By Peggy (PG0314@yahoo.com)

Disclaimed in part 1
 

___________

Scully and Mulder were playing two on two with Karl
Malone and John Stockton ... and they were winning.
Scully was wearing a regulation WNBA uniform while the
3 men wore only shorts. And the old, short, tight ones
from the 70's at that. *Mulder's ass looks really good
in those shorts* she thought to herself as she sank
the 3-pointer that won the game. The crowd went crazy,
chanting her name. Scully! Scully! Scully!

"Scully ..." The voice was pained, strangled.

"Mulder?!" She sat bolt upright in bed with a gasp.

"Scully ..."

Throwing back the covers, Scully raced down the hall
to Mulder's room, entering just in time to see him
lean over the edge of the bed and vomit on the floor.

"Oh, Mulder!" Sidestepping the puddle of vomit, she
hurried to his side.

"Sorry," he gasped, between bouts of heaving, "I'm
sorry ..."

"Hush, Mulder. It's okay." She wedged herself onto the
edge of the mattress and held onto him, trying to keep
him from falling out of bed as he continued to retch
painfully. When the awful heaving finally stopped, he
sagged against her with a groan, shivering and damp
with perspiration.

"God, Scully, I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault, Mulder. It's probably the
Oxycodone. I'm sorry I didn't hear you and get here
sooner."

"But the rug ..."

"Don't worry about it Mulder, please." She held onto
him until his shaking subsided a bit. "Do you think
you can stand? I want to get you out of here and get
you cleaned up a little."

Mulder nodded weakly, pushing himself up to a sitting
position. His eyes skittered to the mess on the floor
and away again and he flushed with embarrassment.

"Mulder, it's okay." Scully's voice and hands were
gentle as she freed him from the tangled sheets and
unhooked the Cryo-cuff. "You got sick, you couldn't
get out of bed. I didn't come when you called. If
anyone is at fault, it's me. Please don't be
embarrassed."

They didn't bother with the crutches. Instead, Scully
draped Mulder's arm over her shoulders, wrapped hers
around his waist and together they staggered the few
short steps to the bathroom. Lowering him onto the
closed lid of the toilet seat, Scully dampened a wash
cloth with warm water and bathed his face and torso.
Throughout her ministrations, he steadfastly refused
to meet her eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on the tile
floor.

Finally, Scully couldn't stand it any more. She
planted herself directly in front of him and caught
his chin in her hand, forcing his eyes up to hers.
"Mulder, I want you to stop this. The medication made
you sick. You were practically tied to the bed. It's
not your fault. There's no reason to be embarrassed.
You did me a favor, actually."

"By puking on your rug?" His voice was still shaky but
at least he was talking.

"Did you get a good look at that rug?"

"Before or after I redecorated it?"

"Before."

"Not really, no."

"Well, if you had, you'd have noticed that it was
hideous. But it was a gift from my friend Ellen and I
didn't want to hurt her feelings. I've always hated it
and now, thanks to you, I have an excuse to get rid of
it."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Is it working? Because if not, I've got some ugly
sheets I wouldn't mind you ruining."

That earned her a ghost of a smile. "Bring 'em on," he
said, rubbing his stomach. "I'm still a little
queasy."

"If it's from the Oxycodone you probably will be for a
while. It's a long acting medication. It will take
hours to work it's way out of your system. I think
you'd better use the Tigan Greg prescribed for
nausea."

"You mean the suppository?" Mulder groaned and hid his
face in his hands.

"It will make you feel better, Mulder." Scully
retrieved the bottle from the medicine cabinet and
held it out to him. "If you need help ..."

"No!" His head shot up and he stared at her, appalled.
"I think I've suffered enough humiliation for one
night, thank you very much. I can do it." He took the
bottle from her hand and shooed her toward the door.

"Okay, I'll give you some privacy then. I'll be right
outside the door so call me when you're finished and
I'll help you back to bed."

When she'd closed the door behind her, Mulder hauled
himself up and stared at the bottle in his hand
distastefully. "Should have never gone running," he
muttered to himself, as he did what had to be done.
"Should have just stayed at home on the fucking couch
watching TV, drinking beer and getting fat."

"Mulder? Did you say something? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he growled. "I'll be out in a minute." He
washed his hands, splashed some cold water on his face
and brushed his teeth. Feeling almost human again, he
limped to the door and out into the hall.

"Mulder! I told you to call me!" Scully was standing
just outside the door holding his crutches. "You
shouldn't be walking without help."

"I didn't even think about it," he admitted. "I just
started walking." He took an experimental step. "It
really doesn't hurt that much. Greg said I could bear
weight as tolerated."

"Yes, he did. But I don't think this is the time to
start." She handed him the crutches and steered him
toward her room.

"Where are we going?"

"My room."

"And where do you plan on sleeping?"

"My room. I want to be close by in case you get sick
again."

"Oh." Mulder wasn't sure if the idea of sharing
Scully's bed thrilled or terrified him. He only knew
it made him nervous. "Are you sure?"

"Sure of what?"

"That you want to sleep in the same bed with me."

"Mulder, even if you felt well enough to do something
'ungentlemanly' ... which I doubt ... I could outrun
you."

"And if you decide to do something unladylike?"

"Then I've pretty much got you right where I want you,
don't I?"

Laughing, Mulder allowed her to tuck him into bed. He
felt incredibly awkward at first but the bed was warm
and he was exhausted. By the time she'd carried in the
Cryo-cuff and reattached it, he was half asleep.

"Mulder?"

"Mmm ... what?"

"I'm going to sit this trash can on the floor right
beside you, okay? Just in case."

"Okay."

"And Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"I LIKE this rug so watch your aim."

"I'll do my best," he murmured with a smile, his eyes
slipping closed. "Thanks, Scully."

*****

Mulder lay on the sofa, remote control in hand,
mindlessly channel surfing. He hated daytime TV with a
passion. Hated every talk show, every game show, every
soap opera and every "how to decorate your home using
cardboard boxes and tinfoil" show. Unfortunately, that
was about all there was to choose from at 10:00 on a
Wednesday morning.

After his initial bout of nausea and vomiting during
the night, Mulder had reluctantly agreed to use the
Tigan suppositories Greg Sumner had prescribed. He'd
managed to fall into an exhausted sleep soon after but
had awakened, retching, twice in the early morning
hours. Scully had placed a call to Sumner who agreed
to discontinue the Oxycodone and call in an order for
Vicodin, a pain medication Mulder had taken before
without incident. Scully had gone to the pharmacy to
pick it up, leaving Mulder to his own devices.

The nausea had subsided for the most part, but Mulder
felt as dull and dreary as the slice of gray sky
visible through the living room windows. His knee
ached, his stomach and throat hurt from the vomiting,
he had a headache and, truth be told, was feeling more
than a little sorry for himself. Finally settling on
CNN, Mulder tossed the remote on the coffee table and
attempted to get comfortable on the sofa. Tethered as
he was by the Cryo-cuff ... which he'd taken to
calling 'that fucking ice machine' ... his movements
were restricted. Still, he wriggled and twisted as
best he could, yanking the pillow out from under his
head and attempting to pummel it into submission.

"Mulder, what are you doing to my pillow?"

Startled by the sudden appearance of his partner,
Mulder gasped and dropped the pillow. "Christ, Scully!
You took 5 years off my life!"

"Sorry." But she didn't sound especially sorry. If
anything, she sounded amused. "So, um, what are you
doing?"

"Trying to get comfortable. Guess I didn't hear you
come in."

"Guess not." Scully shed her jacket and retrieved the
fallen pillow. After plumping it a bit, she slid it
back under his head and helped him rearrange himself
into a more comfortable position. "Better?"

"Much. Thanks." He replied, adding, "I am so sick of
just laying around."

"I know you are, Mulder." Scully's tone was
sympathetic. "But you'll be back on your feet soon."

"God, I hope so because a couple more days of this and
I'll be ready to ...." His voice trailed off and he
pushed himself up on one elbow, eyes riveted on the TV
screen.

"Mulder? What is it?"

He waved his hand at her in a shushing motion and
grabbed the remote to turn up the volume. Scully
circled around the end of the sofa to perch in an
armchair, her attention flitting back and forth
between the news broadcast and her partner's disturbed
expression.

"Stephen Grant, an up and coming member of Congress,
died today at the age of 39," the anchorwoman informed
them as a picture of a smiling, sandy-haired man
filled the screen. "The New Hampshire Republican
collapsed in his office on Capital Hill yesterday
afternoon and was rushed to George Washington Hospital
where he was admitted in critical condition suffering
from a heart attack. According to a hospital
spokesman, Representative Grant suffered a second
heart attack early this morning and was unable to be
resuscitated. He was declared dead at 7:34 am. He is
survived by his wife, Jeanine and three children."

Mulder watched, wordlessly, as the anchor went on to
describe the young Congressman's successful law career
and highlight his two years as a representative. When
the report ended, he lowered the volume and fell back
against the pillow with a sigh.

"You knew him?"

"We went to high school together."

"I thought they said he was from New Hampshire."

"Yeah, but my parents shipped me off to prep school in
Boston when I was 13, remember?"

Scully nodded. "That's right. I'd forgotten."

"A lot of the students were from Massachusetts but
there were kids from all over New England. Steve was a
year ahead of me. We were on the basketball team
together."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mulder." Scully stretched
across the space between them to touch his arm. "Was
he a good friend?"

"Not really. I didn't have any classes with him. I
really only saw him on the basketball court. He was
okay but we each had our own circle of friends. I
don't think we said more than a dozen words to each
other the whole time we were in school."

"Still, it must be disconcerting."

Mulder nodded absently, "Yeah, it is. A heart attack
at 39 ...." He trailed off and just stared at the
silent images flickering on the screen for a moment.
Then, with a visible shake of his head, he turned to
Scully with a smile. "Enough of that. So, how was your
trip to the drug store?  Did you get those pills?"

"Yes, I did. Do you want one?"

"As long as you promise it's not going to make me
puke, yes. My knee is really bothering me this
morning."

"Doing the exercises last night and this morning
probably irritated it a bit. And you were walking
around without your crutches when you were sick, which
probably didn't help. As for the Vicodin, you've taken
it before and had no problem," Scully reassured him as
she opened the bottle and handed him a tablet. "Here,
I'll get you some juice."

"Thanks," he said when he'd taken the medication and
handed back the empty glass.

"You're welcome, Mulder. And if you want to talk ...
about your friend I mean ...."

"No, it's fine. Really. Bit of a shock of course. But
I'm okay."

Scully regarded him for a long moment, unconvinced.

"Really, Scully. I'm fine."

"Alright. But if you change your mind, I'm always
available to listen. I'm going to go change the sheets
in your room, maybe air it out a bit. You call me if
you need me."

"I will," he nodded a bit sheepishly, remembering the
mess he'd made during the night. "But I'm honestly
fine. I'm just going to watch some ESPN, maybe take a
nap. Go on and do what you have to do."

Scully didn't buy it for a minute but he'd made it
clear he didn't want to talk. Given the number of
times she'd kept him at arm's length with the phrase
"I'm fine" she didn't feel she had the right to push.
*Turnabout is fair play, I guess.* she sighed to
herself as she gathered fresh linens and headed down
the hall.

Mulder lay on the sofa trying to concentrate on the
latest sports scores and failing miserably. His mind
kept going back to Stephen Grant. That an apparently
healthy man could die of a heart attack at the age of
39 seemed impossible and yet it had happened. To say
it was a waste was almost an understatement. And yet
the man had accomplished a great deal in the time he'd
had. It was a life to be proud of.

Sighing, and flipping off the TV, Mulder laced his
fingers behind his head and stared out the window.
*Looks like a storm's coming,* he observed, as the
branches of the elm trees whipped in the wind. He
didn't want to lie there, comparing his life to Steve
Grant's, wondering how his obituary would read if he
died at an early age. He didn't want to, but he did.

He remembered his own hopes and dreams for the future,
the big plans he'd had when he'd come home from Oxford
and joined the Bureau. He was going to be married,
have a family, buy a house in the country. He was
going to find his sister and make his parents proud.
He was going to have a sterling career and be the
youngest head of the BSU in the history of the FBI.

Now, with his own 39th birthday right around the
corner, Mulder found himself with none of those
things. Instead, he had a string of failed
relationships, a cluttered little apartment that was
more a place to store his belongings than a home and,
of course, his quest for the truth.

*And we all know how well that's going, don't we?* he
thought to himself. His glory days as a profiler were
a thing of the past, OPR was waiting patiently for the
opportunity to toss his ass out the door. Every time
he thought he was close to finding the answers he
sought, someone threw another stumbling block in his
path. His sister was as lost to him as she'd been the
night he'd first vowed to find her over 25 years ago.
His life was half over and he had nothing to show for
it. All in all, his life did not compare favorably to
Stephen Grant's.

And now, to add insult to injury, his body was failing
him. He was falling apart piece by piece. His shoulder
hurt the day after he lifted weights. The old gunshot
wound in his leg ached in the winter. He'd recently
started getting up in the night to use the bathroom
... and actually worrying about the condition of his
prostate as a result. His eyesight was getting worse.
He'd taken to checking his hairline in the bathroom
mirror ... and he didn't like what he saw. And, then
there was his knee. His swollen, purple, held together
by screws and thread, aching like a son-of-a-bitch
knee. He propped himself up on his elbows and regarded
it balefully for a long moment then dropped back down
with a sigh.

It had begun to rain, and he spent several long
minutes watching the droplets splatter against the
window glass, his thoughts as dark and gloomy as the
early April sky. Finally, he couldn't stand his own
misery any more.

*Stop it!* He snarled to himself. *Just stop it or
you're going to drive yourself crazy. And it's a short
drive.* He picked up the remote and turned his
attention toward the television. *Just watch the damn
TV and don't think,* he lectured himself.

Mulder was greeted by the same poor choices as he'd
encountered the last 10 times he'd flipped through the
channels. He flipped through again, hoping something
new would turn up. Nothing. CNN was repeating the news
about Steve every 20 minutes. ESPN was talking about
auto racing which he cared nothing about. TV Land only
reminded him that he was old enough to have seen the
shows the first time around. MTV reminded him that he
was old enough to no longer 'get' MTV.

In desperation, he settled on The Food Network. Some
guy was cooking something that didn't even look
edible, but it was better than nothing. He'd just
started to relax, drifting closer and closer to sleep
when a commercial came on, the announcer declaring,
"This is the face of erectile dysfunction!" and the
images of one attractive, athletic, 40ish man after
another paraded across the TV. It was all Mulder could
do to restrain himself from throwing the remote at the
screen.

*****

"Mom, he's driving me nuts!"

"Now, Dana," Maggie's voice was soothing, "I'm sure
it's not that bad. Fox was a very considerate
houseguest when he stayed here after his shoulder
surgery."

"Oh, I know he doesn't mean to be difficult," Scully
sighed, "Maybe it's because we're both so used to
living alone and it's strange to have another person
around 24/7 but I don't know how much more of this I
can take! I'm actually hiding out in my bedroom
pretending to have a headache just to have a few
minutes of privacy."

Just then, she heard Mulder shouting from the living
room. She padded stealthily down the hall, cordless
phone in hand, and peeked around the corner.

"Nitrogen! The answer is nitrogen! How stupid do you
have to be to get on this fucking show?!" Mulder threw
up his hands in disgust. "No, Regis, he doesn't need
to take a 50/50, he needs to answer the damn
question!"

"Is that Fox I hear?" Maggie inquired, amusement
evident in her voice.

"Yes, he's yelling at the TV again." Scully crept back
to her room, closed the door and sank into the
armchair in the corner. "He's watching that stupid
game show that's everyone is so crazy about. He hates
it, says they should call it 'Who Wants to be Annoying
on National TV' but he never misses it."

"Sounds just like your father watching 'The Price is
Right'. Remember how he used to yell at the
contestants for getting so excited over the prizes?"

"I'd forgotten that," Scully replied, having a sudden
vision of her father sneering at the TV and saying,
"It's just a dinette set, for pete's sake. It's not
worth crying about."

"So, aside from getting on your nerves, how is Fox
doing?"

"Much better, Mom. I think that's part of the problem.
He feels well enough to be bored." Scully propped her
feet up on the ottoman and settled back to relate the
events of the last few days.

Mulder had spent most of Wednesday quietly watching TV
on the sofa. His mood had improved after a long
afternoon nap, but he'd still been a bit morose when
he'd gone off to bed just after midnight. Thursday had
been better. The rain that had plagued the city for
several days had cleared. Even though Mulder spent the
day indoors, he seemed to have been cheered by the
sunny sky and the warm spring breeze that blew through
the open windows. His knee felt much better by then
and he'd only take a Vicodin at bedtime to help him
sleep, relying on the over the counter meds to control
his pain during the day. He'd done his exercises
without complaint and they seemed to be a little
easier and less painful each time. Thursday evening
he'd been able to do the leg hangs and leg raises on
his own with no assistance from Scully. He'd
maintained the zero degrees of extension he'd had the
day after surgery and had improved his flexion by a
couple of degrees. He'd even begun walking around the
apartment without the crutches, saying that the pain
was minimal and worth tolerating for the improved
maneuverability not using crutches afforded him.

"So, all in all, he's doing very well for someone
who's 4 days post-op," Scully concluded. "I'm sure
he'll get a good report when he sees Dr. Sumner on
Monday. I just wish he wasn't so restless. He's been
like a 10 year old all day, getting underfoot and
whining that he's bored. I feel for him, really I do,
but he's driving me up a wall!"

"You know, Dana, as I recall you aren't the easiest
person to deal with when you don't feel well.  And Fox
was very patient with you when you were recovering
from that awful gunshot wound."

"I know," Scully sighed. "He was wonderful and I'm
trying to be patient with him, Mom, honestly. But you
don't know what he's been like today! I came home from
the grocery store this morning and caught him going
through my desk. He claimed he was looking for a pack
of cards to play solitaire but I swear he was reading
my credit card receipts."

"What's so terrible about that?" Maggie laughed. "Can
you honestly tell me you've never snooped in his
apartment?"

"Well, no," Scully admitted, "but maybe I don't want
him reading my credit card receipts. Maybe there are
charges on there he doesn't need to know about." Her
face burned just considering the possibility that her
partner might have seen that $24.95 Good Vibrations
charge.

"Oh, now that sounds interesting," her mother was
practically purring on the phone. "What have you been
buying, Dana?"

"Nothing! I mean ...well ... you know, underwear and
... oh just private things, Mom. Things that Mulder
doesn't need to know about, okay?"

"Fine, honey, I didn't mean to pry." Maggie was
laughing and not doing a very good job of covering it.
"So aside from looking through your drawers ...so to
speak .. what has he done?"

"He spent an hour realphabetizing my CD collection. I
had them alphabetically by album title and he changed
them to alphabetically by artist! Now I won't be able
to find anything and when I complained to him about
it, do you know what he said?! He said that if I'm
going to be anal retentive, couldn't I at least be
anal retentive in a way that made sense?" Scully was
outraged. "I may be organized ... unlike Mulder who
keeps most of his CDs in a cardboard box and half the
time puts the disc back in the wrong case ... but I am
not anal!"

"Well, Dana, to be honest ..."

"Mother! You aren't supposed to take his side!" Scully
rubbed her eyes with her free hand. Suddenly the
headache she'd feigned earlier was on the verge of
becoming real.

"I'm sorry, honey, but you have to admit that you are
very ... well...organized. Very, very organized"

"Organized, yes. Anal, no," Scully growled. "But I
didn't call you to talk about me, I called to vent
about Mulder.'

"Okay, okay, go ahead."

"Thank you." As she spoke, Scully made her way quietly
to the bathroom, swallowed a couple of Excedrin and
began running a bath. "He insisted on helping me fix
lunch and then burned the rice so badly I may never
get it scraped out of the pan. He dropped the TV
remote on the floor and broke that little door to the
battery compartment. I had to tape it to keep it in
place and now I'm going to have to buy a new remote.
Then he asked if he could use my laptop and go online
this afternoon. I thought that would keep him occupied
and out of my hair for a while so I hooked it up for
him. Mom, he spent 3 hours sending instant messages to
this online friend of his and insisted on reading her
responses out loud to me. Like I care what Donna has
to say about unexplained lights in the skies over the
University of Connecticut! But all afternoon it was
Donna said this and Donna thinks that."

Maggie was obviously more than a little intrigued by
this bit of information. "And just who is Donna?" she
inquired almost breathlessly.

"Oh, Mulder has this whole internet harem," Scully
replied in disgust, dumping her favorite lavender
scented bath oil into the tub. "I swear 2/3 of his
email comes from women he's met online. He found this
one on some UFO message board and they've been
corresponding for months now. Do you know he even
skipped his afternoon exercise session to talk to her?
And he got pissy with me when I suggested he sign off
and do them?"

"I think both of you need to get out of that
apartment," said Maggie. "Get some fresh air, have
some fun and you'll feel better. And I know just the
thing! Why don't you bring him to the spring festival
at church tomorrow?"

"Oh, I don't know, Mom. Mulder's not really the church
festival type. He's not religious ..."

"He doesn't have to be religious to eat spaghetti, for
heaven's sake! It's all you can eat for $6. And that's
a bargain given how much that young man can pack away.
I'm working in the kitchen and I could arrange to take
my break and eat with you. And if Fox didn't want to
visit the flea market on the lawn, he could just relax
and enjoy the sunshine while we look around. I'll even
bring him a folding chair."

"It's a nice idea, Mom, I just don't think he'd go for
it. I just can't picture Mulder at a flea market."

"Well, you never know until you ask," Maggie said
sensibly. "So go ask him and I'll wait."

"Now?" Scully had begun unbuttoning her blouse in
preparation for her bath.

"There's no time like the present."

"Okay, okay," she sighed, refastening her blouse and
turning off the faucet.

Much to her amazement, Mulder seemed almost excited by
the idea. "Sure," he said without hesitation. "Tell
your mom I'll be there with bells on."

"Bells?" Scully muttered to herself as she returned to
the bathroom and picked up the phone. "He said yes,
Mom. What time do you want us there?"

"How about 1:00?" Maggie suggested happily. "I'll save
you a seat. Oh, and I should probably save an extra
one so Fox can prop up his leg. And maybe I should
bring a chaise lounge instead of a lawn chair. I have
one that folds up and fits nicely in the trunk of my
car. That way Fox could rest more comfortably while
we're shopping."

Scully groaned inwardly as she listened to her mother
chatter on. *I swear she likes Mulder more than she
likes me.* she thought as she propped the phone
between her ear and shoulder and began to undress.

*****

"Mulder are you almost ready?"

"Two minutes," he called from the bathroom.

Scully glanced at her watch impatiently. "Mom is
expecting us at 1:00. We're going to be late if we
don't leave soon."

"One minute," he replied, a bit irritably.

As she waited, Scully opened her purse and scanned the
contents. Keys, wallet, ID, Mulder's pain meds ...
just in case ... weapon, 2 extra clips, and her
favorite lipstick. Yep, all the essentials were there.
She glanced at her watch again. "Mulder ..."

"Okay, okay," he grumbled, limping from the bathroom,
still fastening his belt. Scully couldn't help but
smile at the sight of him. He'd showered, shaved (for
only the second time all week) and, unless her nose
deceived her, had put on cologne. He'd even eschewed
the baggy cutoff sweats and ratty shirts she'd been
subjected to all week in favor of neatly pressed khaki
shorts and a moss colored T-shirt that brought out the
green in his eyes. There was no doubt about it, Mulder
was primping for a lunch date with her mother.

"You look nice."

"Thanks." He flushed a bit and smoothed a crease in
his shirt. Mulder didn't take compliments well. "Well,
I'm ready."

Scully slung her purse over her shoulder and reached
for the crutches that were propped up near the door.
"I think you'd better use these, Mulder. The ground
might be uneven and the last thing you need is to slip
or fall."

"Yeah, alright." He was less than enthusiastic, but he
accepted the crutches and they were soon on their way.

The weather was as gloriously sunny and warm as Maggie
had predicted. Scully rolled down the windows, Mulder
turned up the radio and they enjoyed the ride in
companionable silence. There was a brief dispute when
Scully pulled into a handicapped parking space in the
church parking lot and Mulder protested in outrage,
but Scully shot him her best 'don't mess with me' look
and threw the car into park.

Maggie met them in the doorway of the social hall,
greeting Mulder with a hug and a glowing smile. Scully
noted with some amusement that her mother wasn't
wearing the ancient black stretch pants and faded
blouse she normally wore when she cooked at church
functions. Instead she was decked out in a pretty
cotton skirt and matching blouse. She was even wearing
nail polish. There was no doubt about it, her mom was
primping for a lunch date with Mulder. Rolling her
eyes toward the heavens, Scully hurried to take her
seat.

*****

"Fox, are you sure you don't want to just sit and
relax?" Maggie asked as they exited the social hall an
hour later. "I have a lawn chair in my car."

"No thanks. I'd rather walk around a little. It's a
nice day and after the amount of spaghetti I just ate,
I could use the exercise. Wouldn't want to lose my
girlish figure," Mulder added, rubbing his stomach for
emphasis.

They made their way to the church lawn where the flea
market and craft show was in full swing. Row after row
of folding tables were set out on the grass and the
variety of wares seemed endless. Mulder had a
difficult time maneuvering through the crowd on his
crutches so Scully walked in front of him in an
attempt to clear a path.

She didn't know what annoyed her more, the people who
brushed by as if he were invisible, the ones who shot
him 'how dare you be here slowing down traffic' looks
or the ones who cleared an excessively wide path for
him and stared as he passed by. Mulder took it all in
stride without complaint and actually seemed to be
enjoying himself, much to her amazement.

"Mulder, I wouldn't have thought you would enjoy a
thing like this," she commented.

"What? A flea market?" He seemed surprised. "Why not?"
 

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I guess because most
men don't like to shop."

"Well, I don't like to shop," he laughed. "Not if
you're talking the mall or the grocery store." He
visibly cringed at the thought. "But flea markets are
different. I mean, look at all this stuff. Junk and
gems side by side and you get the challenge of
figuring out which is which. They used to have them
all the time on the Vineyard when I was growing up. It
was mostly geared toward the tourists but a lot of the
locals went too, especially the kids. Flea markets are
a great place to find used books, old toys .... the
occasional old Playboy," he added slyly.

That earned him a swat on the arm and an "Oh, Fox,
shame on you!" from Maggie.

They wandered slowly up and down the aisles, pausing
to look at the tables which interested them, making
fun of the truly hideous things for sale at others.
The ground was uneven and Mulder found he had to tread
very carefully at times. After half an hour, his knee
began to ache from the unaccustomed activity but it
felt so good to be out of the house and moving around
that he kept it to himself. The pain was mild, nothing
a couple of Advil and a little rest wouldn't cure when
they got home.

He spotted a table selling baseball cards and paused
to look through the selection. He's been trying to
collect the entire 1949 Yankees since he was a kid and
there were a couple of cards that continued to elude
him. Scully and her mom wandered across the aisle to
look at a display of carnival glass while Mulder
thumbed through the large selection of cards. He was
so engrossed in his search, he barely noticed the
skinny boy of about 12 who was lurking at the other
end of the table. Barely noticed him, until the boy
grabbed a huge handful of cards and took off running
through the crowd.

"Stop! Thief!" the man behind the table shouted and
Mulder grimaced at the notion someone would actually
say something so cliched. Without any conscious
thought, his law enforcement side took over, and he
went in pursuit of the young shoplifter. Or, at least,
he tried. He managed about two steps before his feet
tangled with his crutches, his knee protested loudly
and he fell flat on his face in the grass.

"Mulder! Oh my God!" Scully was at his side in an
instant, urging him not to move and shouting for an
ambulance.

"No," he groaned, rolling laboriously onto his back.
"I'm okay. I'm not hurt." It took a minute to convince
his worried partner, her frantic mother and a dozen
curious onlookers, that he wasn't going to die but
finally Mulder won the ambulance battle.

Scully insisted he lie still while she examined his
leg and Mulder was forced to endure the humiliation of
being a public spectacle for the second time in less
than a month.

"Well, the stitches are intact, there's no bleeding.
Are you in pain, Mulder?" Scully gently redressed the
knee and eased the brace back on after her exam.

"Aside from a serious blow to my dignity, I'm fine.
Can I get up now?"

"Slowly," Scully cautioned. "And don't try to put any
weight on that knee." With the assistance of a couple
of the onlookers, Mulder was soon back on his feet,
leaning heavily on his crutches.

"Did someone at least catch the kid?" he inquired
wearily.

"What kid?" Maggie was hovering at his elbow in
concern.

He explained about the shoplifter and his aborted
attempt at pursuit, earning him a soft, "Oh, Fox."
from Maggie and a "I can't believe you did that," from
her daughter.

"I didn't even think," he admitted. "I just started
after him. It was instinct, Scully. You'd have done
the same thing."

"I suppose I would have," she admitted.

"Come on, Mulder, let's get you out of here. I think
we've had enough of flea markets for a while."

"Yeah, I think so."

"Oh, Fox, I'm so sorry," Maggie apologized as they
reached the car. "I never should have suggested this."
 

"It's not your fault," Mulder reassured her. "And I
was having a nice time until I decided to play cops
and robbers." He stuck both crutches under one arm and
used the other to give her a quick hug. "And I'm fine,
really. My knee got jarred a bit but it's okay.

I don't want you worrying about this."

Maggie chuckled at that. "Oh, sweetheart, don't waste
your breath telling a mother not to worry. It's what
we do best."

Mulder flushed as he eased himself into the car, both
pleased and disconcerted by the idea that Maggie would
be worried about him. When he was settled, she leaned
through the open window and planted a kiss on his
cheek. "You take care of yourself and you call me if
you need anything, okay?"

"I will, Maggie. Thank you."  The drive home was
quiet, but it was not the companionable silence of the
drive to the church. Mulder slumped in his seat,
brooding over this latest minor disaster. Scully kept
darting concerned looks his way, wanting to say
something to comfort him but unable to find the words.
 

When they reached her apartment and she'd helped him
onto the sofa, Scully picked up the phone and placed a
call to Greg Sumner. She expected her partner to
protest, but he merely sighed in resignation and
shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

Greg responded to the page within minutes and seemed
concerned but not overly so. He led Scully through a
careful examination, instructing her on how to test
Mulder's knee for instability. Then he spoke at length
to Mulder, quizzing him on how he'd fallen, how he'd
landed and how severe the resulting pain was.

"I think he's okay," Greg told Scully when Mulder had
handed the phone back to her. "Make him take it easy
the rest of the weekend. Lots of rest, ice it, take
pain meds as needed. If the pain or swelling increase,
call me right away and I'll meet you in the ER. But
for now, I think conservative treatment is the way to
go."

"Are you sure we shouldn't do another MRI? What if the
graft is torn?" Scully asked in concern.

"I don't think that's the case, Dana. But I'll see him
in the office on Monday and if there's even the
slightest hint of that, I'll order a stat MRI. In the
meantime, I'm just a phone call away, alright?"

"Alright, thanks Greg."

"You're welcome," he said warmly. "Hey, put Mulder
back on the phone, would you?"

Scully handed the phone to her partner and went to put
fresh ice in the Cryo-cuff.

"Hey, Greg," Mulder said tiredly.  "What's up? Am I
gonna live?"

"I think so," the doctor chuckled.

"As long as you remember you're not cleared for field
duty or flea market security yet."

"Funny."

"So, baseball cards, huh? What were you looking for?"

"The '49 Yankees. I need Henrich and Page and I've got
the whole set."

"You've got DiMaggio?!"

"Yep," Mulder was smug, in spite of his otherwise blue
mood.

"I hate you. I really, really hate you." Greg sighed.
"I can't help you out on Henrich but I have an extra
Tommy Page I might be willing to negotiate for."

"You're not getting my DiMaggio. It's signed, it was a
birthday gift from my grandfather and it's locked away
from prying eyes in an undisclosed location," Mulder
informed him. "But otherwise, I'm willing to deal."

"Good. I'll see you Monday. And Mulder? Stay out of
trouble the rest of the weekend, okay? I've got a date
tonight and I REALLY don't want to be disturbed."

*****

"Afternoon, folks." Greg Sumner burst through the exam
room door looking harried. "Sorry to keep you waiting.
It's been one of those days. My last surgery this
morning ran long and I had to literally run from the
OR to the office." He gestured toward the wrinkled
scrubs he wore as he spoke. "So, Mulder, how's that
knee?"

"Aren't you supposed to tell me that?" Mulder was
perched on the edge of the exam table swinging his
uninjured leg like an impatient child.

"Always a smart ass," the doctor grumbled, but he said
it with a smile. "Come on, lay down there and let's
take a look at you." He helped Mulder swing his legs
onto the table and lie down. Removing brace and
bandages with practiced ease, he inquired, "How's the
pain?"

"Not too bad."

"Still using the Vicodin?"

"Only at night to help me sleep."

Greg nodded. "Good. Very good." He studied Mulder's
knee silently for a moment, gently prodding and
manipulating, watching Mulder for his reactions. "Am I
hurting you?"

"Not really."

"Well, it looks good, Mulder. Swelling is down,
bruising is going away, incisions look great. No sign
of infection. Your range of motion is better than I
expected." He glanced over at Scully who was leaning
against the wall watching the proceedings with
interest. "Looks like you did a good job of keeping
our boy in line, Dana."

"I did my best," she smiled. "What do you think, Greg?
Did the fall on Saturday do any harm?"

"Doesn't look that way. Everything seems fine. Sit
tight there a minute, Mulder. I'm going to get a
suture removal kit and take out some of those
stitches.

While Sumner was gone from the room, Mulder propped
himself up on his elbows and took a long look at his
knee. Scully had changed the dressing a couple of
times during the last week but he'd avoided looking at
it. "It does look better, doesn't it?" He glanced over
at his partner who came to stand beside him.

"Yes, it does. Much better. I think your knee is half
the size it was right after surgery."

"Those bruises are nasty though. God, there must be
every color of the rainbow there."

"That just means they're getting better."

Greg returned carrying a small plastic packet. He
donned a pair of gloves, opened the kit and swabbed
Mulder's knee with an alcohol wipe. "Now the sutures
in the big incision, the one where we removed the
graft, have to stay another week. But these four
little incisions from the arthroscopy are healed so
we'll just snip those right out." Using tweezers and a
tiny pair of curved scissors, he deftly removed the
four stitches.

"Ouch!" Mulder hated having stitches removed.
Inevitably they had grown fast as the skin healed and
it always hurt.

When he was finished, Sumner swabbed the knee with
alcohol again and redressed it with antibiotic cream
and gauze. "Okay, you're good to go," he added as he
slipped the brace back on and fastened it in place.
"Just keep doing what you've been doing and come back
in a week to get the rest of those stitches out."

"So I can go back to work?" Mulder asked as he sat up.

"Do you absolutely have to? Can you take another week
off?"

"Yes, he can," Scully piped up just as Mulder's lips
were forming the word no. "He's got a ridiculous
amount of vacation time built up. He could take a
couple months if he had too."

"I think a week would do it," Greg laughed. Noting his
patient's crestfallen expression, he sobered. "Look,
Mulder, I can't force you to stay home but I wish you
would. The best thing you can do for your knee right
now is to rest it, ice it and do your exercises."

"But I can do that sitting at a desk."

"Yes, but not as easily as you could at home. And I
think you'll find that sitting at a desk is going to
be more uncomfortable than you expect. If you have the
time, take it, Mulder. It will only benefit you in the
long run."

"Is there any reason he couldn't work from home?"
Scully asked.

"None that I can think of. As long as he doesn't
overdo it."

"Well, there you go, Mulder. We'll set you up on the
sofa with the laptop. We can communicate by phone or
email. I think it's the perfect solution."

"I'd rather go to the office," Mulder grumbled. "But
I'll give it a try. But I'm telling you right now if I
have to spend even one more day just laying around
watching daytime TV I'm going to lose my mind!"

"We'll make it work, Mulder," Scully reassured him,
giving his arm a squeeze. She turned to Greg. "I have
a question."

"Only one?" the surgeon teased. "Ask away."

"Mulder is planning on moving back home tomorrow. Is
it okay for him to be alone?"

"Hop down there, Mulder and let me see you walk
without the crutches." Mulder obeyed and Greg watched
him pace the length of the small room a couple times
before stopping him. "Okay, good. You can stop. Yeah,
go home if you want. You're moving around well, pain
is under control, no nausea or vomiting since we
switched to Vicodin. I don't see any reason why you
can't be on your own."

"Can I ditch these crutches?"

"When you're in familiar surroundings, yes. But out in
public, use them at least the rest of this week. The
world is full of obstacles and the crutches will
afford you a little extra protection."

"And the brace?"

"Keep wearing it. You're healing nicely but that knee
is still unstable. It needs all the support it can
get. You can take it off when you sleep though."

"Thank God! You have no idea how hard it is to sleep
with this damn thing on!"

"Ah, but I do," Greg reminded him. "Been there, done
that, remember?" He glanced at his watch. "I've got
people waiting and you've got an appointment with
physical therapy so we'd better wind this up. However,
we need to talk about baseball cards, Mulder old
buddy."

Scully rolled her eyes in amusement as Mulder's face
lit up. "Yeah, we do. I want that Tommy Page."

"I should be done with office hours by the time you
finish up in PT. You want to grab some dinner? There's
a nice little Italian place right across the street."

Mulder glanced at Scully who nodded her agreement.
"Okay," he said, "Let's do it."

"Great. Just hang out in PT when you're done and I'll
meet you there."

Mulder had seen the therapist in Sumner's building a
couple of times in the weeks between his injury and
the surgery. He led Scully down to the first floor
where the office was located.

"Mr. Mulder?" The woman who greeted them was not the
therapist he'd seen before. "Hi, I'm Tena. I think you
saw my partner Susan last time. She's on vacation this
week ... went to Disney World and didn't even invite
me! ... so I'm going to be working with you today.
Just sit tight there for a few minute while I grab
your records and we'll get started."

When she'd returned to the small waiting area, Tena
drew up a chair and began leafing through the chart
she carried. "Let's see what we've got here. Federal
agent, fell while running," she glanced up. "Chasing a
bad guy?"

Mulder shook his head in disgust. "Went for a run on a
Sunday morning and fell off the edge of the track."

Tena made a sympathetic face. "Ouch. So, you tore your
ACL and had surgery a week ago and had a couple pre-op
visits here and one post-op visit at Georgetown ...
oooh, you saw Hendrix! He's a trip, isn't he? But he's
good."

Scully glanced at Mulder and saw that he was smiling.
He seemed to like the good natured therapist and she
was relieved, knowing that would go a long way toward
making him a cooperative patient.

"Have you been doing your exercises at home?" Tena was
asking.

"Yeah, twice a day."

"Good, good. We're going to have you continue with
that for another week, though I'm going to add a
couple new ones into the mix. Starting next week,
we're going to need to see you here 3 times a week."

"Three? Is that really necessary? I'm going back to
the office next week and I'm not going to have time
..."

"Oh, but you're going to make the time." Tena was
smiling but her tone was firm. "If you don't, you'll
regret it down the road, I promise you. I know it
won't be easy and it's going to cut into your social
life ..."

Scully clapped a hand over her mouth and tried not to
laugh but a strangled squeak escaped her. Mulder
glared and Tena cocked an eyebrow in her direction.
"Okay that means he's either got a very active social
life or none at all."

Scully lowered her hand and opened her mouth to speak
but Mulder cut her off. "So when do I have to come
in."

Tena was clearly amused but didn't pursue the subject
of his social life. "We're here from 7:00 am to 7:00
pm Monday through Friday. You can come before work or
after. We'll set up a schedule before you leave."

"How long do you think he'll be in therapy?" Scully
asked.

"With ACL repair it usually takes about 4 months.
Three times a week at first, then twice a week, then
once. By the end, you'll be doing most of the work on
your own and just checking in with us a couple times a
month so we can evaluate your progress. And speaking
of evaluating your progress, let's go do that, shall
we?"

She led them to the back room, which looked more or
less like a scaled down version of a health club.
There were floor mats, parallel bars, whirlpool tanks
and an intimidating collection of exercise machines.
Some of them Mulder recognized: treadmills,
stairclimbers, rowing machines. Others, were a
mystery, though he suspected he'd be well acquainted
with them by the time his therapy was over.

"I just want to check your flexion and extension ... I
have a note here from Hendrix telling me you're an
overachiever in that department," the therapist said
as she helped Mulder down onto one of the mats. "I'm
going to have you do a therapy session here to see how
you're progressing and make sure you're doing
everything properly. And then I'll show you the new
exercises."

Mulder soon discovered that as pleasant as the
therapist was, she had the soul of a drill sergeant.
She put him through his paces with brisk efficiency,
always urging him to do 'just one more' or to 'lift
that leg higher ... you can do it'. Then she came up
with a couple of new ways to torture him.

Stretching knee extensions, in Mulder's opinion, had
been conceived in hell. They consisted of lying face
down on the mat with a small rolled towel under his
thigh, looping what looked to him like a giant elastic
band around his ankle, grabbing it and pulling his
foot toward his backside.

"Keep your hips on the floor," Tena urged him, "or
your lower back will pay the price. And don't yank on
the band, just a slow, steady pull. You can buy one of
those bands at a medical supply store, by the way, or
you can just use a bedsheet."

Stretching knee flexion was even worse. "Lay on your
back," Tena counseled him. "Put a rolled towel under
your lower back. Always protect your lower back when
you're doing these exercises. Grab your thigh with
both hands and pull your knee up toward you chest.
Don't move your hips. Keep that butt on the floor."

"I'm trying," Mulder grunted, pulling his leg toward
his chest until it met with the therapist's
satisfaction.

"Feel the pull in your hamstring"

"Oh, yeah," he groaned.

"That means you're doing it right. Now, straighten
your leg."

"Huh?" Mulder stared at her dumbfounded.

"Straighten your leg," she repeated patiently. "As
straight as you can and hold it there for 10 seconds."

Mulder groaned and did as he was told. "Oh, shit."

"Funny thing," Tena chuckled, "how everyone says that
first time they do this."

Wall slides weren't much better. Standing with his
back against the wall and sliding down until his knees
were bent about halfway, then holding it till the
count of 10 sounded easy enough ... until he did it.
The muscles in his right thigh practically screamed in
protest and his legs were shaking by the time he stood
upright again.

Hamstring curls, at least, were easy. "Just stand with
your hands on your kitchen table or on the back of a
chair for balance. Bend your knee about 90 degrees and
hold it for a count of 10."

And finally there was the quad and hip flexor stretch.
"Stand with your left hand on the table or chair back
for balance. Bend you right knee backward and up. Grab
your ankle with your free hand and pull the leg up and
back. You should feel the stretch in the upper quad
... that's the upper part of the front of your thigh."

"Believe me, I know exactly where my upper quad is
right now," Mulder panted, struggling to hold his leg
in position for the required 10 seconds.

"Done," Tena declared and Mulder lowered his leg with
a groan. "You did great. I'm going to give you a
booklet that lists all these exercises, we'll set up
your appointments for the next couple weeks and then
you can get out of here."

Greg was waiting for them when they emerged from the
therapy room. Noting the expression on his patient's
face he said, "Really put you through your paces,
huh?"

"Yeah. She looks like the girl next door but she's a
sadist underneath."

"That's our Tena," Greg said with a smile. "But just
wait until Susan gets back from vacation. She'll
really make you work. So, you ready to go?  I'm
starving and I've got a Tommy Page card burning a hole
in my pocket." He patted the breast pocket of his
shirt as he spoke.

"Lead the way."

*****

Scully had developed a certain appreciation for
baseball during the past year. But a solid hour of
listening to Mulder and Sumner talk about everything
from baseball cards to the World Series to their
beloved '49 Yankees was enough. She'd noticed a hobby
shop next door and excused herself to go in search of
a gift for her godson. Trent's birthday was months
away but he was a teenager now and she saw him so
infrequently that choosing gifts for him was getting
harder and harder. He was a model train enthusiast and
she'd seen a Lionel Train sign prominently displayed
in the store's front window.

"If I'm not back by the time you're ready to leave,
come get me," she told the two men as she left the
table. Deeply engrossed in a discussion about their
Little League glory days, they barely acknowledged her
departure.

The hobby shop turned out to be larger than she
thought. Scully was delighted to find an enormous
model train selection in the basement and lost track
of time as she browsed the aisles looking for just the
right thing. As she was waiting for her purchases to
be totaled, she glanced at her watch and gasped in
dismay. She'd been in the shop of nearly an hour.
Scribbling her name on the charge slip, she grabbed
her bag and flew to the restaurant. *Poor Mulder,* she
thought guiltily. *He must be exhausted by now. I
can't believe he didn't send Greg to get me.*

Rushing breathlessly to the table she found her
partner and his doctor lounging contently with coffee
cups and crumb strewn desert plates in front of them.

"And so this guy actually knew Josh Exley?" Greg was
saying.

"Yeah." Mulder had a pen in his hand and was
scribbling something on a napkin. "This is the address
and phone number. But remember, you want Arthur Dales
the retired sheriff, not his brother Arthur Dales the
retired federal agent."

"They're really both named Arthur?" Greg's expression
was incredulous as he slipped the napkin into his
pocket.

Mulder shrugged. "So they claim."

"And this guy believes that Exley was a ... what did
you call it?"

"An E.B.E."

"Oh God, Mulder, not the Josh Exley was an alien story
again."

"Oh, hey Scully. You're back. Josh Exley was an alien.
 Arthur Dales ...."

"Is as big a crackpot as his brother and I take
everything he says with a huge grain of salt." Scully
dropped into her chair with a sigh. "I can't believe
you two have been sitting here talking about baseball
for two solid hours."

"I was ready to come looking for you," Mulder said
defensively, "but he brought up the Negro Leagues and
... well ..."

"Mulder, you are obsessed with the Negro Leagues. You
don't need any encouragement to talk about them."

"Yeah, I know. I'm just saying, I was ready to leave
and he started it ..."

Greg looked like he wanted to protest but Scully held
up a hand to stop him. "I don't care who started it,
I'm putting and end to it. It's going on 8:00, Mulder.
You have to be getting tired and if we're going to
stop by the office and pick up those files we should
get going."

"Yeah, I guess so." Mulder plucked an envelope from
the table. "Here, Scully, put this in your purse till
we get home, would you? I don't want my new Tommy Page
getting bent."

"Got it did you? What did it cost you?"

Mulder winced. "You don't want to know. This guy is a
ruthless negotiator."

"All's fair in love and baseball cards," Greg said
with a benign smile.

Scully groaned. "Okay, that's enough. Come on, Mulder.
Let's go. And I don't want to hear one word about
baseball on the way home."

*****

The four days he spent working from home were some of
the longest of Mulder's life. It was better than not
working at all, but it was a far cry from being at the
office. No Scully to talk to, no Scully to pick on, no
Scully to make coffee that was actually drinkable, in
short: no Scully. He missed her ... a lot. And so he
called her ... a lot. Until Thursday, that is, when
she answered his fifth call in two hours by snarling
"Fuck off, Mulder." and hanging up in his ear. After
that he only sent her email.

Two weeks after the surgery, Greg Sumner pulled the
last of the stitches from his knee and gave Mulder the
okay to go back to work. "Wear the brace," the surgeon
admonished. "Keep your leg elevated as much as you
can. And be careful!"

Walking ... well, limping actually ... into the office
that Monday afternoon Mulder felt as if he were
finally on the road to recovery. It had been a rough
couple of weeks, physically and emotionally, and he
still had a long road ahead. But coming back to work
was a huge step and it felt good.

"Are you sure you're not pushing yourself?" Of course
Scully would worry. She wouldn't be Scully otherwise.

"I'm fine." Mulder assured her, dropping into his
chair and propping his leg on a small footstool Scully
had thoughtfully provided. "I haven't felt this good
in weeks. It's great to be back. So, what's going on?"

"Next year's budget."

Mulder leaned back in his chair with a groan. "My
first day back and you want me to work on the budget?
You're a cruel, cruel woman."

Scully smiled, dropped a huge stack of papers on his
desk and said, "Welcome back, partner."

By the end of the day, Mulder's knee was throbbing and
he gratefully accepted Scully's offer of a ride home.
He still wasn't allowed to drive so he would be
depending on public transportation and Scully's
chauffeur services for the next couple of weeks. They
stopped and picked up Chinese take out on the way to
his apartment and Scully stuck around for a few hours
to eat and watch some TV. By 9:00, Mulder was yawning
almost constantly and embarrassed at how exhausted he
was from half a day's work.

"It's going to take time but your energy level will
come back to normal and I'll be running to catch up to
you like always," Scully reassured him as she helped
clean up the leftovers and prepared to leave. "Go on
and get ready for bed, I'll see myself out. Oh, you've
got PT tomorrow don't you?"

"No, that was this morning after I got my stitches
out. Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 7:00 am,
remember?"

"That's right. Do you want me to come get you
tomorrow? Drive you to work?"

"No, that's okay. It's out of your way and I can
easily catch a cab or take the subway"

"I don't mind, Mulder. I can even come take you to
therapy."

"I appreciate the offer, Scully, really. But I'll
manage just fine. Besides, if I bum too many rides in
the mornings, you might not want to drive me home at
night," he added with a grin. "And you know how hard
it is to catch a cab on Pennsylvania Avenue at 5:00
pm."

"I knew there was a method to your madness," Scully
replied with a smile. "But if you ever need a ride to
work ..."

"I'll call you, I promise." He tried, and failed, to
stifle a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Go to bed, Mulder. I'll see you in the morning,"
Scully pulled on her jacket and slipped out the door
with a wave and a smile.

*****

There were times when Mulder wished his life were a
movie ... or at least a TV show. Then four months of
physical therapy could be covered in a single five
minute montage of rapid fire action shots set to the
tune of some insipid, inspirational ballad sung by
Whitney Houston.

But he was a real person, not a fictional character,
so he was forced to endure his rehab one day at a
time. Susan returned from her Florida vacation
sporting a wicked sunburn and a foul mood.

"I hate coming back to work after a vacation ...
especially when I come back looking like a lobster,"
she'd told him the first day.

"I suppose you're going to take it out on me," he'd
said.

And she had. As one week became two and then two weeks
became four, Susan found new and better ways to
torture him. She had him doing straight leg raises
with ankle weights, riding the exercise bike, using
the leg press machine and the treadmill. And she made
him do squats until his thighs burned and he all but
collapsed on the floor in a sweating, gasping heap at
her feet. Susan was very big on doing squats and he
began to hate her for it. Mulder learned what toe
raises were and step ups and a dozen other exercises
that he swore were designed solely to make his life
hell.

There were days when his knee ached so badly,
particularly around the kneecap, that he wanted to sit
down and cry. And there were days when it felt as good
as new. The ugly bruises had finally faded and, except
for the scar from the harvesting of the graft, his
knee looked almost normal. It swelled sometimes, when
he spent too much time on his feet but a hour with the
Cryo-cuff after work usually did the trick. His energy
levels increased as time passed and he was soon
walking without a trace of a limp, though he still
wore the brace for support.

In the middle of his 4th week of rehab, as he
struggled to complete the 5 minute session on the
stairmaster that Susan had assigned him, Mulder
reflected that he'd never worked so hard in his life.

The timer Susan had set, dinged, indicating the end of
his stairmaster session and Mulder slumped against the
post of the machine with a groan. "Am I done?"

"As soon as I check your range of motion, yes you are.
Hop up on the table." After a brief exam, Susan gave
him a thumbs up. "Looking good. Your flexion is at 130
degrees which is ahead of schedule and your extension
is zero."

"Great." Mulder swung himself up and off the table.
"So, guess I'll see you Friday."

"Actually, you're doing so well, I think we can cut
you back to two sessions a week. How about next
Tuesday and Thursday mornings?"

"Really?"

"Yes, really," Susan smiled at his obvious delight.
"And I'm trying real hard to not be insulted by how
thrilled you are to be seeing less of me."

Mulder had an appointment with Greg Sumner following
his therapy and that brought more good news. "You can
start driving and you can lose the brace," the doctor
informed him.

If his knee hadn't been so sore from the stairmaster,
Mulder might well have leaped up and done the dance of
joy.

"You're not completely brace free," Greg cautioned. "I
want you to get a smaller, less bulky one that you're
to wear whenever you're doing strenuous activity. I'll
write down the name and model number for you and you
can pick it up at any medical supply store. You may
well need to wear it for the rest of your life but I
promise it's no worse than the one you were wearing
before all this happened."

"I can live with that," Mulder replied happily.

Week four was a very good week.

*****

Weeks five and six, were not.

Since Mulder was restricted to desk duty, the X-Files
division was limited in which cases it could accept.
Mulder couldn't travel and Skinner wouldn't allow
Scully to go into the field without a partner so all
out of town cases had to be turned down. This left
them with a great deal of free time. Scully had been
spending about half her time helping out in Pathology
and Mulder was doing consults for Violent Crimes. It
wasn't the work he wanted to be doing, but it was
better than some of the busy work he'd been assigned
in the past so he didn't complain ... much.

Still, he itched for a nice, juicy X-File. A
poltergeist, an alien abduction, even another flukeman
was beginning to sound good. He wanted something to
challenge him. Something he could sink his teeth into.
What he got was Introduction to Criminal Profiling.

"You want me to do what?!" He stood in front of A.D.
Skinner's desk with his mouth hanging open.

"You heard me, Agent. Martin Thompson broke his ankle
in 3 places and Bob Grenville's wife is having bypass
surgery. We need someone to teach at Quantico for a
couple weeks. You've got the background, you've got
teaching experience and you've got lots of free time."

"But sir ..."

"I would consider it a personal favor, the A.D.
growled, his tone making clear this was a 'do it or
else' type favor.

"Okay, okay. I'll do it." Mulder sounded as
enthusiastic as a death row inmate presented with his
last meal.

"Thank you, Agent Mulder. Report to Quantico in the
morning. You're dismissed."

When Mulder arrived at 'his' classroom the next
morning, he found his partner, who was also spending
the day at Quantico, sitting on the edge of his desk
holding a shiny red apple. "Good morning, Agent
Mulder," she called out in her best Catholic
schoolgirl sing-song.

"Not funny," he growled "I barely had time to shower
and change after therapy so I didn't have any
breakfast." Mulder grabbed the apple from her hands
and took a huge bite. "Susan gave me all kinds of
grief because I couldn't do 7 minutes on the
stairmaster and now I have to teach a bunch of
starry-eyed newbies how to profile."

"It's only for a couple of weeks, Mulder. Besides,
you've taught before."

"I was a teaching assistant for a couple semesters
while I was doing my postgraduate work at Oxford and I
hated every second of it." Mulder circled around the
desk and dropped into the chair dejectedly. "I don't
wanna do this, Scully."

"Seems to me you don't have much choice. And don't
worry, you'll do fine."

"You've never seen me in front of a class. I'm
terrible."

"Well, actually ..."

Mulder, who'd been rummaging through the desk drawers
for the notes Agent Grenville was to have left him,
looked up at her in dismay. "Oh, don't tell me you
attended one of those guest lectures I did when I was
profiling."

"My first month as a trainee. Sat in the front row and
hung on your every word."

"And you never felt the need to mention this before?"

"Just saving it for the right moment, I guess." As the
members of the first class began filtering in, Scully
hopped off the desk and headed for the door. "I've got
my cell phone, Mulder. Call me if you want to have
lunch."

"Yeah, okay." Mulder watched her leave and tried not
to flinch visibly when she pulled the door shut behind
her, closing him in with 30 eager young trainees.
Taking a few deep breaths, Mulder pushed himself to
his feet, plastered a smile on his face and said,
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Fox
Mulder and I'll be your instructor for the next two
weeks."

*****

Mulder hadn't been kidding when he said he hated
teaching. He well and truly despised it. Working with
a younger, less experienced agent and showing them the
ropes was one thing. He didn't mind that. In fact he
liked it. But teaching a whole classroom full of
eager-beaver trainees who'd already heard one too many
'Spooky' stories was another matter entirely. There
were days when he could barely fit in a word about
profiling because he was too busy answering questions
about himself and his work.

Worse yet, was the amount of paperwork involved. Just
days before his wife's heart attack, Agent Grenville
had divided his classes into teams, handed them old
case files and instructed them to write a profile.
Mulder got stuck with the task of reading, and
critiquing, every last one. With only an hour long
lunch break in the middle of his day, that meant
taking the work home.

Mulder had changed his PT sessions from 7:00 am to
6:00 pm for the two week duration of his assignment at
Quantico. He'd discovered the first day that it was
almost impossible to do his therapy and make his first
class on time because of the long commute.
Unfortunately, the evening appointments didn't prove
to be terribly convenient either. He missed the first
one because he got stuck in a killer traffic jam on
his way home. He missed the second one because he was
reading those damn profiles and lost track of time. He
missed the third one because he was just too tired to
care.

He tried to be diligent about doing his at home
exercise program but that began to suffer as well.
Standing all day on the unforgiving concrete floors
played hell on his knee. He tried to teach sitting
down but he couldn't do it. Mulder paced when he
talked, had done so for most his adult life, and just
couldn't break the habit.

By the end of his sixth week post-op, and, mercifully,
the end of his teaching assignment, Mulder felt like
hell. His knee was stiff, swollen and excruciatingly
painful. He'd been limping so badly when he left
Quantico that afternoon that one of his students had
actually offered to run out to the parking lot and
fetch his car. Mulder had been mortified at the notion
... but had meekly handed over his keys anyway. His
knee ached so badly that the 100 yard trek to his car
seemed like an insurmountable obstacle.

As he lay on his couch that night, his right leg
propped up and wrapped in the Cryo-cuff, Mulder popped
Advil as if they were candy and wished he'd never
heard the phrase 'ACL tear'.

Though he babied his knee all weekend, Mulder felt
only marginally better on Monday so he did the
unthinkable and called in sick. Scully was on his
doorstep asking what was wrong by 11:00 am.

"What took you so long?" he inquired, as he ushered
her in.

"Mulder, I can't remember the last time you willingly
took a sick day. What's the matter?"

"Oh, my knee's acting up. Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.
I'm sure it's nothing. But I should have called you
personally instead of leaving a message with Skinner.
Sorry if I worried you."

Scully insisted he sit down and allow her to examine
him. "Oh, Mulder it's all swollen!" He hissed in pain
as she began to palpate the area around his kneecap.
"Mulder, what happened? Did you fall again?"

"No, I didn't do anything. It's just been getting
stiff and sore over the last week or so."

"What did your therapist say? Did she have any
suggestions about what might be causing it?"

"Um ... well ... actually ..." Mulder, carefully
keeping his eyes on the floor, haltingly admitted that
he hadn't been to PT for a week and a half. There was
a long, uncomfortable silence. He did his best to wait
it out but finally couldn't take it anymore and lifted
his eyes to his partner's face.

*I've heard the expression used a hundred times,* he
thought to himself, *but I never realized someone's
eyes could actually bulge out of their head in anger.*
 

Unfortunately for him, the tongue lashing his partner
gave him that morning, paled in comparison to the one
he received from his physical therapist the next day.

"Mulder, you suck!" was probably the nicest thing she
said to him the whole session.

"I beg your pardon?!" Mulder staggered off the
treadmill and practically collapsed into a nearby
chair.

"You heard me." Susan was glaring at him, both hands
planted on her hips. "You suck. That was the most
pathetic display I've ever seen. Why did you even
bother coming back if you're aren't going to try?"

"I am trying," he protested, pulling up the hem of his
T-shirt and using it to wipe the sweat out of his
eyes. "Look, Susan, I told you I was sorry for
skipping sessions, I promised it wouldn't happen again
and I meant it. I don't blame you for being pissed
with me ... but cut me some slack would you? My knee
is killing me and I'm doing the best I can."

"You lost 5 degrees of flexion. Your muscle tone is
lousy compared to two weeks ago. You've lost strength
and agility. Your knee's all swollen. Do you
understand how much of a setback that is? Stopping
therapy cold the way you did was a supremely stupid
thing to do and now you're going to pay the price. Do
you have any clue how hard you're going to have to
work to get back to where you were?"

He didn't ... but he soon found out.

It took three weeks of grueling workouts to regain the
ground he'd lost. Every time he got frustrated, Susan
would tell him some story about a former client that
was meant to motivate him but only pissed him off. He
didn't want to hear about Burt, who shattered his legs
in a forklift accident and came to therapy every day
for a year so he could walk his daughter down the
aisle at her wedding. He didn't care about Lillian,
age 90, who announced that no matter what the doctor's
said she would walk without a walker after her hip
surgery ... and did. All he wanted was to stop
devoting what seemed like half his waking hours to
taking care of his knee and to get on with his life.

It was a Tuesday morning in the ninth week of his
therapy when Susan finally declared him back up to
speed. He'd regained all the ground he lost and,
though he was no longer ahead of schedule, he was
right where he should be at that point in this rehab.
The resulting feeling of pleased pride lasted all of
two days.

He was halfway through Thursday's session, struggling
through his turn on the leg press machine, when he
noticed a familiar face was missing.

"Where's Marcus?" he asked when Susan came by to check
on his progress.

Susan and Tena had a busy practice. There were always
other clients there during his workouts. Some came and
went quickly, others had been there as long as he had
or longer and he'd gotten to know them. They compared
notes and cheered each other on. A few times, a group
of them had even gone out for coffee after their
workouts were over.

Marcus, age 19, had torn his ACL playing college
basketball and had surgery the same day as Mulder.
They'd had an almost identical therapy schedule so
Mulder had gotten used to seeing the boy there and his
absence felt strange.

"He's gone," Susan informed him. "He's progressed so
well that he can continue his therapy on his own from
now on."

"But ... but he ..." Mulder stopped cold, allowing the
leg press machine to slip back into it's neutral
position. He was positively dumbstruck by the news.
"He had his surgery the same day I did," he finally
managed. "He's only at nine weeks! How can he be
done?"

"He's not done," Susan explained patiently. "He's
going to have to continue his workouts for several
more months. He's just reached a point where he can do
them on his own."

"So does that mean I'm at that point too"

"Sorry, Mulder, but no. Not even close. You'll be
coming here at least another 4 to 6 weeks. We told you
at the beginning this would take about 4 months."

"But Marcus ..."

"Is half your age," Susan told him gently. "He's got
all that youthful energy on his side and he made an
extraordinarily rapid recovery. Marcus is the
exception, not the rule so don't judge yourself by
him. You had a setback but you're doing fine now.
You'll get to the point where Marcus is in due time, I
promise you. Now, how about we try this again with
another 5 lbs. of weight?"

As he drove home to get ready for work, Mulder came to
the realization that he'd never felt so old as he did
that morning.

*****

The two weeks that followed were better. It was June
and the NBA finals were in full swing, keeping Mulder
much too busy to bother with something so mundane as a
midlife crisis. Susan had been gradually changing the
focus of their sessions from strength training to
improving his balance and functional mobility. While
Mulder felt more than a little ridiculous jumping rope
or bouncing on a trampoline, he knew the increased
activity was a good sign and it gave his spirits a
boost. And finally, Susan informed him that he was
cleared to start swimming and allowed him to do some
light jogging on the treadmill. As the month drew to a
close, Mulder found himself feeling almost like his
old self.

He should have known it wouldn't last. His persistent
feelings of discontent and self-doubt were about to
come roaring back and leave him facing the possibility
of an unimaginable loss.

*****

"Mulder, it's 5:00. I'm taking off."

"Hmm?" Mulder raised his eyes from the case file he'd
been studying. "You leaving?"

"Yes. It's 5:00."

He glanced at his watch. "So it is."

"You coming?"

"No, I want to finish reviewing this new case Skinner
sent down. You go ahead though."

"Okay, I'll see you day after tomorrow."

Mulder looked perplexed for a moment, then realization
dawned. "Oh, that's right, tomorrow's the 4th, isn't
it? You going to your mom's annual Independence Day
bash?"

"No," Scully sighed, trying to keep the dejection out
of her voice and not quite succeeding. "She flew out
to Ohio to be with my Aunt Betty. She broke her hip a
couple weeks ago and she's due home from the hospital
today. Mom's going to stay for a week or so and help
her get settled in."

"So you're on your own?"

"Yeah, but that's okay. I can catch up on some
household chores I've been putting off. Might be nice
to have a quiet holiday for a change." Her tone was
cheerful but Scully's eyes gave her away. The thought
of spending the holiday alone held no appeal for her
at all. "What ... um ... what are you doing?" she
asked hesitantly

"I was invited to a picnic, actually. I wasn't going
to go by myself but if you aren't doing anything ...."

"This isn't one of Frohike's barbecues on the roof
type picnics is it?" Scully's eyes were narrowed with
suspicion.

"No, it's your typical, all-American, suburban family
picnic," he reassured her with a laugh. "Hot dogs on
the grill, lemonade, screaming children running
through the yard probably. It's at Chuck's house."

"Chuck?"

"Chuck Burks."

Scully stared at him in amazement. "Chuck Burks as in
your friend Chuck Burks the technogeek from the
University of Maryland? That Chuck Burks?"

"That's the guy."

"He lives in the suburbs? He has a family? They have
picnics?"

"Well, yeah," Mulder replied, laughing. "What? You
think he lived in his lab?"

"Honestly? Yes."

"Not all technogeeks ... as you so kindly phrased it
... live like the Gunmen. Some of them have actual
lives. Chuck's got a wife, kids, even a dog I think.
So, you want to go to this thing with me or not?"

"Yes, if for no other reason than to see what sort of
woman would marry Chuck Burks."

*****

Laura Burks taught history at the University of
Maryland and lived with her husband and three teenage
children in a modest brick house in College Park. They
did, in fact, have a dog and there was even a station
wagon parked in the driveway. They were, as promised,
a typical suburban family. Laura greeted them with a
gracious smile and escorted them to the backyard where
the party was in full swing.

Chuck, predictably attired in plaid shorts and a 'Kiss
the Cook' apron was holding court at the barbecue
grill. "Hey, you guys! Welcome! Grab a beer! Let me
introduce you around."

In addition to Chuck's family, there were friends from
the University, neighbors, even a few of his and
Laura's students. It was a large, boisterous crowd,
the tables were groaning with food, there was a radio
blasting pop music and Mulder and Scully soon found
themselves swept up in the festivities.

"I can't believe I ate so much," Scully groaned a few
hours later, sinking into a lawn chair and rubbing her
stomach. "I'm going to have to eat salads for a month
to make up for it. Laura, everything was wonderful."

"Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. That pasta
salad you brought was terrific too. I've never tasted
anything like it. Is there some secret ingredient?"

"It's not a secret," Scully chuckled. "But I do make
my own dressing, it's my mom's recipe."

"Well it was wonderful. I'd love to have a copy of
it."

Mulder, quickly becoming glassy-eyed from the
'girl-talk' picked himself up off the grass and
wandered away looking for more suitable conversation.
Soon, he had another beer in his hand and was engaged
in shop talk with Chuck's brother-in-law, Ken, who
turned out to be a homicide detective.

The Burks' daughters and some of their friends had
strung up a volleyball net and were attempting to get
a game started. They had an uneven number of players
and were badgering the adults to join them without
much success.

"Come on, Dad, pleeease," 15-year-old Brandy tugged on
her father's arm and whined.

"No thanks, sweetie."

"Uncle Kenny?"

"Too hot for me."

"Aw come on guys! It's no fun with only 5 players!
Please? How about you, Mr. Mulder?" Brandy flashed him
her best ingratiating smile.

"Thanks, but I think I'll pass too. And I really wish
you'd just call me Mulder."

Brandy flushed and shook her head in embarrassment.
"My mom would have my hide if I did that. She says we
have to call our elders Mr. and Mrs."

Mulder's smile became forced in light of the 'elders'
comment but he said nothing as Brandy continued her
campaign.

"Brandy, it's 90 degrees in the shade and we're old
men." Chuck said, giving his daughter an affectionate
hug. "You trying to kill us?"

That was the last straw! Mulder pushed himself away
from the tree trunk he'd been leaning on with an
indignant, "Old man? Speak for yourself, Chuck! Okay,
Brandy, you got yourself another player."

As he crossed the lawn, Mulder stopped, fished his car
keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Scully.
"Hold onto these for me, would you? I'm afraid they'll
come out of my pocket."

"Sure, but what are you doing?"

Mulder gestured toward the net and the waiting teens.
"The kids need another player."

"Mulder, I don't think that's such a good idea,"
Scully responded uneasily. Because of the summer heat,
they'd both dressed for comfort in shorts and T-shirts
and she directed her gaze toward her partner's bare
legs. "You aren't wearing your brace and Greg said you
had to have it for any strenuous activity."

"I know, I know. But it was too damn hot to put that
thing on. Besides, I'm 12 weeks post-op and I feel
fine. Hardly any pain, no swelling. I'm down to one PT
session a week. I've been swimming and doing some
light jogging this past week. I got a glowing report
from Greg on Friday ..."

"I know all that, Mulder but I still think it's a bad
idea. Volleyball is very physical. All that running
and jumping. No matter how good you feel, your knee is
still healing. If you fell ..."

"Oh come on, Scully," he protested, already backing
away toward the net, "it's one game with a bunch of
kids. I'll be fine"

*****

"Oh, Mr. Mulder, Mr. Mulder, are you okay?!" Brandy
peered down at him in distress.

"I'm ... fine ..." he wheezed, struggling to suck air
into his lungs. "You just ... knocked the ... wind ...
outta me."

"I'm so sorry," the girl wailed. "I was going back to
get that high serve and all of the sudden there you
were! Should I call 911?"

"I'm fine," Mulder reassured her, pushing himself up
into a sitting position. "Really, Brandy, don't worry
about it. No harm done."

"Do you think you can stand, sir?" This came from a
strapping young man who'd been introduced as the
boyfriend of the Burks' eldest daughter. "I could
carry you to the house ..."

"NO! No, Eric, thank you but that's not necessary. I
could use a hand up though." Mulder grabbed the boy's
extended forearm and heaved himself to his feet.
"There, see? I'm fine," he reassured his anxious young
teammates. "I think maybe I'll sit out the rest of the
game though."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Brandy continued to
flutter around him. "You fell really hard!"

*Yeah, after being knocked down by a 100 pound little
girl,* Mulder's mind supplied bitterly. But he smiled
as warmly as he could and once again assured the
distraught girl that no harm was done.

"You guys go ahead and enjoy your game. I'm just gonna
go sit in the shade, with the other 'old men' and have
a beer." He made it all of one step before his right
knee buckled and he found himself, once again, on the
ground making a spectacle of himself. Only this time,
he was in too much pain to care. The pain was
incredible. It enveloped him, pushing sight, sound,
everything into the background. Mulder was dimly award
of the kids clustering around him and babbling
excitedly. Someone was shaking him and asking what was
wrong. He wanted to respond but was afraid that if he
opened his mouth he would scream.  Nausea roiled
through him and Mulder regretted the huge lunch he's
just consumed. Swallowing hard to keep from vomiting,
he rolled onto his side, almost in a fetal position,
clutched his knee and waited for the cavalry to
arrive.

It didn't take long. Scully was kneeling beside him in
a heartbeat, gently pushing his hands to the side. Her
gasp told him it wasn't good. "Mulder, can you hear
me?" He nodded, not even bothering to open his eyes.
"Your knee is already very badly swollen. We need to
get you to the hospital."

"Washington Adventist is only 15 minutes away." That
was Chuck, his mind supplied. "Should I call an
ambulance?"  *No, no, no,* Mulder chanted in his mind,
not quite able to squeeze the words out. *Please,
Scully, no ambulance. You know I don't trust them ...
one trip to Antarctica was enough.*

He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard his
partner's reply. "No, no ambulance. If we can get him
in the car, he'll be fine. Chuck, could you drive us?"

"Of course! In fact, I insist. I'll go pull the car
around as close as I can get." Mulder felt a hand on
his shoulder. Chuck was leaning over him. He wanted to
open his eyes, acknowledge his friend, but he
couldn't. "Hang in there, buddy." Mulder could only
nod.

*****

"Greg, this is Dana Scully. I'm sorry to bother you on
a holiday ...."

"What did he do now?" Sumner asked without preamble.
Scully explained the situation quickly and the doctor
groaned. "I'm going to kick his ass."

"You'll have to stand in line," Scully laughed
humorlessly. "I don't know what the hell he was
thinking."

"Were did you say you were?"

"Washington Adventist in Takoma Park. It's about 15
minutes from the University of Maryland."

"Yeah, I've heard of it. You told them about the ACL
right?"

"Yes, I asked them to do an MRI. They have to call
someone in since it's a holiday and we're waiting for
them to get here."

"And how's our boy doing?"

"Not bad," Scully replied. "They've got the knee iced
and elevated. He's had 10 mg of Toradol and he's
feeling a lot better than he was when we first got
here."

"Only 10 mg?" Sumner questioned. "I'd have given him
15."

"Well, he had a couple beers at the picnic so the ER
doctor decided to err on the side of caution. 10 mg
seems to be helping though."

"Good, good. Sounds like they know what they're doing.
Listen, I don't have privileges there so there's not
much sense in me driving out. Give me a call when you
get the results of the MRI and we'll go from there,
okay?"

"Greg, if the ACL is damaged ..."

"Then he goes back to surgery and we start all over
again."

"I was afraid of that."

"Well, let's keep our fingers crossed it's just a bad
sprain. It'll set him back a bit as far as PT goes but
he'll recover ... and then I'll kick his ass."

"Like I said, get in line! Thanks Greg, I'll keep in
touch."

*****

~~~

"Mr. Mulder, do you want to listen to some music while
we do this? I can get you the headphones." The MRI
tech was amazingly pleasant for someone who'd
obviously been called out of a swimming pool on a hot
July day.

He smiled up at the young woman with the wet hair and
the sunburned nose. "No thanks, Keri. I've been
through this enough times to know the machine's so
damn loud you can't hear the music anyway."

"True," she laughed. "But we always offer. I don't
know why. I guess because the fancy sound system is
here and we hate to waste it." She gently adjusted his
position on the narrow table and tucked a sheet over
him, leaving his right leg exposed. "Sorry, but I need
to see that knee, make sure you aren't wiggling on me
or anything."

"Not a problem."

"I think we're just about ready to go. You've done
this before so you know you're gonna be here about an
hour, right?" Mulder nodded. "Just try to relax, if
that pain medication makes you sleepy feel free to
nap. I won't be insulted, I promise. And above all,
hold still. I'll be right out in the control room
keeping an eye on you and there's an intercom system
so if you need anything just yell, okay?"

"I will. Thanks. And ... uh ... I'm sorry about this
... ruining your holiday, I mean."

"No big deal," Keri assured him with a smile. "I was
at my in-laws and they were driving me nuts. The pool
was nice," she flipped a strand of wet hair off her
face for emphasis, " but otherwise it was deadly dull.
I'd rather be here in the air-conditioning getting
paid time and a half!"

"Oh, well, happy to oblige then."

Still smiling, the technologist slipped from the room
leaving Mulder alone. A moment later the table began
to slide into the narrow tunnel of the scanner and the
hammering sound that marked the start of the
examination began.

Mulder had undergone more than his fair share of MRI
exams over the years. He'd discovered that the exam
was painless, the room was always cold, the machine
made an incredible racket and there was really nothing
to do except lie there and think. And thinking was one
thing he'd been doing too damn much of lately.

He hoped the combination of Toradol and two bottles of
Rolling Rock coursing through his veins would, in
fact, put him to sleep. No such luck. As much as he
didn't want to lie there and soul search, that's
exactly what he found himself doing.

No one had actually said they suspected his brand new
ACL was torn. Nor had they told him that it would
result in a second surgery and another 4 to 6 months
of desk duty and rehab if that were true. No one had
to say it. He could see it just by looking at the grim
expressions on their faces. And if it were true, if
he'd torn his ACL and had to start all over again, he
had no one to blame but himself.

*You're an idiot,* Mulder told himself. *You were
showing off. You were trying to prove you were still
young enough to keep up with a bunch of kids.* Hell,
he hadn't even wanted to play volleyball. He'd been
perfectly content relaxing in the shade with his beer.
Then Chuck made that remark about being an old man and
he'd acted like a child trying to prove his friend
wrong. *Was it worth it? Do you feel better now? Was
proving that you can hold your own against a bunch of
high school cheerleaders make you feel like a man?*
Scully wasn't the only one who'd researched ACL
injuries online. Mulder had done a thorough web search
himself. There were people who successfully underwent
a second ... even a third ... ACL repair. But every
surgery increased the risks of complications,
increased the chances of not making a full recovery.
*If I can't come back from this,* he thought, *I could
lose my field agent status, lose the X-Files, lose
everything. All because I had to go and have a fucking
midlife crisis when I'm not even middle aged.*

Suddenly, Mulder was furious with himself. He'd spent
a ridiculous amount of time and energy worrying about
growing older as if it were something he could
control. He remembered the day he'd torn his ACL,
remembered standing in front of the mirror and giving
himself a pep talk, remembered telling himself that he
wasn't going to get any younger just standing there.
*Well, you aren't going to get any younger spending
all your time worrying about getting old either,
asshole!* All the dark days and sleepless nights he'd
devoted to his fears and self-pity suddenly seemed
like a monumental waste of time. *You were so busy
worrying about the quality of your life, you forgot to
live your life.*

Mulder didn't know if it was the unceasing thumping of
the MRI or his own unhappy thoughts but he was
developing a thundering headache and he found himself
horrifyingly close to tears. "Shit," he muttered under
his breath, scrubbing at his face.

"Mr. Mulder, try not to move." Keri's voice had a
distant, tinny sound over the intercom.

"Sorry." Mulder dropped his hands back onto his chest
and closed his eyes tightly. He refused to cry. There
was no way he was going to cry ... but a couple of
tears slipped out from under his lashes and trickled
down to dampen the hair at his temples. "Shit," he
whispered again. "Mulder, you're a fucking idiot."

"Mr. Mulder, are you okay?"

Swallowing back the lump in his throat, Mulder
hastened to reply, "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just ... it's
been a bad day."

"I've had a few of those myself," Keri laughed. "Just
hang in there. We'll be done before you know it."

By the time the examination was done, Mulder had
reached the conclusion that he was a jackass of
unparalleled proportions. Growing older was a fact of
life. Everyone did it eventually ... if they were
lucky. The truth of the matter was that he didn't
really want to be a kid again, didn't want to be an
unhappy teenager or a lovestruck college student. He
didn't even want to be the man he'd been in his 20's.
Yes, he'd been the golden boy of the BSU. Yes, he'd
seemed destined for great things. But he'd been
ambitious, arrogant, and, in spite of the string of
beautiful woman he'd entertained, he'd been very much
alone.

His life now wasn't what he'd hoped it would be. But
in a lot of ways, it was better. He'd never be head of
the BSU, hell, he'd probably never make SAC. He'd
spend the rest of his career in the basement ... and
that was okay. It was more than okay, actually. He
loved what he did, recognized the value of it even if
others didn't. And he wasn't alone anymore. He had
Scully. Mulder felt his throat tightening again at the
thought of his partner. *Don't even go there,* he
warned himself. He knew that if he let himself think
too long and too hard about his partner and what their
relationship meant to him that Keri would find him
blubbering like a two year old when she came to get
him off the table.

*You've gotta knock this off, Mulder. Stop thinking so
much. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. So you're going
to be forty soon. So what? Maybe ... God forbid ...
you really are only as old as you feel.* He was
laughing at himself, at his own maudlin, Hallmark card
sentiments, when Keri entered the room and announced
that they were done.

*****

The emergency room doctor ... Thompson? ... Tomlinson?
... Mulder couldn't remember, had a smile on his face
when he walked into the room.

"We got the MRI results back. The ACL looks fine. It's
just a bad sprain."

Mulder closed his eyes and sagged back against the
gurney, relief washing through him.

"Thank God," he heard Scully say. "Oh, Mulder, this is
such good news!"

*You got lucky, asshole,* he told himself. *You got a
second chance. Don't screw it up.*

*****

Since Mulder's car was still sitting in front of the
Burks' house, they had to go back to College Park
after his discharge from the ER. Both agents had
intended to simply switch vehicles and leave, but the
look on Brandy's face when Mulder emerged from her
father's car leaning on crutches with his knee swathed
in an immobilizer, soon changed their minds.

"Oh, Mr. Mulder," she wailed, practically bouncing up
and down in distress, "I broke your leg!"

"No, Brandy, it's just a sprain," he was quick to
reassure her. "I'm going to be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I just have to take it easy for a few
days and I'll be good as new."

"Oh thank God! I was so worried!" She flung herself at
Mulder, almost knocking him down for the second time
that day, and gave him a tearful, rib-crushing hug. "I
am so, so, so sorry."

Mulder, balancing on crutches, returned her embrace as
best he could. "It was an accident, Brandy. And I knew
better than to be playing volleyball in the first
place. You have nothing to apologize for."

"Well, I still feel bad." The girl released him and
Mulder gratefully took a deep breath. "I'm so glad you
came back to the party. They're having fireworks in
Calvert Park as soon as it gets dark and you can see
them great from our front yard."

"Actually, we were going to go on home ..." Scully
began.

Brandy's face fell.

"But since my knee feels so much better we decided to
stay," Mulder added hastily.

"Mulder, are you sure you're up to this?" Scully
whispered as the girl bounded away in find a
comfortable chair for Mulder to sit in.

"Yeah, I'm okay. That shot took the edge off the pain
and I can prop my leg up and put ice on it here just
as easily as I can at home. Besides, the poor kid is
so upset she'll probably cry if we don't stay and I
don't think I could live with myself."

"Alright, we'll stay. But promise you'll tell me if
the pain gets worse."

"I will."

Within minutes, Brandy had her father and uncle toting
a heavy redwood chaise lounge off the porch and onto
the lawn. She made them shift it half a dozen times
until it was in 'the very best fireworks watching
spot', then made a production number out of fluffing
the cushions and brushing away dirt that was visible
only to her eyes.

"There," she proclaimed proudly, when everything met
her satisfaction. "Sit here, Mr. Mulder. You'll be in
the shade until the sun sets and then you'll be able
to see the fireworks really good."

Next thing he knew, Mulder was ensconced on the chaise
lounge like a king on a throne. He had a pillow under
his knee, which he suspected had come directly from
his young admirer's bed. The Backstreet Boys
pillowcase was a dead giveaway. He had a bag of frozen
peas draped over his knee.

"I don't have any real ice packs." Laura said
apologetically, "The kids keep losing them. But I've
got a freezer full of veggies. We'll just keep
rotating them."

And, of course, he had his own private nurse, who
eagerly waited on him hand and foot, bringing him
lemonade and snacks and a magazine he hadn't asked for
and didn't want. By the time the fireworks started,
Brandy's incessant mothering had Mulder's teeth on
edge but he keep a smile plastered on his face and
endured.

When the festivities were over and the good-byes had
been said, Chuck walked them to the car and helped
Mulder get settled in the backseat.

"Thanks for everything, Chuck. Sorry if I put a damper
on your party."

"Hey don't worry about it. I'm just glad you're okay.
And Brandy was in her glory taking care of you," the
other man added with a grin. "I think you might have
an admirer there, Mulder."

"Yeah, I'm a big hit with the under 16 crowd," Mulder
sighed. "It's the ones over 30 I seem to have trouble
with."

"Hey, don't I keep telling you that you'd have more
success if you'd stop passing women notes that say 'Do
you like me? Check yes or no.'?"

"Funny, Chuck, really funny."

"Hey, your lovely partner seemed to enjoy it!"

In fact, much to Mulder's disgust, Scully snickered
all the way home.

*****

A week later Mulder was gazing wistfully out his
living room window. It was late afternoon. The heat
wave that had plagued the D.C. area for the past week
had broken, the sun was shining, the sky was clear. It
was perfect weather to go for a run but he'd been
given strict orders to rest his knee for a full week
and he was doing his best to comply.

He'd vowed not to blow this second chance he'd been
given and he was determined to uphold that vow. But
his knee hurt and there was nothing on TV. Scully was
spending the day at Quantico and the Gunmen were out
of town trying to infiltrate another convention.

"I'm bored," he muttered as he watched a couple of
kids playing catch across the street. "I'm bored, my
knee hurts and I don't have anybody to play with."

He was dangerously close to feeling sorry for himself
and he remembered that Samantha used to chant
something whenever he was in just this sort of mood.
How did it go? He smiled as the words came back to
him. "Let's have a pity party. One ... two ...three
...." and then she would stick out her lip in an
exaggerated pout and moan piteously, "Aaaawwwww,
pooooor Fox!"

Mulder was startled out of his reverie by a knock on
his front door. He was surprised to find Scully
standing in the hall holding a 6-pack of beer and a
large, white Peking Garden bag. "Hey, Scully, what are
you doing here?"

"Brought you dinner." She brushed past him and sat her
burdens on the table. "Hope you don't mind."

"Of course not. You're always welcome, Scully. You
know that. But I thought you were going to be working
late tonight."

"So did I," Scully was busy unpacking the bag. "You
want chopsticks or a fork?"

"Chopsticks." Mulder collected a couple of plates and
a handful of napkins from the kitchen and settled
himself at the table. "So what happened?"

"The power went out. They think a squirrel got into
one of the breaker boxes. I guess it's happened
before. But you can't do autopsies in the dark, so
here I am." Scully filled a plate for each of them and
sat down across from him. "How did your appointment
with Greg go? That was today, right?"

Mulder nodded, "It went well ... he ripped me a new
asshole for being stupid enough to play volleyball
without my brace ... but it went well. I can lose the
immobilizer and I get to come back to work tomorrow.
He talked to Susan and they want me in PT twice a week
instead of once for a while until I get back up to
speed."

"He didn't think the sprain would cause any permanent
damage?"

"No, not as long as I behave myself."

"Something you haven't had much success with in the
past," Scully pointed out.

Mulder had the good grace to look sheepish. "I know, I
know. But I'll tell you what I told Greg. I learned
the error of my ways. I'll be a good little patient
from here on in."

"And what brought on this change of heart, Mulder?"

"Let's just say I finally figured out that I'm not a
kid any more."

Scully stared at him speculatively. "Mulder, you
aren't going to have a midlife crisis on me, are you?"

He just smiled and dug into his meal.

Later, after Scully had gone, Mulder lay sprawled on
his couch watching the late news. There were a few
leftover fortune cookies on the coffee table and he
picked one up. Breaking it apart, he pulled out the
tiny slip of paper and glanced at it. "Age can never
hope to win you while your heart is young," he read to
himself ... and burst out laughing.

*****

As the six-month anniversary of his surgery
approached, Mulder struggled to bring his knee back to
full strength and to maintain his new and improved
attitude. Neither proved to be an easy task. Although
the sprain he'd incurred playing volleyball hadn't
caused any permanent damage, it was still a big
setback. He'd had to endure Susan's wrath and a great
deal of pain and hard work to regain the ground he'd
lost. Keeping a positive attitude was even harder.
Mulder was not, by nature, a positive person and he
often found himself slipping back into his old way of
thinking. When that happened, he gave himself a
figurative kick in the butt and worked a little
harder.

The bright September morning when he was able to
literally kick himself in the butt, was a very good
day. The first words out of his mouth upon his arrival
at the office were, "Scully, I touched my heel to my
backside today!"

"I'm ... uh ... happy for you ... I think."

"No, you don't understand." Mulder grinned as his
partner continued to stare at him as if he were
deranged. "It means I've got full range of motion
back! I'm actually more flexible than I was before the
surgery because I couldn't touch my heel to my
backside then."

"Oh! Then I'm definitely happy for you, Mulder.
Congratulations!"

There were difficult days as well. Mulder continued to
be plagued by pain around and behind his kneecap,
particularly after a strenuous workout. Greg explained
that it was caused by the removal of the bone plugs
during the graft harvesting. "We left a small hole in
your kneecap and it takes time for it to heal over.
The pain you're feeling is perfectly normal and it
will go away eventually. I promise."

The six-month mark fell almost exactly a week before
his 39th birthday. He had a PT session that day and
Susan put him through a rigorous series of tests to
check the strength and agility of his right leg in
comparison to the left.

"So, how'd I do?" he asked when they'd finished.

"Your balance and agility are excellent and the
strength in your right leg is at 90% of normal. In
other words, ya done good. In fact, I think we can
discontinue formal PT and just have you work out on
your own from now on."

"Really?!"

"Really. But I do want to see you in here once a month
to repeat these tests until you hit 100% strength in
that right knee."

Susan went on to lay out a vigorous program for him:
swimming, jogging, biking and lots of strength
training. She warned him that if he didn't follow the
program to the letter, she would know. "I have spies
everywhere," she informed him with a smile. "I didn't
tell you this, but my sister lives in Alexandria and
she works in a bagel shop just a couple blocks from
where you live. She knows who you are because she
likes to check out your nice, tight ass ... her words,
not mine! ... whenever you stop in. So, she will
definitely notice if you're limping! Now, go on, get
out of here, I've got work to do."

Mulder started for the door, paused for a moment, then
turned back. "Susan ..."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for everything. You've been great. A bossy
little sadist ... but great." He pulled her into a
quick hug and planted a kiss on her cheek. Though she
snarled at him for being sloppy and sentimental, Susan
was blushing furiously and struggling to hide a smile
as he left the room.

*****

Mulder was naked in front of the mirror again. *Kind
of appropriate,* he mused, *standing around in your
birthday suit. It's your birthday, after all.*

He was 39 years old and he'd taken a beating ...
several actually ... since his last birthday. It had
been a long, difficult year and it showed. Mulder's
eyes strayed to the scar on his right knee. Thanks to
Greg's careful stitches and the vitamin E creme Scully
had all but forced him to rub on it daily, the scar
wasn't nearly as bad as he'd expected. In fact, it was
already beginning to fade. He flexed his knee
experimentally then hopped up and down a few times. It
didn't hurt a bit but he looked ridiculous. *Note to
self: hopping up and down naked is NOT a good look for
you.*

Remembering Susan's comment about her sister, Mulder
turned his back to the mirror and twisted to look over
his shoulder. *Nice, tight ass, huh? I gotta start
going to that bagel shop more often.*

Facing the mirror again, Mulder took another long,
assessing look at himself. The lines around his eyes
were still there, the gray hair was still sprinkled
through his temples, he never had lost that 10 pounds,
but 39 wasn't looking too bad. Not too bad at all.

*****

There was a danish and a steaming cup of coffee on his
desk when he got to work. "Happy birthday, Mulder."

"Thanks, Scully." Mulder shrugged out of his coat, sat
down and immediately took a huge bite of the danish.
"Lemon! My favorite. You're the best, Scully."

"You have any plans after work?"

"Doctor's appointment at 5:30 but then I'm free and
clear, why?"

"I thought we could go out for drinks ... you know, to
celebrate."

"I'd like that," Mulder polished off the danish in two
more bites. "Breakfast and drinks after work. You're
gonna spoil me, Scully."

*****

"But why can't I go back in the field?" Mulder knew he
was whining but he didn't care. Greg had just informed
him that, in spite of all his progress, he wanted
Mulder on desk duty for another month.

"I told you, it's just a precaution. Susan gave you a
glowing report and recommended a return to normal
activities but I'd rather be safe than sorry. You've
had a couple of bumps on the road to recovery and I
don't want to take any chances. It's only a couple
more weeks."

"Oh, come on, Greg. Don't do this to me! I've been
benched for almost seven months now. A couple more
weeks and I'm going to lose my mind! Besides, field
duty isn't normally all that strenuous. It's mostly
just examining crime scenes and tracking down
witnesses ... hell, most days you don't even break a
sweat! Scully, help me out here!"

"There's some truth in what he says, Greg," Scully
spoke up from her seat in the corner of the exam room.
"But we do get into some pretty physical situations as
well." Turning to her partner, she added, "I'm sorry,
Mulder, but if Greg thinks you should take another
month, I think you should do as he says."

"I knew you were going to take his side," Mulder
muttered, jumping down off the exam table and yanking
on his pants. "Doctors always stick together."

"Mulder, I'm not taking sides, I'm just trying to look
out for your best interests."

"One more month, Mulder and then I promise I'll put
you back in the field. Nobody is trying to punish you
here. Like Dana said, we're just looking out for you."

"I know, I know," Mulder sighed, crouching down to tie
his shoes. "I'm sorry. I just really hate being stuck
behind that damn desk. But I guess one more month
won't kill me." His tone clearly indicated that he
thought it would indeed kill him. "So, are we done
here? Cause I could really use that birthday drink."

"We're done," Greg replied with a smile. "And happy
birthday."

"If you really want it to be happy ..."

"Mulder ..." Greg's voice carried a warning, but he
was still smiling.

"Yeah, well, can't blame a guy for trying," Mulder
shrugged. "Just to show there are no hard feelings,
you wanna join us? Wings and beer at Buckeye's
Tavern."

"I'd like that."

*****

The three of them exited the building together and
headed for the tavern which was just down the street.
They'd only gone a few steps when Greg realized he was
still wearing his lab coat. "Oh hell, let me just
throw this thing in my car. Otherwise I'll be getting
hit up for consultations five minutes after we walk in
the door. I'm parked right around the corner, it'll
just take a second."

The doctor had barely rounded the corner of the
building before Mulder and Scully heard him cry out.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?!!"

The two agents glanced sharply at each other and
reached for their guns. Before they could take so much
as a step, a kid of 16 or so barreled around the
corner, almost knocking Scully over. The car stereo he
was clutching trailed wires and Greg was hot on his
heels.

"Grab him!" he shouted. "The little bastard broke my
window and ripped out my CD player!"

Mulder shoved his gun back into the holster and took
off in pursuit. Scully and Sumner were right behind
him. Unfortunately, Scully had chosen that day to wear
a narrow skirt and a pair of her highest heels. She
quickly fell behind, finally stopping in disgust after
only a block. She watched the thief dodge through
traffic and winced as her partner followed without
hesitation. "Mulder, be careful!" she called, but he
vanished around the block, running hard, without
glancing back.

Scully hobbled back toward Sumner's car, cursing
whatever fates and made her 5'2". She pulled out her
cell phone, called the local PD to report the incident
and leaned against the BMW to wait.

Greg showed up a few minutes later, red faced and
gasping for breath. "I couldn't ... keep up ..." he
wheezed, bending over and bracing his hands on his
knees. "Fucking kid ... jumped a fence ..."

"Where's Mulder?"

"Still after him. Last I saw he was chasing the kid
through the Holiday Inn parking lot... running like he
was Michael Johnson." Greg continued to suck in huge
lungfuls of air.

"Who?"

"Michael Johnson. Olympic gold medalist. Fastest man
alive. Wears gold shoes. Not much of a track and field
fan, huh?"

"Sorry, no."

"Guess I'm gonna have to eat my words and give our boy
back his field agent status, huh?" Greg finally
straightened up and sagged against his car, looking
mournfully at the shattered window. "I was running as
fast as I could and he left me in the dust without
even breathing hard ... the bastard. Hardly even broke
stride when he went over that fence."

Scully glanced at her watch. Where the hell was DCPD?
"I hope Mulder's okay."

*****

Not only was Mulder okay, he was having the time of
his life. After months of feeling old and tired and
worn down, chasing a kid through a hotel parking lot
was a little piece of heaven. The thief had dropped
the CD player and was running hard, glancing nervously
over his shoulder. Mulder grinned wolfishly and
called, "Give it up, kid. It's only a matter of time!"

"Fuck you," floated back to him and Mulder was
enormously pleased to notice the young criminal was
seriously out of breath. They'd reached the edge of
the parking lot, another fence was looming in front of
them.  The boy put on a burst of speed, but Mulder was
faster. He reached out, snagged the back of the kid's
jacket and yanked him off his feet. "Told you it was
just a matter of time," he said with a grin, jerking
the boy's arms behind his back and snapping on
handcuffs.  As he walked the would-be thief back
toward Greg's office building, Mulder suddenly thought
of his knee. *Oh shit,* he groaned inwardly. *Greg's
gonna be pissed.* Running flat out, dodging through
traffic and jumping fences was exactly what the doctor
had just finished telling him NOT to do. But the knee
didn't hurt a bit. Mulder felt fine. Hell, he felt
better than he had in months! He was 39 years old, he
had a bum knee and he'd just chased down a suspect
half his age. He was still smiling when he led the kid
around the corner and turned him over to the waiting
DCPD patrol car.

*****

It took nearly an hour to deal with all the red tape
but they finally made it down the block to have that
drink.

"Sorry I didn't get your CD player back," Mulder said,
draining his glass of Sam Adams and signaling for
another round. "It was in about a million pieces last
I saw it."

"Don't worry about it," Sumner replied, "I'm just
grateful you caught him. I can't believe you ran him
down like that."

"Yeah, well ..." Mulder shrugged and tried, without
much success, to look modest. "Just doing my job."

Scully, sitting on his left, made a rude noise and
nudged him with her shoulder. "Mulder, drop the 'aw
shucks, it weren't nothing' act. You're not fooling
anyone. If you were any more pleased with yourself
there wouldn't be room for me in this booth. Your head
would be taking up all the available space."

Mulder opened his mouth to make a retort when the
waitress showed up carrying another pitcher of beer
and a plate laden with hot wings. They wasted no time
refilling their glasses and digging into the food.

"Happy birthday, Mulder," Greg raised his glass in
salute.

"Happy birthday," Scully chimed in. "How does it feel
to be 39?"

Mulder glanced from one smiling face to the other.
"Young," he said, raising his glass and tapping it
against each of theirs. "I feel young."

THE END