me.  On my neck.
Scuttling higher.  Over my chin.  In my mouth. I spit and gag. God,
they're everywhere.  Help me.  SCULLEEEEE!  No air.  I feel my body
tremble, my arms, legs, twitching.  Above me a giant snake, ready,
primed, hissing, squealing.  Squealing, squealing...

"Hold him down!  He's seizing!"  Voices.  Faces. Who?  Snakes.  Still
squealing.   No, not snakes.  OH GOD.  Beetles.  In my mouth.  I gag.
They're choking me.  They're...SCULLY...H...Help...M...me...

Light.  Bright light.  So warm.  Peaceful.  I feel myself being drawn to
it.  Calm.  Gentle.  Floating.

"Fox.  Honey."

Mom?  Is that you?

"..lder!"

Aaah!  Scully?  Mom?  Mom.  Warmth.  The light, calling me. Drifting.
Higher.  So... peaceful.  I'm coming.

"...ulder!"

AAAAh!  Pain!  All around me.  In my chest.  Gagging.  God, it hurts.
SCULLLEEE!  No!  Squeezing.  Pressing, into my chest.

"Clear!"  Ah!  A jolting agony shoots through my chest again.  Then it
stops.  Nothing.  Voices.  I think I hear Skinner.  Not sure.  And
Scully, yes, I hear Scully.  Cold sting on my arm.  Voices, fading.
Can't think.  My head is heavy, my body numb.  Sinking.  Deeper and
deeper into the darkness...


******************
Scully
******************


It takes McManus three tries to jumpstart Mulder's heart, and mine
nearly stops in the process. Eventually it maintains an acceptable
rhythm and his breathing, though labored, is steady. McManus, Susan, and
I gaze shakily from each other to the dead insects littering the floor.

"Is he okay? Does this mean it worked?"

Skinner's voice startles me, and I look over to where he stands
uncomfortably, just inside the doorway. If his jaw were any tighter it
might crack in two.

"Dr. McManus will need to perform another deep suction to remove the
dead larvae," I tell him wearily. "And we'll need another set of x-rays
to be sure. But if this is any indication" - I toe a dead beetle with
the tip of my shoe - "I'd say there's a good chance it worked."

Skinner grimaces. "I'm going to check on Weaver. Keep me posted."

It seems the events of the last twelve hours have finally convinced
McManus to defer to my judgement. He scrubs his eyes wearily with the
heels of his hands and sighs heavily. "Susan, prep Agent Mulder for
another deep suctioning." He wrinkles his nose. "And get an orderly in
here to clean up."

Susan waits until McManus leaves the cubicle before looking at me
sheepishly. "I'm very sorry Doctor Scully. I know it's no excuse, but
I've been a nurse for ten years and I've never seen anything like that."

I curb a sharp retort, reminding myself that the past seven years have
conditioned me to expect the unexpected in all it's most bizarre forms.
"Forget it," I tell her. "I'm going to wash my hands. I'll be right
back."

I spend long moments soaping and rinsing, unable to shake the sensation
of the hard shells beneath my fingertips. I turn off the water and lean
on the sink, staring at my haggard face in the mirror. I reach slowly up
to touch first my nose and then my lips, eyes slamming shut as I
remember the way the bugs poured out of Mulder.

*They're dead* I tell myself firmly. *It's all over now. You killed
them*

But another, quieter voice chimes in.

*And you nearly killed Mulder.*

Tears escape the barriers I've erected and squeeze past my tightly
closed eyelids, scalding my cheeks. I shudder helplessly and sink to my
knees, no longer attempting to stifle my sobs.

It's not over for me. It won't be for a long time.


Concluded in part 6

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>
Date: Sat, 20 May 2000 16:00:48 -0500
Subject: xfc: NEW: Smoked (6 of 6)
Source: xfc

Smoked (6 of 6)
By Sally Bahnsen and Dawn


Asheville Medical Center
Next day
1:14 p.m.

******************
Mulder
******************


I give the remote control a shake.  Yeah, okay, I know the remote isn't
responsible for the crap that is served up on daytime television.  But
I've gotta take my frustration out on something.  The staff won't come
near me. I don't know what their problem is.  All I did was ask to use
the bathroom instead of the plastic bottle.  I mean, what's the big
deal?  I'm breathing unaided and the Foley's gone, so they must figure
I'm capable of peeing on my own.   It wasn't my fault the IV nearly came
out when I tried to get out of bed and go by myself.  I moved too
quickly and the blood rushed to my feet.  If they'd given me a minute I
would have been fine.

And I guess they weren't too happy with my reaction to lunch.  Apart
from the fact that my throat is killing me and I have a headache the
size of New York City, I really thought I might have been able to manage
some Jell-O.  That was until they removed the lid to expose some kind of
rice pudding concoction.  My stomach lurched uncontrollably as images of
maggots jumped out at me from the bowl.  My enthusiasm for food took a
nosedive and I indicated where they could stick their hospital food.

That was about an hour ago.  I've been left to my own devices since
then.  Lots of time to think.  To ponder how differently this could have
turned out.  I owe Scully my life.  Again.  And Skinner.  Neither one of
them gave up on me.  It must have been hard for Scully, I know she
doesn't really trust Skinner. Not after what happened to me when we
found the artifact.  I hope this will restore some of her faith in him.
I've tried to explain to her but she gets this pigheaded look on her
face and I know I'm fighting a losing battle.

I wonder how Weaver is doing.  Another victim of big business using
whatever means they can to make money.  Well, maybe what happened to me
will be enough to close them down.  Stop the moneymen from playing with
people's lives all in the name of profit.

I sigh, and a cough breaks free.  An ominous warning that it's not over
yet.  I've been told I'll need therapy and medication to repair the
damage to my lungs.   I guess that cancels out running for awhile and
field agent status.  Back to desk duty.  Yet again.  Oh, yeah, I'm real
pleased about that.  I should stop whining and thank my lucky stars I'm
able to work at all.  The alternative is...well...let's just say it's
kind of hard to work when you're dead.  It was touch and go this time.
I'm still not sure how Scully came up with the idea of the nicotine.
And more to the point, to follow through and use it.  She really had to
make that call on the fly, and she 's not big on that sort of thing.
That's more my style.  Scully likes to analyze the situation, weigh up
all the odds, and then make her decision.  Me, I don't waste my time
doing that. I have a tendency to bulldoze right ahead and add up the
damage later. I guess that's why it's usually me in the hospital and not
Scully.  This time though, the chips were down and in a tight situation
she made the right call.  Just like I knew she would.  I can't think of
anyone I'd rather have fighting on my side than her.

So, now it's a waiting game.  The doctors want to make sure there's no
permanent damage, that I don't have a relapse.  Relapse -- that's a
doctor euphemism for "we want to make sure there's no more bugs
hibernating in your lungs." I shudder at the thought.  Trust me, no one
wants to make sure of that more than I do.

How long have I been awake now?  It must be about 4 hours and already
I'm bored out of my mind.  I'd try and get out of bed and stretch my
legs if I didn't think it would create a national incident.  I glance at
the TV, reach for the remote, and start flicking through the channels
again.

"Days of our Lives."  "The Bold and the Beautiful."  "Jerry Springer."
Hmm, that has potential.  Oh, no.  Not the guy who married his sister's
best friend's cousin's adopted daughter only to dump her in favor of his
brother's girlfriend's son!  I saw that one last time I was in the
hospital.  I continue my surfing until the frowning face of Judge Judy
fills the screen.  I leave it there.  Well, it's good for a laugh if
nothing else.

My attention is held for about five minutes.  I cannot believe the
networks have such little regard for the intelligence of the general
population.  Do they seriously expect people to watch these shows?  My
patience frays to tattered shreds.  I have the urge to be doing
something but I don't know what.  All I know is that sitting here doing
nothing is driving me crazy, despite my weakened physical state.

I shift restlessly in my bed.   How long are they gonna keep me in this
time?  And where's Scully?   I need to know what's happening with Voss.
And Skinner -- I thought he might have called by to at least tell me
what is going on.

I pick up the remote and give some consideration to hurling it through
the television.  That should endear me to the staff.  Then of course
there's Scully.  Do I really want to have to explain that kind of
outburst to her?  Damn it, I hate hospitals.

Back to channel surfing, surely there must be something worth
watching.   If they had cable...

The door opens.  Another nurse, come to give...Scully!  At last.

"Hey, Scully."   Is that husky, grating voice really mine?

She reminds me to whisper and that's all the encouragement I need to
start moaning about what a hellhole it is here.  She seems to find this
amusing and I realize my bitterness is subsiding as she giggles over my
criticism of Judge Judy and daytime TV in general.

Scully giggling -- pure delight.

I abruptly understand just how much I have to live for and how grateful
I should be for this second chance at life.

 Scully's face is drawn and pale.  It's been rough on her too.   I want
to hold her, tell her it's okay.  I need her close to me.

I pat the mattress, inviting her to sit with me on the bed.   My action
goes against all convention, she is not going to be comfortable with
this.  But I came too close to bowing out last night and I don't want to
waste our time dancing around protocol.  Besides, who's going to see us
here?  She is near enough for me to grab her hand.  I do, and pull her
towards the bed.

She gives token resistance as she climbs up next to me.  Even as she is
snuggling closer she continues to offer weak protest.  "A nurse will
need to check your vitals."

"Not if you get there first."  I lift an eyebrow suggestively.  I know
I've won when she puffs a defeated sigh and shifts herself into a
comfortable position beside me.  I mold my body around hers and for the
first time since waking up I feel myself begin to relax.  I wonder how I
ever managed before Scully came into my life.  My very existence depends
on her now.

"Scully?"

"Yes, Mulder?"

"Thank you."  Thank you for being there, for loving me and for saving
me.

"I'm just staying here a little while, Mulder, so don't get used to
it."  I'm not sure why she is deflecting me like this, feigning
ignorance.  Something is bothering her.  I tighten my grip on her hand.

"I owe you.  Big time."  More than you'll ever know, Scully.

She shakes her head.  I feel her body tremble against mine.  Her voice
is tight and choked when she speaks to me.

"You don't owe me anything.  It's only by the grace of God that you're
sitting here right now!  What I did, the decisions I made, could have
killed you, Mulder.  They nearly did."

Oh, Scully.  You *saved* me.  Your motives were purely selfless.  How
many times have I put you in danger, risked your life for my own selfish
reasons?  Again and again.  I have nearly lost you more times than I
care to remember, all in the name of my quest. And now you sit here and
doubt your decisions? Decisions that were based solely on what was best
for me?  I've put you through so much, Scully. So much.  I reach up and
run my fingers through her hair, parting the silky crop that covers the
scar on her neck.  A scar that exists because of me, because of the X
-Files.

"Me too," is all I can manage at the moment.  This time she gambled with
my life, gambled against the odds and won.  The alternative? Certain
death.

Scully turns her head and stares at me.  Her expression is both puzzled
and incredulous.  She holds my gaze as if trying to understand exactly
what I mean.  I find it fascinating that she has to think quite so
hard.  My lips curl as I answer her.  "Long shots.  It's what the
X-Files is all about."

She loses the frown and replaces it with a tired smile of her own.
"That's very profound, Mulder.  Where'd you hear that?"

I slide further down in the bed and nuzzle my head into her shoulder. "A
very reliable source.  The only one I trust."   I wonder if she hears me
as my eyes slip shut and a peaceful sleep claims me.



******************
Scully
******************


Twelve hours later and I'm staring in disbelief at another set of
x-rays. This time, however, my incredulity is mixed with joy and not
horror. The second deep suctioning did an admirable job of clearing away
dead larvae and ridding Mulder's lungs of debris. He won't be running
anytime soon, and he's got a lingering cough from the trauma to his
lungs and trachea, but he's already breathing without assistance.

"Your partner is an incredibly lucky guy. Lots of rest, the right
medication, and some respiratory therapy and he should make a full
recovery." McManus shakes his head with a wry grin. "With your
permission I'd like to write this one up for the journals - if I can get
anyone to take me seriously enough to look at the data."

I shrug. "Go right ahead, though I don't think it's my permission you
need to worry about. I have a feeling Morley Tobacco will fight to keep
this quiet."

I turn to leave, anxious to get back to Mulder, but McManus stops me
with a hand on my arm. "Agent Scully, I just want to say..." He stops,
fumbles with the chart in his hands, and shuffles his feet. "I know
we've had our differences of opinion about your partner's treatment. I
hope you know my opposition was based solely on concern for Agent
Mulder's health and not mistrust of your credentials as a physician. You
did a hell of a job, and your partner owes you his life."

I acknowledge his affirmation externally, yet can't seem to accept it
internally. About four o'clock this morning Skinner banished me to the
couch in the nurses' lounge, vowing to call immediately if any
complications arose. For three hours I drifted from one nightmare to the
next, slight variations on a theme that inevitably ended with me
administering an injection that stopped Mulder's heart. Permanently.

Now I'm even taking on Mulder's propensity for guilt.

I know Mulder is alive at this moment because I took a risk, just as
surely as I know Mulder would have approved of my actions -- had he been
able. What haunts me is how terribly close those actions came to killing
rather than curing him. If Weaver hadn't been the key, if Skinner hadn't
located Weaver in time, if the nicotine had poisoned Mulder beyond
resuscitation...

I held Mulder's life in my hands and made choices that could just as
easily have ended it. A shiver runs down my spine and I pause outside
Mulder's door, one hand propped on the jamb, to steady my nerves. There
was a sound, practical reason I chose pathology all those years ago. I'm
not cut out for playing God.

Mulder is sitting up in bed, thumbing the remote with rapid-fire
precision and scowling at the meager daytime television offerings. His
darkened eyes and the taut skin over his jaw and cheekbones signal a
fatigue that is at odds with the pointless channel surfing and restless
shifting of arms and legs. Tired as he is, both the nicotine and the
medications to ease his breathing have the equivalent effect of dropping
speed. He's jittery and irritable, his throat is raw from the medical
procedures, and his chest aches each time he tries to draw a deep
breath. The result? Mulder at his worst, the patient from hell. He's
darn lucky that he's cute or I think the nurses would have euthanized
him by now.

His expression transforms when I step through the doorway, pleasure and
affection replacing bored indifference. I can't help the warmth that
floods me or the unbridled smile that takes over my mouth.

"Hey, Scully," he greets me.

Well, he tries. What actually leaves his throat is a hoarse, grating
mutation of his normally mellow voice, accompanied by a wince.

"No talking, remember? Just whisper," I chide gently. "Anything good
on?"

It's not as if I couldn't read the answer to that question in the sour
twist of his lips, but Mulder - being Mulder - feels the need to
elaborate.

"This place is a speed bump in the road of life, Scully," he whines
thinly. "They don't even have cable."

"No Cartoon Network, huh? I'll report them to the AMA," I respond dryly.
"Been stuck watching soap operas?"

His pout deepens. "Worse. Judge Judy marathon."

I can't catch the giggle before it sneaks past my lips but it's worth
the delight on Mulder's face. He loves making me laugh; I love making
him work for it. He slides to the right and pats the mattress
invitingly, unrepentant when I raise an eyebrow in disapproval.

"Mulder, I am not getting in bed with you."

"Chair's hard as a rock," he argues whispily.

"Skinner said he'd stop by this afternoon, he could walk in any minute,"
I counter, but I let him snag my hand and pull me closer.

"Skinner already knows, I heard he won the pool," Mulder smirks.

"What p... Never mind, I don't want to know." My right hip balances on the
edge of the mattress but my left foot remains anchored to the tile.
"Even if he knows, that doesn't mean we have to flaunt it."

"Nothing to flaunt," Mulder rasps, and somehow my backside is now
planted firmly on the bed, one traitorous leg stretched cozily along
his. "There's a blanket and a sheet between us."

The solid warmth of his body seduces Dana, but Agent Scully musters one
more token protest. "A nurse will need to check your vitals..."

"Not if you get there first."

The man has no voice, yet he can still leer. Why should I be surprised?

Sighing, I admit defeat and settle more comfortably into the bed. The
heart monitor's regular beep, though a little fast, comforts me, and
each wheezy breath is music to my ears. Mulder fidgets for several
minutes before finally quieting and the tension in his body slowly
dissipates. I try to remain still, hoping he'll find his way to sleep.

"Scully?" Not drowsy, but calm - even serene.

"Yes, Mulder?"

"Thank you."

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and try to pretend ignorance. "I'm just
staying here for a little while, Mulder, so don't get used to it."

His fingers tighten on mine and I know that somehow, instinctively, he
understands what I'm trying to do, and why. And, as always, he refuses
to leave me my illusions.

"I owe you. Big time."

I shake my head vehemently. Tears clog the back of my throat so that my
reply sounds as strangled as Mulder's.

"You don't owe me anything. It's only by the grace of God that you're
sitting here right now! What I did, the decisions I made, could have
killed you, Mulder. They nearly did."

His hand reaches up to comb through my hair in what I mistake for a
soothing gesture until I feel his fingertips trace the tiny scar at the
base of my neck. I freeze, mesmerized.

"Me too."

I turn and stare into his eyes, bright sparks of life in a wan face. One
corner of his mouth turns up. "Long shots. It's what the X-Files are all
about."

Deep inside me, a wound begins to heal and I manage a bleary smile.
"That's very profound, Mulder. Where'd you hear that?"

He wriggles down and drops his head onto my shoulder with a blissful
sigh. "Very reliable source. The only one I trust," he murmurs sleepily.

That's good enough for me.


The End