By Vickie Moseley
vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com
 

Spoilers:  Oh yeah.  DeadAlive.  Big ones.
Summary:  Skinner doesn't understand how Scully can be so calm.
Warnings:  this product is completely Doggett Free and thereby Mulder
Safe
Category:  SkA
Rating:  PG
Disclaimer:  I found these really neat characters in a dumpster behind
a studio lot.  As soon as I can find a cop in LA, I'm going to have
the father arrested for negligence.  In the meantime, I'm taking care
of them.
Archives:  yes, please
Comments to me:  vmoseley@i-made-this.com
I keep working without a net, here, folks, so errors are my own.  My
betas are all busy writing-or they better be <VEG>
 

 
~~~

All The Way Home
By Vickie Moseley

Bethesda Naval Hospital
ICU, Fox Mulder's room
11:15 pm

"Scully, without the vaccine . . ."  I don't want to say it.  Not
after all she's already been through.  But I know now that even though
my actions of an hour ago might not have had the intended result,
killing the man I've considered my friend for years now, it might
still not be enough to forestall that eventuality.  He's still alive,
the life support having been helping the alien in his body more than
it was supporting his life.  But for how much longer?

She stands there, stretching the scrubs she wearing to the point of
ripping the side seams.  But even as the sight of her brings an
involuntary chuckle to the back of my throat, the look in her eyes is
all too familiar.  At this moment she is pure Scully Determination.

"We don't need the vaccine, sir.  I wouldn't trust Krycek to tell me
the correct time of day, I certainly wouldn't trust him to help me
save Mulder's life.  I know what I'm doing."  She turns away and
starts to adjust one of the IV lines.

I can't help it, I still have my doubts.  Hell, I've been one big
walking doubt since I saw Mulder . . . absorbed . . . by that ship
over six months ago.  I take the two steps to reach her and touch her
sleeve.  "Enlighten me, Scully."

She sighs, but gives me an indulgent smile.  I wonder if this is the
look she used to give the poor recruits who were just barely passing
her class at Quantico.  I feel just about that stupid for asking.

"Sir, it's fairly simple.  First of all, if this is an alien virus,
this is not the first time Mulder has been exposed.  He has his own
antibodies working in his favor.  That's why terminating the life
support was the right thing to do.  When his temp dropped, it was his
body's way of combating the invader."

I hope the look I'm giving her is not as blank as it feels on my
face.

"Sir, do you know why your body produces a fever when you're sick?"
she asks and I'm positive this is a 50 point question on a 100 point
quiz.

"The higher temperature is the body's way of killing the germ or
whatever is making you sick," I answer.  It's almost comical to me
that the smile of approval on her face makes me giddy with relief.

"So, in this case, Mulder's body is conditioned to remember that the
alien virus is inhibited by the cold," she explains, turning back to
the IV and making an adjustment on another monitor.  A nurse enters
with a tray of 6 syringes and places it on the table by the bed.  One
by one, Scully picks up each syringe and empties it into the joint on
the IV.

"You said the virus is inhibited by the cold," I interrupt her and she
nods.

"Knocks it down but not out.  We learned that in Alaska.  I have no
doubt that with enough time, Mulder's natural defenses could defeat
the invader.  But at what cost.  Prolonged hypothermia can have a
detrimental effect on the body.  And his defenses are compromised from
the obvious . . ."  She bits her lip and points to the scars framing
his cheeks and running straight down his breastbone.  "They really did
a number on him," she says with a deep sigh.

"So what are you giving him?" I ask, hoping to change the direction of
the conversation.  Besides, I'm still trying to figure out if this is
going to work, or if it's just a last ditch effort to avoid the
inevitable.

"Antivirals.  Everything they've developed in the last 5 years.  I was
working blind last time.  This time, I'm prepared."  She smiles to
herself, a private joke.  "I thought I was keeping up on the
literature for the hell of it," she mutters.

"So let me see if I'm following you.  Mulder himself has an immunity
to this thing."

"Yes," she answers.  "That also accounts for the condition of his
body.  After three months in an airtight coffin, he should have been
further decomposed."

I swallow convulsively.  I really don't want to think about Mulder in
a grave right now.

"And the fact that his body temperature dropped but his vitals
remained stable, that was the proof I needed.  His body is kicking in
it's own defense system."

"But he's weak."  I feel the need to point this out.

"Exactly.  So we're giving him a boost.  I remember some stuff from
when I was a little kid, my Dad used it to fix our old station wagon.
STP or something," she says as she finished the last syringe.

"The racer's edge," I murmur, remembering the commercials all too
well.  I could probably sing the jingle.

"Yeah, it was a gasoline additive that cleaned the engine and fuel
lines, or so my father told Bill and I overheard them.  That's exactly
what we're doing now.  We're cleaning his 'fuel lines' of the virus."

"And that will cure him?" I ask.

She gets a far away look to her eyes.  "If it doesn't kill him," she
says cryptically.

I know my eyebrows much be touching my very receding hairline.  "What
do you mean?"

"Sir, these are potent anitvirals.  Mulder is stable but his condition
is still critical.  These are not the most optimal conditions for this
treatment.  But we have no choice.  It's this or . . ."  This time,
Scully swallows convulsively.

"How long before we know if it's working?"

She shrugs.  "Last time, his blood showed a marked reduction in virus
cells within 12 hours of treatment.  We'll be doing tests every four
hours, but I'm guessing it will be tomorrow afternoon before we know
anything."

"Then I suggest you get some rest," I say, hoping she's not too tired
to recognize my authoritarian tone.

She might recognize it, but she's doing her best to ignore it.  She
shakes her head at me.  "No, I'll be fine.  I want to be here in case
. . ."

"Scully, I'm not trying to make you leave.  I'm just telling you that
you need to rest.  You won't be doing him," I point to Mulder, "or
'him,'" I point to her bulging stomach, "any good if you keel over."

She looks over at Mulder longingly.  I sense the problem immediately
and take action.  I go out in the hall and grab the first orderly I
see.  "I need a comfortable chair, one with a footrest, brought to
this room right now."  Just to underline my intent, I flash my badge.
It has the desired effect.

"Sure thing," says the young man.  In less than five minutes he
returns, pushing a reclining chair through the door.

She's now looking at the chair almost as longingly as she's been
looking at Mulder.  I sense continued deliberations in that very
scientific mind and decide to throw in my support of the better choice
of directions.  "I won't leave the room.  If he so much as twitches,
I'll wake you."

Scully looks at me as if gauging my ability to recognize a 'twitch' if
I saw one.  Then, with a fierce growl-like tone to her voice, she
reaches her decision.  "You better . . . sir."  And here I always
thought 'sir' was a term of respect for authority, not a death threat.
Stupid me.

As she sits down, I reach over and recline the chair back for her.
Her feet come up, and the look on her face is blissful, but
cautious, like she doesn't deserve this much happiness, this much
comfort.  She glances guilty looks over at Mulder and so I turn her
attention back to herself.  "Here, you look chilly."  Might have
something to do with the fact that it's 65 degrees in this room.
She'd already explained to me that we needed to keep Mulder as cool as
possible to allow the antivirals to do their job.

To my amazement, a shiver escapes her and she nods, not looking up at
me.  I grab a blanket off the back of the other chair and tuck it
around her.  She sighs.  I feel my eyes water, but I swallow them down
around the lump in my throat.  I want to touch her hair, no, I want to
pull her on to my lap and hold her tightly until the sun comes up or
until Mulder finally graces us with his conscious presence.  I do none
of those things.  I sit back in the other chair.

I have no delusions where she is concerned.  I think others do, but I
don't care to feed those delusions.  If I am anything to her, it's
only in connection to Mulder's existence, not of my own right.  At
some point in my life, I think that would have made me insanely
jealous.  Now, it just leaves a tiny hole in my heart that pumps a
trickle of blood out each time I see her sad or afraid or lonely.  I
want to stop the trickle, want to heal my heart as I want to heal her,
but I know nothing I do will ever accomplish either of those things.
Only he can heal her, only my death can heal me.

As she sleeps, the old uneasiness creeps into my soul.  I'm a voyeur,
I don't deserve to sit and watch her sleep.  So I turn my attention to
the other occupant of the room.  Mulder, lying amid the machines,
tubes in both arms, monitor leads on his chest snaking out of the
cooling blankets.  His face is a ghastly bluish color, discolored as
much from months in the grave as from the illness he is now fighting.

I choke as I remember the funeral.  If I'd known I was lowering a
living human being into that cold, hard dirt, I would have throw
myself on that casket, demanded it be opened and carried him to the
nearest hospital myself.  I can't imagine a worse nightmare for
anyone, and now it's one that will revisit me time and time again in
the wee hours of the morning, just before dawn.

Buried alive.  I can only thank God that from the look of his body
when we opened the casket he was unconscious the entire time and as
peaceful as when we placed him there in the funeral home.  No
struggling was apparent, his hands were gently crossed over his
stomach just as Scully had placed them.  No scratches on the lid of
the coffin, as the asshole coroner from North Carolina had so
callously joked.  But even though Mulder might not remember, might not
have the same nightmares, there is nothing to erase the thoughts in my
mind.  Trapped, in a tiny box, buried under six feet of frozen dirt.
Someday, I am firmly convinced, that same fate awaits me.  And for the
life of me, I can't shake the feeling that I will not be senseless as
it unfolds.

I look at the two of them, which requires me to switch my gaze.  It's
no longer Mulder trapped in that coffin, now it's Scully, trapped at
his side.  If he awakes, she will be free and I have no doubt that the
wounds of the last six months, though deep and festering and infected,
will begin immediately to heal.  If he doesn't awake, I worry that
next time I will have not one coffin to watch lower, but two.  I
wonder for the child inside her.  Maybe it will be three coffins.  And
maybe shortly after those funerals, there will be a fourth.

I shake those thoughts from my mind and concentrate on the here and
now.  He's here, breathing.  Something I can still barely wrap my mind
around.  She's here and she's convinced she knows what she's dealing
with.  I take a small measure of comfort in the fact that Scully is at
her best when Mulder's life is in the balance.  As my morose thoughts
leave my mind, I realize that when he wakes up, that is just the
beginning.  Things have definitely changed and we will all need to
adjust.  Maybe even fight some of the changes.

But for now, we must focus on getting him all the way home.

The end

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