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   This author's e-mail address has changed to: d-k-g@invor.com
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From: Lil XPhile <LilXPhile@aol.com>
Date: Thu, 9 Apr 1998 21:36:11 EDT
Subject: NF> What Really Happened II (1/2)

TITLE: What =Really= Happened II: Demons Aftermath 1/2
AUTHOR: Deborah Goldstein
E-MAIL ADDRESS: dkg@teleport.com
RATING: PG--swear words only
CATEGORY: Story
SUBCATEGORY: Angst
SPOILERS: Demons--US 4th season
KEYWORDS: Character dies, Mulder/Scully friendship
SUMMARY: The title says it all, but the ending is up for grabs. 
_Not_ a sequel to "What =Really= Happened I".
DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Mrs. Mulder and Mrs.
Scully, The Lone Gunmen and "Northeast Georgetown Hospital"
belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox
Broadcasting, and are used without permission. The rest is mine.

DISTRIBUTION: Ask me for permission to archive. You're sure to get it, but I
want to know where it's going.

Thanks to the International MulderBashing Society (or whatever
we're calling it this week) for threatening to kick me out if I
didn't write another story.


What =Really= Happened II: Demons Aftermath
by Deborah Goldstein <dkg@teleport.com>


Scully watched the ambulance pull away, siren wailing, lights
flashing, and her heart went with it, though her feet stayed
firmly planted. This was one ambulance trip Mulder would make
alone, because she had to talk to the police, convince them not
to press charges against Mulder for what he'd just done.

And talk she did. It took more than an hour, but she was finally
free to see Mulder. Assuming he was OK. Assuming he hadn't had
another seizure, a grand mal one this time.

* * * * *

She chose the Emergency Room entrance. It was possible Mulder was
still there, rather than having already been admitted to a room.
Besides, if he had been admitted, it was after visiting hours and
they wouldn't let her visit if she went through the front doors.
A quick stop at the ER registration desk to find out where he was
took much longer than she expected because the clerk made her
fill out the admit papers.

Finally, twenty minutes after she arrived, she went through to
cubicle 4, just in time to see a nurse gathering the last of
Mulder's clothing off the floor to stuff into a garbage can. She
winced: Mulder would never have let them cut off his clothes if
he'd been conscious. So he'd had another seizure, bad enough this
time to make him not care what the doctors and nurses were doing
to him. With an unvoiced sigh, she approached the nurse. "Excuse
me. Can you tell me what room Agent Mulder was admitted to?"

The nurse startled, nearly dropping Mulder's shoes and the
plastic bag she held. "Oh! I didn't hear you come in. You're . .
..?"

Of course they wouldn't give out information to a stranger.
Scully pulled out her ID and flipped it open. "Special Agent Dana
Scully. I'm his partner."

After a careful comparison of the picture to her face, the nurse
gave back the wallet. "He's in Neuro Intensive Care, so they can
monitor him. He had a seizure in the ambulance, and then a bad
one, lasting nearly ten minutes, here. We--"

Scully interrupted. "How much Valium did it take to stop it? Was
he sedated sleepy or post-seizure sleepy when he went upstairs?"
A frown and a wave of her hand that encompassed the cubicle
accompanied her next sentence. "Did he have any idea what you
were doing to him?"

Taking a deep breath, the nurse said, "Agent Scully, you need to
talk to his doctors. Dr. Farmington was the doctor here, and he's
been transferred to Dr. Joel Smith, one of the neurology
residents. You need to remember that it's _Joel_ Smith. His twin
brother Jeff is on during the day." She finished putting Mulder's
shoes into the bag and handed it over. "His wallet and ID were
given to Security to be locked up. Any of the guards can direct
you."

Scully nodded, then took a quick look around the main ER area.
"Um . . . that way?" She pointed to a door at the far end of the
area.

"Sorry, no, to your right. See?" She pointed to a green door.
"Through there, then take the elevator to five. Neuro ICU is to
the left."


The elevator was empty and the fifth floor hall was empty. The
ICU waiting room was empty. That was either good (the families
were at home because the patients were doing well), or very bad
(the families were in the ICU because the patients weren't
expected to last the night). In the first case, the nurses
wouldn't be too busy; in the second, they'd be running their
asses off. She mentally crossed her fingers and pushed the door
open.

Silence, except for the various beeping monitors. The nurses were
sitting at the nurses' station, writing and talking. Mulder had
lucked out: he'd get all the help he needed if he had another
seizure.

Just as she reached the nurses' station, to ask which room he was
in, one of the monitors, in one of the rooms, started screaming
its alarm. On the heels of that came a "Shit!", followed by "He's
seizing again. Carol, IV Valium. Stat!"

She spun away and ran to the last room, sidestepping the nurse
running for the Valium. Someone, probably Dr. Joel Smith, was
trying to hold Mulder's head away from the bed rail, letting the
rest of his body do whatever the muscle spasms dictated. She
hurried around to the far side of the bed and grabbed Mulder's
left foot and ankle, trying to push his leg back through that bed
rail. That failed when his hip and knee muscles spasmed into
flexion, and suddenly it was all she could do to prevent him from
breaking his leg against the unforgiving plastic of the rail.

It was three minutes after Carol came back with the Valium (and a
second nurse to help hold Mulder) before the seizure ended. She
spent the time hanging onto the leg grimly and wishing Mulder
could have waited the few extra minutes till the padding was in
place inside the bed rails. 

"Thank you. You probably saved him from having a cast or surgery
on that leg. I'm Dr. Joel Smith. You are . . .?" The doctor
finished velcroing the padding into place on his side of the bed,
stripped off his gloves and held out his hand.

Scully came back around the foot of the bed and took the hand.
Joel had a firm grasp and shook her hand as if he really was
pleased to meet her. "Special Agent Dana Scully. I'm Mulder's
partner. I hold his Medical Power of Attorney." Best to get that
out of the way now, so they'd know who they were dealing with.

"Good. Right now Mr. Mulder's in no shape to make any decisions
for himself. Can you tell me anything about his seizures? When
did they start? How many he's had?"

She looked around the room. Now that Mulder was out of the ER
(and quiet) the nurses were setting up things for a sponge bath,
to clean off the sweat, saliva, and tears--and the feces from
when he lost control of his bowels. The Foley catheter had
prevented him from wetting himself. "Is there somewhere more
private where we can talk?"

The doctor shook his head, an abrupt jerk like he was coming to
his senses. "Of course! I'm sorry. Let's leave Carol and Joanna
to clean your partner up. We can talk at the nurses' station."


The office Dr. Smith led her to was behind the nurses' station,
and from the minuscule size and bare walls and desk, was probably
a dictation office, rather than one belonging to a specific
person. He grabbed one of the nurses' chairs and brought that in
for her before going to sit behind the desk and open Mulder's
chart to take notes. She sat for minute, ordering her memories of
the last few days so she'd include only the pertinent information
and none of the side issues.

"Mulder wanted to recover some memories of his childhood. He went
to see a psychologist, a Dr. Goldstein, whom he'd learned about
on the internet. Dr. Goldstein was using completely unethical
methods, including ketamine, an animal tranquilizer that causes
hallucinations in people, and, God help us all, drilling _holes_
into his patients' skulls. I witnessed five seizures in two days,
three of them not even 30 seconds apart and less than fifteen
minutes before the ambulance arrived to bring him here. He almost
certainly had one before he called me on Sunday morning and
probably had others while we were apart. I suspect he had at
least one last night. Prior to the one in the ER--or maybe the
one in the ambulance--they've been partial seizures, with
momentary muscle weakness, decreased awareness of his
surroundings, severe headache pain, and I think he was having
hallucinations or flashback memories."

Dr. Smith jotted that down and asked, "No prior history of
seizures? No recreational drugs, no alcohol abuse?"

Scully snorted her amusement. "Mulder? Take drugs that he isn't
forced to take? Doctor, when he's awake again, you'll meet the
'real' Fox Mulder, the man who doesn't even like to take
prescribed pain pills because they cloud his thinking and
interfere with his photographic memory. He does take antibiotics:
he learned that lesson the hard way when an infection flared up
again and he landed in the hospital on IV antibiotics for a week.
As for prior seizures, no, of course not. He would never have
passed the physical to become an FBI Agent."

The doctor nodded. "Well, he _won't_ be an agent for a while,
after this. I don't know the laws about using a gun, but in most
states a person can't drive until he or she has gone 6 months
without a seizure, whether that's on medicine or not. Mr. Mulder
will be on anti-seizure medicine for at least a month, more
likely two or three, given the number of seizures he's had. I've
already started him on Dilantin. If that doesn't work, I'll
switch him to Tegretol. The Valium is only temporary. It's--"

She interupted. "It's addicting. But it's the drug of choice to
stop seizures, even in patients already on anti-seizure meds.

"I'm a doctor, a forensic pathologist. It's been a while since my
internship, so I'm a bit rusty on what you'll be doing for
Mulder."

Another nod from Dr. Smith, this time accompanied by a smile.
"And I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to do an autopsy. So
let's go back to basics." He ticked things off on his fingers.
"Get the seizures under control. Prevent him from hurting himself
if he has more seizures. Determine what blood level, what dose,
of Dilantin or Tegretol or whatever will keep the seizures under
control. Make sure he understands why he's got to take the
medicine exactly as prescribed, for as long as prescribed. Get
counseling for him when he realizes that the _minumum_ length of
time he'll be behind a desk is seven-eight months, probably
closer to a year, and possibly even for the rest of his life, if
he continues to have seizures when we try to wean him off the
medicine. Watch for and treat side effects from the Ketamine. And
.. . ." He trailed off, then looked towards Mulder's room and back
to her before continuing. "Did Mr. Mulder let this . . . quack .
.. . drill holes in _his_ head?"

Scully froze. In all the worry about what had happened at his
parents' summer house, and then getting him to agree to go with
the paramedics, she'd forgotten about that. "Yes, yes he did. So
you'll start him on antibiotics and we'll all pray he doesn't get
encephalitis or meningitis or something worse." She stood up. "At
least he's current on his tetanus booster. I'll approve whatever
treatment plan you decide on, Dr. Smith, but right now I need to
make some telephone calls."

Dr. Smith stood up also. "You can use this phone; dial '9' to get
an outside line. This office is normally free at this time of
night, but if I or one of the other doctors need it, you'll have
to leave." With that he left, taking the second chair and closing
the door behind him.

Scully stared at the closed door in bemusement. Dr. Smith was
unbelievable: he was polite, didn't talk over her head or
condescend, and he actually remembered to take the extra chair
out with him. Either his parents had taught him incredible
manners, or someone had slapped him down recently for acting like
the stereotypical arrogant doctor. She preferred to think of him
as well-mannered.


The call to her mother went quickly. Mom would look after her and
Mulder's apartments and collect their mail until things had
settled down and Scully felt she could leave the hospital. She
debated calling Mrs. Mulder and finally decided against it.
Mulder could call himself, when he had decided what to tell her.
It wasn't as if he visited or called his mother every week,
although he apparently did stay in somewhat more regular contact
since her stroke. And it certainly wasn't as if they'd parted on
the best of terms yesterday.

The last call, to Skinner, was the one she dreaded. She had no
idea what the Assistant Director would do when told that Mulder
would be riding a desk for eight to twelve months. Unless, of
course, the FBI doctors could be convinced to make an exception,
to let Mulder do field work as long as he didn't drive. But the
odds on that were astronomical.

She made sure she had her voice under strict control, Special
Agent Dana Scully, M.D. testifying in court control, with not a
single emotion showing, before she picked up the phone. She made
it all the way through what she had to say, and then waited,
terrified at what Skinner might unleash at her, as if it were
_her_ decision that Mulder couldn't work.

He surprised her. No, stunned her, with his calm acceptance. As
if somehow he'd known it would come to this. "All right, Agent
Scully. Thank you for calling. I'll start the paperwork and see
what I can find for Agent Mulder to do until he can requalify.
The ISU obviously would love to have him back, but I doubt he'll
want to go there.

"As far as your position goes, I'm sure Quantico will take you
back, and I know Violent Crimes would be pleased to have you. If,
on the other hand, you want to continue in the X Files section,
I'll start looking for a temporary partner for you. When you've
decided what you want to do, let me know." She thought he was
going to hang up then, but his voice changed, stopped being the
A.D. and became personal. "Agent Scully? Dana? How are _you_
doing? Have you called your mother? You shouldn't have to handle
this alone. If you want, I can explain things to Mulder so he
won't . . . "

The first sob caught her totally unaware, and then she had
dropped the phone and was simply crying, clutching the plastic
bag of Mulder's shoes that she'd completely forgotten she was
still carrying. It wasn't until someone came in and hung up the
phone that she was able to control herself enough to look up. Up
into the compassionate eyes of the hospital chaplin.

"Agent Scully? I'm Gregory Markham, the night Chaplin. Assistant
Director Skinner asked that someone come be with you now, until
he and your mother can get here." He handed her some tissues and
helped her stand. "Do you want to see your partner before we
leave? I told Mr. Skinner we'd be in the Chaplin's Office."

She nodded dumbly, giving herself to him, letting him decide what
she would do, where she would go. It was that or completely break
down and get herself evicted from the hospital because she
refused to leave Mulder's side.


Three days later
12:10pm

"Mulder, your lunch is here. Are you hungry?" Scully took the
warming lid off the plate and scooped up a mouthful. When she
brought it toward his lips, a faint, undefinable expression
passed over his face, then he was as passive as usual. Touching
the spoon to his lips got him to open his mouth, and when she
pulled the empty spoon out, he chewed and swallowed. A mouthful
of room-temperature decaffinated "iced" tea, another mouthful of
food, and so on, until he'd eaten everything on his tray except
the dessert.

She stared distrustfully at the ice cream, wondering if it was
safe or if the cold would trigger more seizures again. He was on
such heavy doses of Dilantin and Phenobarbital now that it didn't
seem possible, but that first morning, when he'd practically
attacked his breakfast because he was so hungry, the very first
mouthful of cold orange juice had sent him into another round of
grand mal seizures. Now he had so much medicine in him he barely
responded when prodded or poked, let alone initiating any
movement or conversation. At least he could swallow safely, or
he'd have an NG tube, and she knew how irritating those could be.

After staring at the ice cream another minute, she sighed and put
down the spoon. Better safe than sorry. She'd talk to Jeff (or
Joel) when he stopped in, let him know the kitchen still wasn't
getting Mulder's diet order correct.

Quiet footsteps and a muffled cough behind her reminded her to
jot down on the slip of paper on his tray how much he'd eaten and
drunk. That done, she picked up the tray and started to give it
to . . . "Sir! I'm sorry, I thought you were the nurse."

Assistant Director Skinner smiled at her. "Not hardly." He
glanced over at the agent sitting up in bed, and nodded in his
direction. "How's Mulder doing? Has his doctor said anything
about cutting back on his medicines yet?"

Scully shook her head. "Just a minute, sir." She turned back to
the bed and put a hand on Mulder's arm. "Mulder, AD Skinner is
here. I'm going outside to talk with him. I'll be back within ten
minutes, OK?" A moment waiting for a response that didn't come,
then she turned and left with her boss.

In the ICU waiting room, Skinner led her to the corner where he'd
left his coat and hat draped over two chairs. Afer waiting until
she was seated, he sat down himself and turned toward her, an
intent expression on his face.

She shook her head in reply to his earlier question. "I talked to
Joel--Dr. Smith, Mulder's neurologist--last night and he said
he's going to leave Mulder on this drug regimen for another
couple of days. If something as simple as a cold drink could
start him seizing while on the Dilantin alone, then he's too
unstable to change anything yet. The kitchen sent ice cream for
dessert today, but I'm afraid to feed it to him, for fear he'll
have another seizure." She shrugged helplessly. "Sooner or later
we've got to let him try the really cold and really hot things,
but right now I don't want to take that responsibility. When the
doctor comes by later today, I'm going to ask whether the ice
cream was a mistake, or if he meant for us to try it this soon."

Skinner nodded. "So it doesn't look like he'll be able to
transfer to a D.C. hospital any time soon?"

Another shake of her head. "Certainly not while he's in the ICU.
I'm obviously not an expert on this, but I assume Joel won't let
him transfer till he can comprehend what's happening. The only
other option would be to sedate him completely for the transfer,
but the shock of waking up in a different room in a different
hospital might be enough to start him seizing again. The good
thing is that it doesn't look like he's gotten an infection from
the holes Dr. Goldstein drilled."

Another nod, then Skinner looked down at his hands for a long
minute, and finally back up to her. "Agent Scully, I took the
liberty of checking your and Agent Mulder's personnel files for
accumulated leave time. Neither of you have much: he had three
sick days, and you have six days of vacation and personal time.
Mulder will be on medical disability leave starting tomorrow,
although I'm trying to get Payroll to transfer his unused
vacation days to his sick day bank. Do you want to return to work
or take unpaid leave?"

It was a question she hadn't wanted to face. She had been
thinking optimistically: Mulder was going to be seizure-free, if
depressed about his change in status, and they'd already be home.
Now it looked like it could be two or even three weeks before he
could transfer, and she . . .. Because of her cancer she no
longer had enough money saved to allow her to take unpaid leave.
She wouldn't ask her mother to help either: her father's pension
was good, but a lot less than they'd planned on, because no one
had expected him to die years before he would have retired. She
shut her eyes momentarily, then looked up at her boss. "I'll
return to work. At this time I'd rather not be sent out of town
on cases, so I'll take the position at Quantico."

Still another nod, then Skinner stood up. "I'll tell Agent Mulder
I ordered you back to work, so he doesn't feel guilty about your
leaving."

"He won't--_probably_ won't--understand or remember a word you're
saying, sir. And I won't lie to him if he's aware to enough to
ask, when I have to leave." She felt the prickle of incipient
tears and refused to let them flow. After a minute she was able
to continue. "He'll feel guilty whatever we tell him, because
none of this would have happened if he hadn't decided to see Dr.
Goldstein."

"All right, then, Agent Scully. You do as you feel best. Kim will
call you with specifics when your temporary transfer back to
Quantico is finalized."

And with that he picked up his coat and hat and walked out. 


One week later
6:42am

Mulder flinched and tried to pull his arm away when the blood
pressure cuff inflated. Sheila cheered to herself. Finally! It
had taken until yesterday to wean Mulder off the Phenobarbital,
and only now was he starting to initiate anything. As she jotted
down his BP, unwrapped the cuff, and tucked it into the holder on
the wall, she wondered what kind of person he was when alert.
Then she shook her head. She'd never know, because Audrey's
adoption was supposed to be finalized this afternoon and she'd be
on adoption leave. By the time she got back Mulder would have
long since transferred to Washington, D.C. How could she have
forgotten that?

A weak grasp on her hand startled her enough that she squeeked an
"Oh!" before she could get herself under control. Mulder was
trying to get her attention; when she looked at him, he tried to
say something. When only a croak came out, he frowned, cleared
his throat and tried again. "Scully."

Sheila smiled at him. He was as intent and focused as Dana had
told them. And if Dana was his first concern, it looked like he
might have escaped seizure-related brain damage. "It's not even
7am, Agent Mulder. Do you want me to call her and give her a
message?" Better not to tell him right now that "Scully" was back
in D.C.

Mulder nodded, but again nothing came out when he opened his
mouth. Before he could try again, Sheila picked up his water
glass and guided the straw to his mouth. "Here. Take a sip and
then try again."

He got the most disgusted look she'd seen since her oldest child
had tried his first bite of broccoli. A shudder while he
swallowed and then Mulder said, "It's _warm_. Yuck!"

Definitely no brain damage there! Sheila smiled again. "Sorry,
Agent Mulder, doctor's orders: nothing cold or hot till you've
been awake at least two hours. Now, do you want another sip?" She
held the straw to his lips, encouraging him to take another drink
just by the glass's proximity.

He screwed up his face, but took another sip, and a third one,
and then finished the entire glass, a full 180 cc's. So she
reached for the pitcher to refill the glass, looking the question
at him.

A slight shake of his head, then Mulder simply wilted back into
lethargy again.

End of part 1 of 2

TITLE: What =Really= Happened II: Demons Aftermath 2/2
AUTHOR: Deborah Goldstein
E-MAIL ADDRESS: dkg@teleport.com
RATING: PG--swear words only
SPOILERS: Demons--US 4th season
KEYWORDS: Character dies, Mulder/Scully friendship
DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Mrs. Mulder and Mrs.
Scully, The Lone Gunmen and "Northeast Georgetown Hospital"
belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox
Broadcasting, and are used without permission. The rest is mine.
---------------------


Quantico, Virginia
FBI Academy, Pathology Department
6:51am

Dana hastily hung her coat on the back of the door and snatched
up the nearest office phone, wondering what kind of emergency
couldn't wait till the department officially opened at 7:15 or
until her boss arrived at 8:00. "Pathology."

A momentary silence, then a tentative "Dana?" That was
immediately followed by, "It's Sheila. You didn't answer at home,
so I took a chance that you'd be at work already."

Dana landed with a thump in the chair, totally unprepared to hear
from anyone at the hospital this early in the morning. It
couldn't be bad news, could it? Suddenly her hand was shaking so
much she had to lean forward and stab at the "speaker" button.
Two tries later she put the receiver down and said, "Sheila,
what's wrong? Has Mulder . . ." She couldn't finish.

"No! Nothing's wrong. Mulder's alert! He asked about you, and
complained about the lukewarm water, and after drinking a whole
glassful he just drifted off again."

All she could think to say was a surprised "Oh". It was at least
a day earlier than she'd expected, but then when did Mulder ever
do the expected? Gathering her scattered thoughts, she said,
"When the next person gets here, I'll tell him or her I have to
leave. I should be able to be there by noon. If Mulder wakes up
again before I get there, just tell him I was delayed. I'll
explain myself."

As it was, she barely had time to call her mom and Skinner before
Matt stopped by to tell her the coffee was brewed. Five minutes
later she was walking out the door, hurrying towards her car and
the airport.

* * * * *

At 12:02 she was walking through the doors to the Neuro-ICU.
Darlene, one of the day shift nurses, intercepted her. "He's been
'waking up' for a few minutes at a time all morning. Each time
he's alert he asks for you; he doesn't remember that you've been
delayed. He's oriented to person and place, but not to time, of
course, and we've been instructed _not_ to ask if he knows why
he's here."

Dana nodded. Keep the stress down, in hopes that it wouldn't be
such a shock if he remembered on his own. A much smaller chance
of a seizure that way. "OK, I'll remember that. On the other
hand, if he doesn't remember on his own when he's fully alert, or
can't remember things we're telling him, I'm going to be very,
very worried, because he has a photographic memory."

"I'll make a note of that. We'll start keeping track of how much
and exactly what he's able to remember."

Another nod and Dana was free to go to Mulder's room. She stood
at the door for a moment, looking at him. He was freshly shaved
and bathed, including a shampoo. His hair looked weird because
they carefully combed and taped it away from the scabs over the
holes that Dr. Goldstein had drilled. It was a major miracle that
Mulder hadn't gotten infections in those holes. _He_ certainly
hadn't done anything to keep them clean.

She stepped up to the bed, but before she could do or say
anything, Mulder murmured, "Mmm?" His eyes were at half-mast, as
if he wasn't sure whether he was waking up or drifting off again.
She gently took hold of his nearer hand and said, "I'm here,
Mulder. Open your eyes and say hello."

It took another minute or so, then she saw his eyes open a bit
more and felt his grasp tighten. "Scully." His voice was weak but
happy. "I feel so . . ." He trailed off. His eyes closed and his
forehead wrinkled in an intense frown. " . . . so . . ." Another
pause. "Uh . . . can't think. Um . . . um . . ."

This time when he trailed off, Scully didn't know what to say.
Mulder hadn't actually asked what was wrong, but she knew that's
what he wanted to know and she also knew she wasn't supposed to
tell him. Finally she settled on the literal truth, leaving out
the reasons and hoping that he wouldn't insist on knowing those
reasons. "You're coming off Phenobarbital, Mulder. You'll feel
that way for a while yet."

Another wait, then a fractional nod. "'f you say so." His grip
went lax and he was gone again.


After another couple of hours, Mulder was alert enough to hold a
conversation, as long as she didn't mind repeating herself every
five or so minutes. He complained about the warm water even as he
drank it. He complained about how much the various electrodes
itched and about wanting the Foley catheter out. He complained
about the noise of the monitors and the bed rails being up, but
most of all he complained about not being able to see anything
except straight up toward the ceiling and down towards the foot
of the bed. He seemed completely unaware of the padding inside
his bed rails and he didn't actually question the things he
complained about, as if he was unable to comprehend the concept
of a question.

Scully was beginning to seriously worry by 5p.m., because Mulder
still wasn't thinking coherently. It was with real relief that
she heard Dr. Jeff Smith's voice at the nurses' station. She
excused herself to Mulder and left before he had a chance to say
anything.

"Jeff, I need to talk to you. Before you see Mulder."

His eyebrows climbed, but he nodded. "Do we need privacy?"

She shook her head. "No, it doesn't matter. I'm worried about
Mulder's cognition. He should be thinking more clearly by now, if
you got him off the Phenobarbital yesterday evening. On the other
hand, I have no idea if this is an idiosyncratic reaction to the
Phenobarbital or to the Dilantin, or brain damage from the
seizures."

"Has he ever taken Phenobarb before?"

"Not that I know of. I wouldn't know about before he and I became
partners, because he hasn't really talked that much about those
days." She flinched when a monitor alarm went off and was
immediately silenced, then realized it came from her right, not
her left. It wasn't Mulder; Mulder was still OK.

Jeff nodded again. "Then we'll start by assuming it's his
personal reaction to the Phenobarb and wait till tomorrow. If
he's still the same in the morning, Joel and I will discuss
lowering his Dilantin dose. Only if we do that and there's still
no change will we consider the possibility of brain damage. Don't
forget that he's on the maximum safe dose of Dilantin, and side
effects are a very real possibility."

Scully felt herself relax for the first time since she'd started
to worry over an hour ago. She thanked Jeff and, since he wanted
to see Mulder, took the opportunity to get herself dinner before
Mulder's dinner arrived. She wanted to see if could feed himself
yet, and more importantly, if he could figure out what to do when
presented with his tray, with the cover on the plate and the
sugar in packets and the plastic "silverware", napkin, and salt
and pepper packets in that horrid little sealed plastic bag that
you practically had to tear open with your teeth, even after you
stabbed through it with the tines of the fork.

* * * * *

Breakfast was no better than dinner: he stared at the tray
without making the slightest move toward taking any lids off or
buttering and sugaring his oatmeal, which wasn't all that hot by
the time the trays arrived. But once she did that, he fed
himself, and even used the napkin competently. He didn't comment
on the fact that his juice and milk were cold, and his coffee
hot.

He didn't start seizing again either.


By mid-morning she was talking with one of the hospital
psychologists, trying to give her an idea of how Mulder's mind
worked, so that she would have an idea just how "off" this Mulder
was.

"If you ask him questions, or hold a simple conversation, he
sounds fine. He answers nearly as quickly as normal and he
remembers what we talk about. But he doesn't question anything,
he . . .. No, it's not that he doesn't question, but that he
doesn't _ask_ questions. Things bother him and he'll complain,
but he doesn't seem to know there could be an alternative or how
to fix things or how to ask someone else to fix them."

"He can't 'problem solve'?"

"Exactly! And that's not Mulder. When he starts asking when the
IV and Foley can come out, and when he can get out of bed, and
most of all when he starts insisting he's well enough to go home,
that'll be the Mulder I know." A sudden horrible thought <What if
he never gets better?> caught her unaware, but she forced it down
and concentrated on Francine Milliken's next question.

"What is his specialty? Aren't all FBI agents lawyers or
accountants?"

Scully smiled at that common misconception. "Not these days. You
already know I'm a Pathologist. Mulder has a PhD in criminal
psychology. He's licensed in D.C. but he never practiced: he
joined the FBI right after he finished his clinical year. His
specialty is profiling serial killers. His hobbies include--"
After a short pause she said steadily, "His hobby is UFOs. He
reads voraciously though, in a wide variety of subjects. He even
read and apparently understood my undergraduate thesis, which was
in quantum physics."

That got her a pair of raised eyebrows and a quirked smile. "So
I'm probably going to be testing someone who's more intelligent
and certainly more widely read than I am. This could be
interesting." She tapped her pen a couple of times on the yellow
pad in front of her, then said, "I imagine that constantly
dealing with serial killers would be terribly stressful. Has Mr.
Mulder-- No, you said said he prefers just 'Mulder'. Has Mulder
ever been in counseling?"

"It's mandatory any time an agent has to shoot someone; Mulder's
killed several people over the years. I was kidnapped and missing
for nearly three months a couple of years ago. I imagine that
Skinner--Assistant Director Walter Skinner, our boss--made him
talk to someone then, too. But I don't think Mulder would have
said anything important or revealing to the Bureau
psychologists."

Another nod. "He would know what they want to hear and would feed
them the appropriate degree of anxiety or emotional distress
initially, and then the appropriate lines about how he was
coping. It's a familiar problem when one of our own doesn't think
he needs help. But right now even that much of a response would
be good, correct?"


Room 233
Four days later
7:10pm

"This is crap! Pure crap! I don't need an ambulance to take me
back to D.C. Scully can drive me, or better still, I can fly. And
I don't need to go in the hospital when I get back, either. I'm
_fine_. I understand about the Dilantin. I'll be fine at home.
Now sign the damn authorization so I can leave in the morning."

Joel Smith put on his best 'You're being stupid but I'm too
polite to mention it' face. "No." He let that single word sit in
the silence of the room.

Mulder froze, looking like a deer startled into immobility by
oncoming headlights. Then he shook his head once, a denial of
what he'd heard. "You can't--"

"I can and I will, Mr. Mulder. You've read the official ruling
from the FBI doctors. You know that your only hope of being a
Field Agent again depends on your following _all_ of your
doctors' orders until you've been off the Dilantin and seizure-
free for six months. These are the first of those orders: you
_will_ allow the IV and the electrodes that will monitor your
condition, and you _will_ ride back to Washington in an
ambulance, because you are _not_ going to be flying any time in
the near future. You _will_ be admitted to Northeast Georgetown
Hospital for 24-hour observation when you arrive in Washington.
And when you're released you _will_ submit to regular blood tests
while you're on the Dilantin to make sure you're taking it as
ordered.

"Now, are we in agreement?"

When Mulder sulkily agreed and got back into bed so the
technician could place the electrodes and run a baseline EEG,
Joel finally let himself relax. Dana Scully had warned him, but
he'd had a hard time believing that the passive, compliant
patient in Neuro-ICU could turn into this stubborn, impatient
man. For just a moment he let himself think about ordering a
sedative for the morning. Then he told himself to behave. Besides
the fact that it was unwarranted and therefore unethical, it
wouldn't be a fair test of whether Mulder could avoid another
major seizure on just the moderate dose of Dilantin he was
currently taking.

So he said goodnight and went to write the orders that would set
things in motion for Mulder's discharge the next morning.
Assuming everything went well overnight.


En route to Washington, D.C.
Between New York city and Philadelphia
11:25am

Mulder's ambulance pulled off I-95 and into the MacDonald's
parking lot. Scully followed it to the far end of the lot, where
the RV and 18-wheeler parking spaces were. She parked next to it,
feeling completely dwarfed by the larger vehicles all around her.
As she got out of her car she could hear Mulder arguing, and she
hurried to the open back door of the ambulance to see what the
matter was.

". . . to go in. I'm _not_ an invalid. I can walk, and I can
order my own--" He caught sight of her. "Scully, you tell them.
There's nothing wrong with me."

He was sitting up, the back of the gurney raised to support him,
the safety straps still fastened across his legs. He had his arms
crossed and wore the "Mulder being stubborn" look that she'd come
to recognize in all its variations over the years. So she simply
smiled and said, "Of course you can go in, Mulder. As long as you
don't mind parading around in your hospital gown and 'footies',
holding your IV overhead and trailing EEG wires, with one of the
paramedics one step behind you with the portable EEG machine."

He actually cringed. Of course he wouldn't want to be seen like
that, but he just hadn't thought about what "constant monitoring"
would really entail. When he sheepishly acquiesced, she addressed
the two paramedics. "Do you want me to bring you lunch?" When
they shook their heads and Jim started for the restaurant, she
said to Mulder, "I'll bring you something you can eat. Most of
the stuff here is loaded with sodium and fat, and you've been on
a controlled diet. And yes, I will bring you unsalted fries with
extra ketchup if you agree to eat whatever else I bring."

It was almost comical watching him struggle with the decision.
Mulder loved MacDonald's French fries, but he also loved Big Macs
and bacon-cheeseburgers. Finally he asked, "If I skip the fries,
can I have a Big Mac? If I get the fries what's the 'whatever
else'?"

Scully had to shake her head to his first question. "No Big Mac.
You can have a double-meat hamburger with mustard and ketchup, or
a chicken salad with salad dressing and a small fries. Or you can
skip the salad dressing and have a medium fries. And a large iced
tea, of course."

With a groan of anguish that belonged with life-altering
decisions, not what to eat for lunch, he finally said, "Small
fries and Thousand Island dressing on the salad. Can I have
croutons, Scully? _Please_?"

"Maybe. I need to see how much sodium and fat they have in them."

Another forty-five minutes and Mulder was finishing the last of
his tea and looking longingly out the back of the ambulance.
Before he asked, she looked over his head at Mark to get his OK.
When Mark shook his head "no" she had to say, "Sorry, Mulder, but
Dr. Smith's transfer orders didn't include a stretch-your-legs
break."

* * * * *

The rest of the nearly 9-hour trip passed without incident--
unless you considered their arrival at Northeast Georgetown
Hospital part of the trip. She hadn't really thought about what
lying or sitting on the gurney for that many hours would mean,
and she certainly hadn't thought about him having to have the
safety straps in place for the entire trip, including the strap
across his chest and arms when he was lying down.

When they reached his room, the nurse asked if he could transfer
himself, and of course Mulder said he could. He swung his legs
over the side of the gurney, stood up--and promptly collapsed
into a heap on the floor, pulling out the IV and unsnapping or
tearing off half the EEG electrodes.

Chaos was the simplest term for what happened then. The
paramedics tried to pick him up at the same time he tried to
stand up himself, which was at the same time the nurse grabbed
for his hand to staunch the bleeding from where the IV had been.
Jim's foot slipped in the IV liquid now dripping onto the floor
and he ended up half-sprawled across the bed. Mulder ended up
right back on the floor with the nurse on top of him. And all
that right in front of someone who turned out to be his new
neurologist. Scully herself could do nothing but stand there and
giggle.

Her giggles stopped abruptly when she realized that she was the
only person who had been in position to see everything that
happened. <Oh, God. I could be here for _hours_, and coming back
for interviews for days. The head nurse and then the safety
committee aren't going to want to believe any of our Incident
Reports that it was all accidental.> Before things could get
worse, she said, "Mulder, stop trying to get up! Let them do
their jobs."

Her loud command cut through the commotion. Mulder went passive
and in less than two minutes he was in the bed with a small
pressure bandage on the back of his left hand. Meanwhile, the
doctor had stepped into the room, picked up the phone, and called
for an IV nurse to come to room 512 stat, and then for an EEG
technician, also stat.

"Mr. Mulder, I'm Duncan Henry. I'm your neurologist. I'd like to
hear what you think happened."

Mulder nodded. "I stood up and grayed out from postural
hypotension. The next thing I knew I was on the floor, so I tried
to stand up."

"Not another seizure? How can you be sure of that? Do you often
have postural hypotension?"

"Huh? Oh, no, only when I've been on strict bedrest for several
days. And then the nurses or physical therapists are really
careful. I never thought it would happen after only nine hours in
bed."

Scully interjected, "Nine hours without being able to move your
legs, Mulder. That makes a big difference."

Dr. Henry looked at her and asked, "Who are you?"

She bridled at his condescending tone, but forced herself to
answer politely. "Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D. I'm Agent
Mulder's FBI partner."

Dr. Henry's look dismissed her completely, as being unimportant
and probably an interfering busybody. "Mr. Mulder, as soon as the
IV is restarted and the EEG has been completed, I'm transferring
you to Intermediate Care. I want you monitored around the clock
for the next 48 hours. _I'm_ not convinced it was just postural
hypotension, not with your history of reacting to acute stress
with seizures."

Mulder sat up abruptly. "Once! _One time_ I reacted that way.
When I still had a lot of ketamine in me. Besides, this wasn't
stressful. I've been in enough hospitals and been transferred to
different rooms enough times that I know the routine. I also know
the difference between graying out and--"

"ENOUGH! You are being transferred. You have no say in it. Will
you cooperate with the nursing staff while they examine you for
injuries from when you fell or do I have to order a sedative?"

A suddenly very subdued Mulder nodded and didn't say another
word. Scully excused herself: Mulder wouldn't want her around
when the nurse had him strip so she could do a complete skin
check, looking for bruises and abrasions as well as any incipient
or actual pressure sores, and recording all his scars and recent
needle sticks.

She found Jim and Mark sitting in the 2-North visitors' lounge,
filling out their Incident Reports. She sat down at the table
also and started on hers. Three questions down the page, she
snorted in disgust. 'What action or inaction on your part
contributed to the incident?' Hell, she had been on the other
side of the bed when it happened!

Mark looked up with a smile. "Question three, right? Wait till
you get to number six."

A glance at it, and then the entire form, and she was shaking her
head in disbelief. Nowhere was there a place for an observer to
report what he or she had seen. Every question assumed that the
person filling out the form was somehow involved in what
happened, and most of them assumed she was also a staff member.
She ended up marking nearly every question N/A--Not Applicable--
and then she wrote "see back", where she described what she had
seen.

* * * * *

By 6:30 Mulder was complaining loudly about the Foley catheter
Dr. Henry had ordered, as well as the fact that he wasn't going
to get anything to eat or drink till tomorrow morning. Scully was
tempted to get dinner for herself and just let Mulder eat it,
because she also thought that Dr. Henry was being overly
cautious, as well as deliberately antagonistic. However, she
decided to remind Mulder that everyone can have a bad day once in
a while, and maybe today just happened to be Dr. Henry's.

On her way back from dinner she stopped in the ER to talk to Dr.
Anita Northcutt, who knew Mulder and had probably interacted with
every physician in the hospital at one time or another. That talk
completely overturned her impression of Dr. Henry. He was widely
considered to be one of the best neurologists in the country,
although definitely not one of the easiest to like, and he only
took those cases that interested him. For him to be Mulder's
physician meant that either the Drs. Smith or the Bureau
physician, or all three of them, had specifically requested him,
and _that_ meant that Mulder's return to work was nowhere near as
cut and dried as she had assumed.

She went back up to Mulder and said good night, using the excuse
that she was exhausted from the all-day drive. In reality, she
was planning to sit down with the copy of Mulder's chart that had
come with him and read it all the way through, and then she was
going to tackle Dr. Henry. Whether or not anyone was planning to
tell Mulder his true prognosis, _she_ was going to know it. 

It was horrible. Since the Phenobarb had been stopped Mulder was
having at least fifty petit mal seizures a day, all of them so
short that only the constant EEG monitoring had picked them up.
It was as if the "treatments" Dr. Goldstein had given him had
caused minute short circuits throughout his brain. Mulder would
not only never get off the Dilantin, the Phenobarb might have to
be restarted, and he would always be at risk for more grand mal
seizures. No matter how good Dr. Henry was, he was unlikely to be
able to cure Mulder.

So there was no reason to talk to the neurologist. There was also
no reason for her to stay in a job she had discovered was boring
compared to the X Files, and for Mulder to take a desk job he
would probably hate. Her cancer was progressing and within the
next couple of months she would have to take medical leave
herself. Mulder had a severe seizure disorder whose cumulative
damage would very soon cause permanent memory and personality
problems and eventually would kill him. Was she going to bury him
or was he going to bury her? The choice was simple.

In the morning, after writing letters for her mother, her
brothers, Mrs. Mulder, Skinner, and The Lone Gunmen, she went
back to the hospital and told Mulder exactly what was going on.
To her surprise, he only asked if she was sure about her
"timelines". Was he already aware of memory deficits? With his
photographic memory, it was a distinct possibility. She helped
him sign out Against Medical Advice and drove him back to her
apartment. He set up her computer to make a phone call to 911 in
three hours and then recorded the message that would tell the
emergency operator what they had done. She mixed the lethal
cocktail that would put them to sleep and painlessly kill them.

At 9:17am they lay down on her bed, clasped hands, and died.


The end.

Comments welcomed: dkg@teleport.com