By: Ainon
mulangst@hotmail.com
 
 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

REGARDING A CURE
PART 12
~
13th day, morning
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sudden prick of something cold and hard in his hip woke him. He was
curled nicely on his side, knees drawn up, arms tucked neatly in front of
him. The central IV line that came out slightly below his neck was
positioned so that it wasn't tangled. His left cheek rested on the cool
white sheet. No pillow.

And there was that achy, dull feeling of no-feeling in his hip that told him
all he needed to know about what was going on. He swore under his breath -
besides if he swore out loud he'd just be hurting his throat some more - a
string of expletives that would have made his mother blush, if his mother
were there. That made him shut up. Was his mother around?

"Mulder, you're awake? Sorry. I thought you were going to sleep right
through."

Mulder took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Well, no way he was going to
be able to go back to sleep now.

"Look, I'm about finished. Just need this final trephine here. There, it's
done, even as I speak. Hold on a bit, will ya?"

Mulder thought of a million vicious things to say to the damned fool who was
making him miserable, but since he still wasn't sure whether or not his
mother was present in the room, he decided he should play safe and not use
that kind of language. Not that he was very sure why he should be so polite.
Maybe he shouldn't even be worrying about that. He should instead try to
figure out what day today was. He could do that, surely?

Then the doctor spoke and burst his concentration. He sighed. The doctor
sighed too, and came around the bed to sit on the chair facing Mulder.

The masked doctor said, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three," he croaked.

"Fine. No reason for me asking you that other than to see whether or not
you'd answer me. Now - I got your attention. We gotta talk, Mulder my man."

Everyone had to talk. What a bore. Scully wanted to talk. Before that - or
was it after that? - his mother wanted to talk. Then, and this was a weird
memory, some priest wanted to talk. Well, the priest wasn't allowed to come
into the room with him, but he was told that the priest was standing out
there and if he wished to have a moment, he could. Mulder knew he had to
have been hallucinating that bit. A moment with a priest? A priest?

Boy. So this was what it was really like to be so sick you knew you were
going to die. What next? Oh right. Start to hark the angels singing. How do
you hark? Why should anyone hark?

"Mulder, Mulder, come on buddy. Listen up."

Mulder scowled at his doctor. This one was always bugging him. There was
another one who also liked to bug him, but that one was female. That pesky
female one was always coming in alone to wake him up and give him
injections, but she refused to give them through his central line. She
preferred to jab him in the shoulder, and she insisted on doing it quite a
few times in one day. This male doctor was much nicer by comparison - he
didn't didn't poke and jab so much. The name was Schell-something?
Sni-something?

"We got problems. Big problems. We gave you your starting dose of
cyclophosphamide yesterday, but you didn't react very well. You've been
throwing up all night. That is bad."

No kidding. Tell him all about it. After all, he'd been the one throwing up.
So yup, he would absolutely agree. It was bad. And he thought his throat
hurt before that? Well, now his throat really hurt. Prior to this, and
compared to this, it didn't really hurt... it was more like it itched. And
so that was why he was throwing up. Really, these people never told him
anything.

"Anyway, we're doing this bone marrow aspirate and trephine here 'coz your
peripheral blood counts aren't pretty. We need to see if your bone marrow is
actually doing anything for you at all here. Since you've become refractory
towards platelets, we're stopping the platelet transfusions for now.
Besides, we give you so much blood every day that the Blood Bank is getting
upset with you hogging all their good stuff. Sorry, bad joke.

"And - your temperature is going up. We don't like that. We don't like that
at all. We want you to remain at a nice constant temperature. We've been
taking real good care of you here; we don't want you getting infections. But
- you just love making things hard for us don't you?"

Mulder wished Scully were here. He preferred Scully's voice. Much much much
nicer. Where was she anyway? Probably at work.

"And of course, at present your attention span is impressive for its
remarkably short duration. Your partner keeps assuring me that you actually
possess a pretty sharp memory and it's the AZT making it dull. I'll believe
it when I see it. I must admit it's always nice for me to talk to myself out
loud sometimes. So, Mulder, what say you and me go out and dance the hoola
together?"

Mulder frowned. Then he blinked several times. What had he just heard?

The doctor shrugged and said, "So maybe you just have a selective attention
span thing. Mulder, I'm telling you here, you got a problem."

"What?"

"You're probably going to get very sick."

Mulder giggled. This was a hoot. Real hoot. This doctor, what's his name?
Shinner? What sort of a name was that? Shaughnser? Shinery?

The doctor laughed too, after a while. "Okay, fine, wrong choice of words.
God, you sure you're all right, Mulder? Come on, stop laughing if it hurts.
Swear I won't say anything that stupid anymore."

Mulder lay there on his side with one arm wrapped around his chest and
waited for the hitching pain in his chest to subside. Oh, but it felt good
to laugh for a minute there. He'd carry on laughing if he could. But his
lungs refused to appreciate good comedy nowadays.

Finally, the doctor spoke again. His tone was serious. "We're very worried
that you've developed septicemia. And we're very worried that your marrow
has gone totally bust on us. There's only so long that we can sustain you on
blood transfusions alone. If our concerns are realized, we're going to have
to cancel the transplant, Mulder. We can't proceed with conditioning if
you're too ill. I've already ordered a dose of antibiotics that I hope will
work to stop the septicemia, but I want you to understand this. We are
having problems. You understand?"

He sure did. Problems. Oh yes. Big problems.

Sure was getting hot, come to think of it. Great. Light too bright. Pain in
his guts and in his back. Very sore throat. Blood in his mouth. Throw in a
fever.

Life stinks. And he really preferred Scully's voice.

Where was she anyway?

~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully was standing beneath a tree in the park, feeling so very alone. And
depressed. Never had she imagined she'd end up calling the Consortium for
help. Talk about eating humble pie.

Skinner had helped identify Oakes. Actually a phone book would have been the
adequate tool for the search, but in her zealousness to reach the right man,
she hadn't bothered to check that first book of contacts. Mr. Brian Oakes
was a lawyer specializing in tax evasions and the like. Skinner knew of him
by reputation and had been the one to sift through the pages in the phone
book to track down the right Oakes. When Skinner told her how he'd gotten
hold of Oakes' number, Scully had felt her cheeks turn bright red. She'd
never imagined that her boss would one day be reduced to doing secretarial
work for her either.

Oakes had been very cool during the phone conversation. He let on nothing.
He made her do all the cajoling and beseeching in arranging for another
meeting. Any eavesdropper on the line would have probably jumped to the
conclusion that Scully was another pathetic client begging her lawyer to do
whatever possible to prevent her husband from going to jail.

The park wasn't quite the right location for a meeting, still, Scully had
acquiesced to Oakes' suggestion. And it was a location outside the hospital
- all green and cool breezes, a refreshing change to four walls of a
hospital room or microbiology lab. Skinner actually took the trouble to send
a couple of agents to watch her back for her. The two undercover agents
stayed out of sight but within running distance should something seem amiss.
They weren't listening in on her or anything like that though; their duty
here was merely to observe, and if necessary, protect.

She hadn't been able to bring herself to fully admit to Skinner what this
was all about - he was helping her purely on the assumption that Oakes knew
someone who knew someone who could help her help Mulder. On the one hand, it
was good that Skinner wasn't asking too many questions. On the other hand,
she felt awful about using her boss this way, especially in light of how
confident she'd been just six months ago that he was the mole within the
FBI, the Consortium lackey responsible for destroying her life. She'd been
determined at the time that he be brought down. But here she was shamelessly
counting on him to help her.

The park was a nice one; shady trees all around, and very peaceful at this
time of day. Aside from her two bodyguards, she hadn't seen another soul
since she'd arrived ten minutes ago. It was too late in the morning for
joggers, and too early for afternoon strolls. She leaned back against the
tree and sifted the dirt beneath with the toe of her shoe.

She used the time to contemplate what she was doing here. She had decided in
the end that her mother had made a valid point - it was Mulder's life, maybe
he should be allowed to decide, or to at least be made aware of options.
True, his own mother had discussed the transplant issue with him, but Scully
had doubted that it had been much of a discussion. Scully knew Mulder,
healthy and ill. And she knew that right now, Mulder's mental faculties
weren't quite all there.

So she had assumed he'd either stare blankly at her and say 'yes', or spout
nonsense then say 'yes' in response to any question regarding paranormal
healing methods. She had not expected Mulder to suddenly comprehend her and
understand her and respond clearly in the negative. She'd never imagined
Mulder saying 'no' to an easy cure. Hence her dilemma. Should she respect
his wishes under the assumption that Mulder had been fully aware of the
impact of his answer? Or should she ignore the answer under the assumption
that Mulder was all mixed up in the head?

She hadn't been able to insist for another definite answer because he'd
started complaining of pain and refused to pay any more attention to her.
Later in the day he started coughing again, then the fever cropped up, then
the nausea and vomiting in response to the conditioning drug. This morning,
Shaughnessy was saying that Mulder's blood counts were very low, and
Shaughnessy and Pam Davies were suspecting onset of septicemia. There was no
conceivable chance on earth that Mulder would survive septicemia.

That forced her hand. She still wasn't sure that this was the right choice,
she still wasn't sure what she was going to say to Mulder about this later;
but there was one thing she was sure of - if this miracle was possible, if
Walker could prove himself, then it had to be all right for Scully to agree
with it. Stay alive, worry about the consequences later. That was a viable
plan, wasn't it? Better than just closing her eyes and letting him go, the
way she had let someone else go recently, and be left wondering if that
choice to let go was the right one. That there had really been no other
option, no other possibility, no further hope, no beautiful miracle to turn
the tide away.

Suddenly Oakes was there beside her. He'd approached from behind and had
stepped out from behind the tree. Scully automatically stepped away to put
sufficient space between her and him.

"Miss Scully," he said.

"Mr. Oakes," Scully responded. "Thank you for coming."

He lifted a hand in a dismissive wave. "It is nice to step out of the office
once in a while. Lovely park isn't it? If I have to meet you, I may as well
do it at a place I happen to like." He took a deep breath of fresh
mid-morning air and smirked at her. "I thought you wished to have nothing
more to do with us."

"I'm sorry. There must have been a misunderstanding. I'm still interested in
your offer. But I want proof."

"So I heard. By the way, threatening me is totally uncalled for, Agent
Scully. I've done nothing more than try to help you."

"I don't know what you mean."

Oakes scowled. "Really? Your Assistant Director did not call me to inform me
that unless certain conditions are met he'd set the IRS on me and my
businesses?"

Scully was stunned. The thought ran through her mind, 'Has Skinner gone
mad?'. She recovered quickly though, kept the flickers of emotion from
disrupting her bland expression. This might prove to be something she could
take advantage of.

"You can't blame anyone but yourself, Mr. Oakes. You're the only one among
'Them' who has ever divulged his name. It's your own liability that the name
you gave should also be your real registered name."

"Threatening my finances..."

"Surely if you had nothing to hide you wouldn't have minded A.D. Skinner
bringing up the issue of taxes," she said casually. "Especially since you
are specializing in that aspect of law. But, enlightening though your
business dealings must be, I would rather talk about something else."

Oakes scowled as he said, "You should make up your mind about what you want.
Walker went there but again you threw him out."

"I did not. I asked that he show me proof of his abilities. He refused to do
so. He was the one who walked out on me."

Oakes rolled his eyes. "Proof. You think this is a dime a dozen miracle
deal? Walker can morph, you know, that's another ability that these beings
have. Have him morph into Bill Clinton if that's what you want. He'll do
that for you."

Scully didn't even smile. "What I want is the assurance that he can heal
people."

"Only we can order them to do that."

"Fine," she said with a slight inclination of her head. "Tell him to heal
someone other than Agent Mulder first, with me present as witness."

Oakes asked sarcastically, "Who shall that someone else be?"

"Walker will know only when he shows up."

"And what if Walker really does heal the person you choose?"

"Like I said, then I'll know that he is who he says he is. Then I'll let him
heal Mulder."

"So it's a luck of a draw as to who'll become the healed 'proof'? You are
going to dole out a miracle to one lucky hopeless stranger? What gives you
the right?"

Of course she'd worried about the ethics. It was too much like playing God -
picking and choosing who was going to experience the miracle purely for the
sake of proving the miracle was possible. She didn't mention these concerns
though.

She said, "I do not have the right, Mr. Oakes. Just as you do not have the
right to interfere with Mulder's life..."

"Forgive me for the interruption, Miss Scully, but I'm not interfering am I?
I'm helping. Very thin line there, I agree, but at least I know who I'm
doing this for. You - you wish to procure a stranger and have Walker heal
that stranger simply to satisfy your own curiosity and rabid need for
evidence. Granted you would be doing the stranger a world of good, but why
should he be the particular one to receive the pleasure of a miracle? Why
not the boy in the bed beside him, for example? So you see the reason we set
guidelines for our healers. And the reason behind our selfish secrecy of our
healers' abilities."

Scully struggled to remain composed. "I need to have reason to trust you.
All these years, you have never given us any indication that you are
trustworthy."

"It isn't enough that we are offering you this miracle?"

"No. Not when there's still no proof that the miracle is possible. Not when
you've so far given no reason why you would want to save Mulder's life. Once
we accept the offer, we'll be indebted to you. But you have yet to specify
what the debt shall be."

"The debt does not matter. If it can be paid, then it shall be."

"You will specify the deal," Scully insisted. "You will state right here and
now what you expect of Mulder and myself after this."

"Nothing," Oakes said with a hint of irritation. "We expect nothing from
either of you. Certainly not from you. As for Mulder, as I've said, we
prefer having him alive. But having said that, it doesn't mean that there
would have been anything we could have done if he got shot in the line of
duty or something. Some things do happen after all.

"However, since we can help here, we are helping. Better to have him alive
than dead, unless the latter alternative is unavoidable. That's our
opinion." Oakes gave her a patronizing look. "You know you should never look
a gift horse in the mouth? Well, I've never cared about horses myself, Miss
Scully, but I do think that that proverb says it all."

Scully bit back a sarcastic retort. She inhaled deeply, then slowly and
calmly asked, "You will not state the deal?"

"I can say only, 'what deal?'," Oakes said.

Scully met his eyes. "You are aware of Mulder's deteriorating condition?"

"I only assume," Oakes clarified. "If he were getting better on his own
accord, you wouldn't be asking for Walker's miracle now, would you?"

"Once Walker proves himself."

Oakes sighed and shook his head, plainly annoyed by Scully's stubbornness.
"Suit yourself. I'll inform Walker that you want him to perform a trick
before he heals Mulder. He'll do it if I tell him to. I'll get in touch and
tell you when he can come."

Scully's mouth dropped open. "Damn you! There's no time to waste!"

"Excuse me, but I wasn't the one who dithered. You think we have these
beings at our beck and call? He's gone off somewhere. I'll have to try and
reach him again."

"Today," Scully said firmly.

"Miss Scully, we made provisions to help Mulder much earlier. You refused.
The world does not rotate according to your convenience..."

"No! You have so much power in your hands that you feel you have the right
to play with peoples' lives. My life. Mulder's life. Our families' lives..."

"Now, now, let's not get emotional. You're getting carried away with totally
irrelevant details here."

"Everything's tied together, Mr. Oakes. Isn't that why you sent Samantha to
me first, instead of sending Walker alone? Is she even the real Samantha?
Does her family even exist?"

Oakes gave another exasperated sigh. "Miss Scully, I've given you more than
fifteen minutes of my time. Unbilled time. Which is more than what I
promised you earlier. I'm going to return to my office now, where I have
clients waiting - paying clients."

As he turned to go Scully frantically tried to think of other things to say,
other ways to demand assurance of his assistance. But before she could voice
any of these urgent words, Oakes glanced around, then back at her.

"I find it in very bad taste that you should have your people lurking around
a park. Spoils the relaxing atmosphere." He snorted his disgust, then added,
"I suggest that you return to the hospital. Once I get through to Walker,
I'll send him over to you. Wait for me to call. Do not call me. Oh, Walker
may be a bit sulky - but that's your own fault."

With that, he was gone. Scully bit her lip and felt the heavy emptiness of
having accomplished nothing at all.

~
END PART 12
~~~~~~~~~~~

REGARDING A CURE
PART 13
~
13th day, noon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He felt hot, uncomfortable and - he never knew this was possible - he felt
his lungs ache. He'd never felt that before, not even during the worst bout
of pneumonia back in - well, whenever it was that he had forgotten. Or maybe
it was his heart aching? Which would give a whole new definition to things,
wouldn't it?

Whichever it was that was pinching in his chest, it was keeping him from
peaceful slumber. And he was trying vainly to shield his eyes from the light
above him. Then he felt a gloved hand touch his arm.

He lowered the arm that shielded his eyes from the painful harsh light and
peeked at the figure beside his bed. Red hair. Scully. Scully, Scully,
Scully. Such a sight for sore eyes. Literally.

Scully spoke those two wonderful words, "Hey, Mulder."

"Yeah," he rasped. He wondered if she'd mind turning off the light. The
nurses never obeyed that request - they always came up with silly excuses
about them having to be able to observe him at all times. But Scully -
surely she'd like some cool darkness too?

"Mulder, what are we going to do with you?" Scully sighed before Mulder
could ask for his favor. "I leave you for one morning and when I come back
you're sicker than when I left. You shouldn't be this way."

Like he had a choice in the matter? He leered at her, or at least he tried
to, and tried hard to think of some witty response to match her gentle
admonishing.

Reaching out, Scully brushed his hair back, then let her hand linger there
above his forehead. The thumb of the gloved hand felt cold against his hot
skin. "Mulder, do you remember what we talked about yesterday?"

Why did everyone try to do this to him? Didn't anyone appreciate how rough
it was for him to talk? His voice was now nothing more than a faint hoarse
whisper. Still, this was Scully and she wanted an answer.

"Sure."

"What did we talk about?" she asked.

Mulder sighed tiredly. "Why?"

"I need to know, Mulder. Do you remember me telling you about Jeremy Walker?
Do you remember what he is?"

"Yeah. He's one of the Smiths."

"That's right. Do you remember what I asked you?"

Actually he didn't, and he was way past the point where he cared about world
events. His own event was overwhelming enough, thank you very much. He
wanted to hear her read a story, just read on and on, then maybe he could
finally get himself comfortable and maybe he'd start breathing easier, then
maybe he could go to sleep. Was that too much to want?

"Mulder?"

"What?"

"Mulder..."

"I don't want to talk anymore," he muttered.

"This is important, Mulder."

"Scully, I don't want the light."

Scully stopped stroking his hair and leaned back in her chair. He heard her
draw in a breath, then release it slowly. He was hoping she'd get up and
walk to the light switch - which was tantalizingly just there on the wall.
If only he could get up and walk there by himself, she wouldn't have to do
it for him.

She didn't get up though. She looked like she was deep in thought. Well,
fine. He swallowed the taste of blood, then in one quick move, so as to
pre-empt the ache in his arms, he pulled his blanket up over his head. He
really should have just done this earlier. Or maybe he had, but the nurses
had pulled the blanket down again.

Scully said something and he ignored her.

~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~

The blanket covered him whole from head to toe. Near the chest, his central
venous line snaked out from beneath the blanket and went up through a pump,
then into a saline bag. Further down, another tube snaked out to empty into
a urine bag. For the moment she didn't move, just stared at the covered
form, then the sense of dreadful premonition overtook her and she quickly
got up and pulled the blanket down to expose his face. He didn't flinch or
wake up.

She didn't ever want to see him covered up that way again.

He'd been washed and shaved again this morning. She lifted a hand and placed
it near his cheek. She didn't touch him - she'd noticed quite a few times
how her touch seemed to hurt him more than comfort him. She didn't want to
wake him up to pain now. She could feel the heat emanating from him. The
fever was spiking.

Had it really been only a fortnight since this whole nightmare began? No, it
had been less that a whole two weeks. Could anyone really become so sick so
fast? One complication after another, all in a time span of thirteen days
that felt like forever. Which meant that just two whole weeks ago Mulder had
been up and about, walking around, speaking in complete sentences. Thirteen
days - so much lost. Thirteen days to become completely bedridden. Thirteen
days to come so near to death. She should start believing in superstition.

She bit her lip and frowned. This was how she had looked when she had been
ill. Gray and tired, sunken eyes, dry lips, all bones and little else. A
thought surfaced in her mind, 'If Walker heals him, will he also regain the
weight he's lost?' She quickly chastised herself for being silly. First she
should worry about whether or not Walker was for real, and if he could cure
Mulder. Only then should she think about such mundane things as muscle tone
and fat distribution.

He was breathing too quickly for someone who was only sleeping. She
suspected that the next time Shaughnessy checked on him, the decision would
be made that he be given oxygen. She wondered what she would hear if she
placed a stethoscope on his chest and listened. What did pulmonary edema
sound like? She never needed to remember that in her line of work - all she
needed to confirm pulmonary edema was to cut open the lungs. She couldn't
remember now what she would expect crepitatious lungs to sound like. She
could imagine, though, the appearance of Mulder's lungs if the autopsy was
being performed, assuming Mulder had what she suspected he had.... She
squeezed her eyes shut. What in the world was she doing? Why in the world
was she imagining that?

A tap on the glass window made her turn around. Shaughnessy signaled for her
to come out. She was actually happy to see Shaughnessy. He had interrupted
her hopelessly morbid broodings just in time.

She sifted her fingers through Mulder's hair in a silent 'see you in a
while' message, and guiltily tried to shake off the image of the cold, dead
Mulder under her autopsy knife. Then she went out of his room into the
decontamination area.

As she discarded her mask, gloves and gown, and washed her hands,
Shaughnessy recited, "Metronidazole, gentamicin, ceftazidime."

"What you're giving for the septicemia," Scully concluded.

"Well, yes. You been reading up, Dr. Agent Scully?" Shaughnessy didn't sound
particularly spiteful. He just sounded despondent. He was losing his
patient. He knew it, she knew it.

"The AZT?"

"We're stopping it. There's really no point in continuing a drug that's
aggravating his neutropenia. Thrombocytopenia is now very severe. Gum
bleeds, blood in his vomit; I'm very worried about intracranial bleeds. I'm
surprised he's had none so far. Anyway, I'm giving him another blood
transfusion afterwards, for all that is worth. We've sent blood, sputum,
urine and skin samples for culture, but I don't think it really matters
what's causing this."

Scully understood that what Shaughnessy really meant was that by the time
they knew the results, Mulder would already be dead. Either of septic shock,
or from hemorrhaging; place bets now for which one would claim Mulder first.

"We're very worried about the fever," he continued. "He's becoming more
agitated, more befuddled. I'm, um, look, if he has friends or I don't know,
neighbors, who want to visit, or if that long-lost sister of his wants to
see him..."

Scully turned her face away from him and busied herself with wiping her
hands dry on excessive amounts of hand-towels. Shaughnessy cleared his
throat and continued, "Well, they should visit. Anyway, I haven't spoken to
his mother yet about this. Where is she?"

"She's, um, she..." Scully paused, trying to remember. "She asked if I
wanted to be alone with Mulder... I suppose... I don't know." She shrugged
apologetically. "I don't know where she is."

"She's got a poor history? A stroke?" Shaughnessy asked, sounding even more
depressed.

"Yes. Two years ago."

"Well, just great. I think she already knows. Doesn't make it any easier to
tell her though." Shaughnessy took his white coat off, hung it up on a hook,
then started to scrub his hands. Without looking over at her he said, "You
understand we will be canceling the transplant. I've had a look at his
marrow aspirate from this morning - it is as bad as we thought. Trephine
will take a couple of days to process of course, but I don't think I need to
look at it to estimate that it will be hypocellular with almost complete
fatty infiltration."

Scully took a shaky breath and asked for the sake of asking, "You're not
doing anything more about the retrovirus?"

"I think we better just concentrate on beating the septicemia," Shaughnessy
replied without pausing in his hand scrubbing. "That's the more acute
problem." He glanced over at her. "Mulder has no objections against life
support does he, namely elective intubation and assisted ventilation?"

"No," Scully answered, feeling hollow.

"We can take that step without concern that we are going against a
pre-specified wish?"

"Yes. Please do everything possible to prolong his life. He told me so, and
I think his mom would feel the same way."

"Fine," Shaughnessy said. He used his elbow to turn off the tap and stood
there for a while, shaking his hands. "And thanks. I don't think I'd have
been up to facing his mother and asking her that question without worrying
that she'd have another stroke."

Somehow Scully felt that saying 'you're welcome' would not be the most
appropriate reply.

~
13th day, afternoon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully didn't wait around for Shaughnessy. Mrs. Mulder would return to her
son sooner or later, and Shaughnessy would then have to face up to his
daunting task. Scully knew that that conversation should be a private matter
between only the two. She didn't envy Shaughnessy at all.

She didn't feel like having lunch either, so she looked for Dr. Pam Davies -
if only so she could ask further mundane questions about the retrovirus -
but Pam wasn't in her office. A small stick-it note on the door indicated
that she would be back by two. Scully thought of calling Dr. Alan Mason or
visiting his lab again - one never knew, accidental scientific discoveries
were sometimes made at the last minute - but she didn't want to tie up her
phone or leave the hospital. In the end she found herself back in the lounge
area outside Mulder's quarantine unit. No one else was there. Scully checked
again that her cell phone was on, then lay down on the weathered couch and
slung an arm over her eyes.

A soft thud woke her. She sat up quickly, her right hand automatically where
her gun should have been if she were on active duty. Then she remembered
where she was and relaxed.

Only to realize that the three LoneGunmen were staring at her.

She blinked the gummy feeling out of her eyes and casually ran her fingers
through her mussed-up hair in an effort to appear at ease. She glanced at
her watch. She'd somehow managed to sleep for almost two hours on the couch
- hence the pins and needles feeling in her left arm and leg, which had been
squished against the lower backrest of the couch. She probably looked
dreadful. She managed an embarrassed smile at the men.

"Guys, hi. I was just lying down. I must have fallen asleep."

"We didn't mean to wake you," Byers said with guilty concern. He was ever
the gentleman.

"Yeah, you look tired," Langley remarked. "Actually we were going to go
right out again but someone tripped. Sorry."

Two pairs of annoyed eyes focussed on a flustered Frohike.

"No, it's all right," Scully assured them. She wished they would sit down.
It felt awkward to keep looking up at them,and she really didn't feel like
getting up and walking anywhere. She did feel tired. But the Gunmen
continued to stand nervously in front of her and so, for lack of anything
better to say, she asked the standard. "Well, guys, what's up?"

The men looked at each other, then back at her. Langley said, "We thought
we'd come and see how Mulder's doing. We don't visit often enough, but you
know how it is..."

"He's getting better?" Frohike asked optimistically.

Scully took a while to frame a guarded reply. "We're doing what we can."

Frohike's face fell. His voice was heavy with dismay as he guessed, "He's
not getting better?" Frohike looked helplessly over at his two companions,
and Scully saw genuine sorrow in his eyes.

"I thought you said he was going to have a transplant?" Byers asked.

"Yes, but he's developed complications. The doctors have decided to cancel
the transplant."

"Postpone it, you mean," Langley said.

"Cancel it," Scully responded.

"But why?" Frohike asked.

"He's too sick," Scully answered, looking down at the floor. "We were hoping
this wouldn't happen, but he's got a serious infection, a blood infection.
He could die because of this before the illness itself claims him."

The three men were silent. Scully didn't raise her face to see how they were
handling the news. She hadn't been truly honest with them either - she'd
left the Gunmen with the impression that though Mulder was terminally ill, a
cure should be found in time to prevent that final outcome. But she had
believed in that herself, after all. She had believed in science and faith.

Byers cleared his throat and asked softly, "Is there anything we can do?"

"Break into the Pentagon? Crack a few codes?" Langley suggested vainly.

Scully shook her head. Frohike sat down beside her and took her hand.

"You want us to keep you company?" he asked kindly.

She smiled at him. "Thanks. But I'm not very good company right now."

"That's all right. We won't complain."

They were just so sweet. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and fought
to think of something to say that wouldn't result in her breaking into
tears.

Then an idea that she had once considered then rejected popped into her mind
again. "Maybe there's still something you can help with."

"Whatever. We'll do it." Byers said, determined.

"There is a man named Brian Oakes, founding senior partner of Richards,
Oakes and Tangiers Law Firm here in Washington. Quite a prestigious firm
specializing in tax and loan laws."

The men looked at each other, frowning. "We've never heard of it in the
conspiracy circles," Langley said.

"As far as I can tell the firm is for real," she said. "I'm interested only
in Mr. Brian Oakes."

"What do you want to know?" Byers asked.

"Any records that you guys are able to dig up, the way you did for Alan
Mason. Another person I'd like you to check out is a Mrs. Samantha Adler.
She resides in Chicago. Wait, I'll give you her house phone number so that
you have a place to start."

Scully patted her pockets, hoping that she still had the slip of paper she'd
written Samantha's number on. She was relieved to find it sandwiched in
between two pieces of tissue that she had crammed into a pocket. She handed
the slip of paper to Byers and indicated that he should keep it.

"Who are these two?" Langley asked, peeking over Byers' shoulder to look at
the number. Then he looked at her curiously. "Samantha Adler? Is this
Samantha anyone we know?"

"I'd rather not answer that," Scully replied.

The three men frowned and looked at each other, but chose not to press her
for more details. She preferred that they them draw their own conclusions.
Frohike wondered aloud, "Can these two help Mulder?"

"One of them says he can. The other one probably could have helped him,"
Scully answered dully. "Samantha Adler's husband's name is Keith, you might
try finding out about him too." Then she added, "There's another name I want
you to try: Jeremy Walker."

"When do you need this information?" Byers asked as he pocketed Samantha's
phone number.

"As soon as possible. Though there's nothing much to be gained from finding
out their personal details, that was why I never asked you to do this
earlier. I never wanted to know their motives since motives weren't
necessarily connected to what was happening. But now - now I just want to
find out all I can about everything. I need to do something."

"Who are these people, Scully?" Langley asked again.

"I think that's what you will have to tell me."

Langley had more to say, but Frohike stood up and placed a firm hand on his
shoulder. Langley remained silent while Frohike said to her, "We'll go now.
We'll get onto 'em. Don't worry."

"Tell Mulder we came by," Byers added awkwardly.

Scully nodded and replied kindly, "I will."

"We can't see him at all?" Langley asked, as they were about to turn and go.

She hesitated. Maybe the guys could go into the room one at a time and visit
Mulder, talk with him a bit, possibly cheer him up. Nothing to lose, perhaps
some joy to be gained.

"Wait here," Scully said, getting up from the couch. "I'll go see how things
are."

The Gunmen nodded obediently. As she walked quickly over to Mulder's room,
once again filled with a purpose, she checked her phone. It was on, no one
had called. Five hours had passed since her meeting with Oakes in the park.
Damn him.

The nurse outside Mulder's room saw her and said, "His mother is with him."

Scully looked in. Mrs. Mulder was sitting rigid in the chair by Mulder's
bed, her head bowed low. Mulder's bed was cranked up so that he was in an
almost sitting position. He seemed to be sleeping. There was a nasal prong
running beneath his nose, providing him with that much-needed oxygen, and
there was now constant monitoring of his heart rate and blood pressure.
Blood transfusion was in progress - she could see the quarter-full bag of
whole blood hanging up on the IV pole. Scully was about to ask the nurse if
she could go into the room too when the nurse told her, "Go on in."

"His fever?"

The nurse shook her head. So the fever wasn't breaking. Scully wasn't at all
surprised. She scrubbed, quickly donned the gown, pulled on the gloves and
put on her mask.

Mrs. Mulder raised her head when she heard Scully enter. Her eyes were red
and puffy. Scully guessed that the conversation with Shaughnessy was over.
Scully moved to stand quietly behind her, then lay a gentle hand on her
shoulder. Mrs. Mulder pressed her own hand over Scully's.

They remained that way for a while, never speaking. A million random
memories flitted through Scully's mind - other agents talking about Special
Agent Spooky Fox Mulder back when she was still in the Academy, the
fascination of starting work with someone so eccentric, the light touches of
his hand against her back, the intelligent arguments she used to have with
him over his science-mangled concepts of the paranormal, the quiet, warm
silences they used to have as they sat together in their car during
countless surveillance duties, the dread she used to feel at the idea of
losing him, the loneliness and the guilt that accompanied that dark time
when she had lost him in the desert, the terror she knew he had felt when he
was afraid he'd lose her....

She shook herself. Mrs. Mulder turned around and looked up at her.

"Dana?"

"I'm fine," she said automatically, unnecessarily.

Mrs. Mulder continued to watch her for half a minute. As she lowered her
gaze, Scully heard her murmur, "I wish I was." A short pause, then Mrs.
Mulder said, "I know it's selfish." She sniffed loudly before continuing
between shuddering sobs, "I'm crying because I'll be alone. I can accept Fox
dying. It's nothing, nothing anyone can do. Young people die. Things happen.
Awful things happen. I've accepted that long ago. But if Fox.... Then I'll
be alone. That last time - when the FBI told me that he had died... I
could.... But I... but I don't think I can be that strong again."

Scully swallowed the lump in her own throat. She didn't want this situation
to dissolve into two women crying over each other's shoulders. They'd
certainly both be kicked out of Mulder's room then. As it was, Mulder wasn't
sleeping very peacefully - he kept shifting about every once in a while and
his breathing was uneven. She imagined how upset he'd be if he were to wake
up and witness this scene.

Feeling absolutely wretched, she mumbled, "Excuse me, Fox's friends are
waiting outside. I should go."

She didn't wait for any contradiction to her feeble reason for leaving Mrs.
Mulder alone in her grief. She couldn't give in to emotions yet, not when
there still that smallest flicker of hope yet to be extinguished.

The LoneGunmen were still there, waiting. As she walked toward them she kept
wringing her damp hands together. She hadn't dried her hands properly after
washing up just now - she'd felt such a horrendous need to step away from
the intense sorrow as fast as she could. She couldn't understand herself,
couldn't understand why she'd had to abandon a poor mourning woman, her
partner's mother.

Things weren't any better here after all. There were three men looking at
her with too much hope in their eyes.

"How is he?" Langley asked.

She felt bitterly annoyed suddenly. Why did they keep wanting to know that?
Were they so naive to think that Mulder would improve within that split
second and whatever minutes, when medical science had so far failed to help
him at all?

Her sullen silence seemed to be answer enough. Byers gave a smile that
almost seemed like a grimace, glanced at his two companions and said, "Maybe
we should go now - see what we can find out about those names."

"Yeah. Yeah," Frohike agreed. "I'm sure Mulder needs his rest anyway."

She said nothing in response, merely gave them a solemn nod of appreciation.
She couldn't even bring herself to smile a farewell at them as they left.

~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder awoke with a fit of coughing. This was the kind of thing that killed
him, all the pain radiating in his chest. Finally the coughing stopped and
someone was dabbing a damp towel against his mouth and chin. He was probably
drooling blood. How pitifully embarrassing.

He gasped for a bit as he slowly waited for the spots to disappear from
before his eyes. They refused to. Meanwhile he was feeling so chilly, his
whole body was aching - nothing new there - and he could swear that his
brain was throbbing inside his skull.

The spots seemed to have disappeared, finally. He tried to determine who was
with him. Had to be either of two very important women, but his sight was
dim, the person's face was masked and the voice that emanated from that
person seemed to come from a vast distance. He turned his face away and
tried to focus on something else. Great, the whole room was dim. Not dim in
the way he'd always wanted it to be - his eyes still ached so the light was
probably still there - this dim seemed to be because he himself could no
longer see. A veil before his eyes, and cotton stuffed in his ears, and muck
in his lungs so that it was very hard for him to breathe.

Make that very very hard to breathe.

~
END PART 13
~~~~~~~~~~~

REGARDING A CURE
PART 14

Scully wished that there were rules in life, very definite safe rules that
even fate should obey. One of the rules was that the sequence of terrible
events really should not happen too fast. Or it wouldn't be fair to the
person who could have been there at the beginning to stop the events from
unfolding. Or at the very least, to help make sure that the events wouldn't
become so terrible.

Scully had left Mulder's room for only fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes. The
LoneGunmen were probably still within the hospital compound, maybe they were
only about to drive out through the gate. She had waited in the lounge till
the Gunmen had ambled past the corner. She stood there a while longer,
alone, with her hands covering her face as she stupidly allowed tears to
course past her fingers and down her cheeks. So she'd had to go to the
Ladies to wash the tear streaks away. She did stand in there staring into
the mirror at her reflection for a bit of time, but that wasn't vanity. She
needed to be sure no one would tell that she'd been crying. She wasn't even
sure now why that particular aspect of her appearance should be so
important. She finally got sick of staring at her pale exhausted self and
left. Then she had stood right outside the Ladies and toyed with the idea of
calling that bastard Oakes anyway. She decided against it, 'Not yet,' she
told herself. And then she had walked back to Mulder's room. The Ladies was
some distance away from Mulder's isolation room, but no hurry. Regular
steps. After all, he'd been sleeping when she left him and his mother.

Fifteen minutes. That should not have been enough time for Mulder to
suddenly go into respiratory distress. He'd been sleeping. The fever had
been raging and now when she thought of it, he had been rasping a little,
even as he slept, but for this to happen so quickly?

Mulder was already intubated and they were hooking him up to the ventilator,
which had probably been on standby for the eventuality of Mulder's collapse.
Relevant doctors had been called. Shaughnessy and those other doctors must
have come running, but what had she been doing at that time? Why hadn't she
noticed the emergency calls? Or were the doctors paged?

Fifteen minutes. She'd missed the whole thing and had found out when one of
nurses had grabbed her arm and told her as she was about five steps away
from Mulder's room. She now tried frantically to observe events through the
window - the room was full of doctors and nurses who'd obviously decided
that in emergencies there wasn't time for all that thorough scrubbing and
gown-donning - she could see Mulder's blood on the sheet and blanket, even
blood down on the floor, noticed the almost empty blood bag still hanging
there at the top of the IV pole, saw the monitor with the erratic jumping
lines that were representing Mulder's beating heart. But the doctors and
nurses kept moving back and forth and she couldn't see him.

Mrs. Mulder was still in the room though, pressed back against one wall. The
mask was off. She had a blank look of despair on her face, a familiar look
that Scully had seen before - on her own mother's face on the day Melissa
died.

~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully needed a few minutes to regain her composure and her ability to think
logically. The doctors and nurses were doing everything they could for
Mulder. There was no room for her in there, nothing she could do to help him
directly.

This was definitely the time to call that bastard.

She went out into the lounge, which was still empty. She used her cell phone
to make the call to the offices of Richards, Oakes and Tangiers, and managed
to keep her voice from trembling as she identified herself and asked to be
connected to Oakes's office.

Oakes' secretary was a formidable woman. She absolutely refused to allow
Scully to speak to her boss.

"I wish to stress, ma'am, that I am a federal agent," Scully told her.

"If you can't state valid reasons for wanting to speak to Mr. Oakes
immediately then I must insist that you either call back later or leave a
message," the secretary said primly. "He's in a very important meeting with
a very important client."

"Ma'am, are you totally ignorant of the authority of the federal
government?"

The secretary's voice took on a haughty tone. "Madam, I am very much aware
of the rules and regulations of this country. I suggest you call again if
you need to urgently discuss anything with Mr. Oakes."

She hung up. It took Scully only half a second to recover from the insult.
The secretary allowed the phone to ring for quite some time before picking
it up.

As soon as Scully heard her "Good afternoon, Brian Oakes' office. How may I
help you?", Scully said, "If I were you, I would go to my boss right now,
and tell him that there's a very irate FBI agent who wishes to speak to him.
He can speak to her now, on the phone, or she'll step into his office and
speak to him while his important client is still present. It would also be
good to remind my boss that either of these two options is still highly
preferable to what the FBI agent really wants to do, which is to handcuff
him and drag him out through his offices in front of all his employees and
future important clients, and bring him out to a waiting police car. If I
were you, I'd tell him all that. Now what about you? Would you?"

She heard the soft hiss of an expletive, then the secretary's icy voice,
"Please hold on."

Next thing she knew, she was listening to a chirpy organ rendition of 'Hey
Jude'. Very interesting law firm.

It was a long wait. She sat down on a chair that faced the corridor leading
to Mulder's isolation room. Once in a while a nurse or technician would rush
out or in. Shaughnessy hadn't left yet. Dr. Pam Davies did go rushing in,
followed a little later by a couple of attendants and a technician pushing a
portable X-ray machine. So, Shaughnessy wanted a chest X-ray. He wasn't
going to give up on Mulder yet.

Meanwhile 'Hey Jude' playing for the third consecutive time was irritating
her more than she ever imagined possible. And, she was reluctant to admit
it, but Oakes' secretary may have just pulled a fast one on her.

"Agent Scully, I presume?"

Oakes' angry voice in her ear, cutting right into the middle of the organ
chorus, shocked her. She cringed as she heard her own startled voice
acknowledging, "Yes?"

"I told you not to call me!" he snapped. "How dare you threaten..."

"Mr. Oakes, this is an emergency," Scully interrupted. She barreled ahead
with what she had to say before pride could get in the way and stop her from
making a fool of herself. "I'am urgently requesting your assistance. I need
Mr. Walker's help."

"I said I'd call you when I got hold of him."

"I need him now," she insisted, letting her voice adopt a polite, pleading
tone. "Mulder's dying."

"That's not my fault," Oakes answered curtly.

So the damsel in distress strategy wasn't going to work here. Why did she
even try it in the first place?

"It will be if he dies," she said, dropping all pretenses of being nice and
going back to the method she and Mulder knew best. "I will make sure it will
be."

"Another threat? You are too much, you impertinent fool."

"Perhaps I am," Scully responded coldly. "But you are the fool who chose to
play with me. Now play the game till we reach a satisfactory conclusion or I
will destroy you."

"You don't know who you're dealing with," Oakes snarled.

"I don't care," Scully said. Oakes wanted a hard game, she'd give him a hard
game. "Be informed that if you do not have Walker here in half an hour, you
will not have a professional life anymore. Don't think we don't know, Mr.
Oakes. Don't think we aren't watching everything that you and your friends
are doing right now. The more papers and evidence you burn as we watch, the
more ammunition you're giving us at the Bureau and the IRS."

Her lie worked. There was a long silence, punctuated finally by Oakes
cursing, "Screw you."

"You should watch your language, sir. You never know who might be listening
in."

She received an even more vulgar reply, which Oakes ended with a growl.
"Give me an hour."

"Don't try my patience, Mr. Oakes. I've given you ample time since our
meeting in the park."

"He will need time to get there!"

"Half an hour from now, Mr. Oakes," Scully said. "Or the IRS at your
doorstep tonight."

And she cut off the call.

~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~

Shaughnessy was talking to Mrs. Mulder when Scully got back to Mulder's
room. Mrs. Mulder still had that glassy-eyed look of despair on her face;
Shaughnessy had a look of extreme tiredness and hopelessness on his. Scully
decided quite irrelevantly that this was why she hadn't wanted to do
clinical medicine - the task of informing the families of the dying that the
end was near had to be one of the most under-appreciated tasks ever.

As she was thinking this totally useless thought, she turned around and
looked through the window, just in time to see the radiology technician
finish up with his job and pull the X-ray machine away from the bed. That
was fast. Dr. Pam Davies and two other doctors whose names Scully couldn't
remember, reentered the room, along with a couple of nurses.

Scully remained outside, staring mutely at Mulder's still form. She'd seen
him this way before, in a hick hospital, as Shaughnessy preferred to put it,
way up there in Alaska. At that time, she'd been rather optimistic that
science would save him from the anonymous retrovirus. She had been right for
the short-term, definitely, but as for the long-term estimation? She'd been
miles off target.

Behind her, Mrs. Mulder was asking in a grief-stricken voice, "There's
really nothing more you can do?"

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Mulder," Shaughnessy answered tenderly. Then there was a
touch of concern as he asked, "Mrs. Mulder? Do you need to sit down?"

"I - I think so."

Scully looked over her shoulder. An assistant nurse already had an arm
around Mrs. Mulder's waist to provide support, and once Mrs. Mulder was
steady enough on her feet, the assistant nurse slowly led her away, probably
to the couch in the lounge area. Shaughnessy watched them go, then turned to
see Scully staring at him.

He sighed, "Crap."

"What happened?" Scully asked.

Shaughnessy knew she was referring to Mulder. "I think we can safely say
without waiting for the test results that it was pulmonary edema
contributing to Adult Respiratory Distress Syndrome. He went from tachypneic
one minute to cyanotic the next. He was blue, I tell you."

"Septic shock?"

"Probably."

"What are you going to do now?" Scully asked, still pathetically hopeful
that she could rely on modern medicine.

"Well, the ventilator is helping," Shaughnessy replied. "Hopefully that will
help him remain stable. But his catheter came out." Shaughnessy tapped the
point just to the right and below of his neck, the point where central
catheters go in. "There's profuse bleeding which I am very concerned about.
I'm worrying far more about the bleeding than I am about his respiratory
distress. I've had them send for more blood, stat, though I'm hoping he can
hold his own for a while since he'd only just received a transfusion. Also a
KIV for platelets."

"Keep in view for platelets? Why? He's refractory to platelets now." Scully
queried.

"If we can't stop the bleeding at all we're going to have to try giving him
the platelets," Shaughnessy said with a weary shrug. "We can't keep pouring
blood into him, only to have it all pour back out. We'll keep up with
antipyretics and antibiotics, and any other medication as necessary, but
treatment measures from now on will be strictly palliative."

She gave him a questioning look which made him wince and say, "After that --
" Shaughnessy bobbed his head in Mulder's direction. "I had to ask his
mother. As you understand, it should be her decision now that Mulder is,
well, out of it. Sorry. She's decided against further heroic attempts to
save his life. She understands that there isn't actually anything else we
can do and she doesn't want to prolong any suffering. Can't always expect
miracles and all that."

"Oh," Scully said. That little tiny flicker of hope abruptly snuffed out.

Shaughnessy made a face, indicating his regret. Scully gasped, a choking
sound, then swallowed hard. Her eyes were beginning to water. Shaughnessy
placed a comforting hand on her shoulder in an honest gesture of caring
compassion, and Scully bit her lip, struggling to stop herself from crying
out here, in front of Shaughnessy.

"Hey look, I think Mulder's stable for now. We're going to, I don't know,
talk about things - why don't you keep him company?" Shaughnessy spoke
hesitantly, peering into her face. When she'd finally blinked the tears away
and made eye contact, he smiled kindly at her. She smiled weakly back.

He gave her shoulder one last gentle squeeze then beckoned to Pam Davies and
the other doctors who had stepped out of Mulder's room to follow him. She
heard him instruct a nurse, "If there's anything page us." He turned to the
technician, who had also come out. "X-ray ready? You know my room? Bring it
there when it is." Then the doctors walked away.

~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~

There was no need to scrub and gown up before going into Mulder's room
anymore. Inside the room, no one was wearing protective clothing or masks.
It would seem a rather redundant effort now. The nurses remained, waiting.
Mulder's condition was such that he should be transferred to the ICU, but
they'd created the ICU in here instead.

The blanket was a crisp new one, his gown was a new one but already there
was a bit of blood staining it up around the neck area. His catheter wound
had been bandaged, but Scully could see that that hadn't stopped the
bleeding at all. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the nurses preparing a
new dressing set for the eventuality of changing the bandage. With the
catheter gone, they'd gone back to inserting the IV needles into his veins.
There was still a smudge of blood on his left wrist, from a failed insertion
attempt.

Scully glanced at her watch. Only sixty minutes since his collapse.

She sat down on his right side and placed her bare hands on his arm. For
more than one week she hadn't touched him without wearing gloves. His skin
felt dry and hot - his fever was still raging out of control - and there was
nothing much beneath the skin to cushion her fingers. She squeezed his arm
gently, wondering if either touch or pain would wake him up. Neither did.
She felt a pang of disappointment. She wanted to look into his eyes again
and talk to him. Explain to him that she'd gone off and done it, called for
a miracle healer to come and provide the cure. The healer was their only
hope now. Medicine and science weren't going to help anymore. She needn't
say who sent the healer or why. She just needed to see him look at her
again. She just needed him to hear that she was trying, trying very very
hard, trying anything at all to save him, to the extent of trying something
she would otherwise scoff and sneer at.

But no, he didn't wake up and Scully had to settle for just sitting there
beside his bed, and staring at him. She was always sitting by his bedside
staring at him in some hospital or other - well, not 'always', maybe, but it
felt that way. She couldn't stare at him at any other time after all, not
without making him think that she was thinking that he was a stark raving
mad lunatic. Staring at him only while he was ill or injured was not a
pleasurable pursuit however, because the emotions flooding her, no matter
how minor his injuries were, would include that panicky feel of 'what if he
never wakes up?' and she would have to fight down that panic and tell
herself, 'Mulder's a fighter, this can't kill him'.

She'd stared at him a lot these past few days, and she'd had enough
occasions to experience that familiar panic over and over again.
Unfortunately, of late she hadn't been able to fully convince herself that
this wasn't the one that would be his official cause of death.

The bandage over his catheter wound was already absorbing too much blood. A
nurse touched her gently on the shoulder and said, "Ma'am, I'm sorry, could
you please make room? We need to change the dressing."

"You should put more pressure to stop the bleeding," Scully advised as she
moved her chair back.

The nurse replied, "We did, but he reacted very badly to the pain. So we
left the bandage in place; we were hoping the bleeding would stop by itself.
Looks like it's not."

The other nurse said, "He's losing quite a lot. We're going to need that
unit of blood after all. Blood Bank is sending it up?"

"Yes, Dr. Shaughnessy ordered it stat."

"Change the dressing first, his pressure is still OK. We'll get the blood
afterwards. Might already be at the counter."

Scully was about to offer her assistance when something outside in the
corridor caught her attention. She looked up. Walker was standing out there.

The two nurses were working on Mulder and weren't paying attention to her.
Scully exited the room quietly. Walker came into the decontamination area to
meet her.

He said solemnly, "I was instructed to provide assistance."

Scully nodded, appreciative that he had shown up so quickly. She was
delighted that he had shown up at all - that flicker of hope was rekindled.
She asked, "You know what's expected of you?"

His lips twitched with displeasure. He answered simply, "Yes."

And Scully suddenly realized her quandary - in order for Walker to prove
himself, she would have to take him to the subject, a different one from the
one she had named previously. She was paranoid enough to suspect that the
previous subject could have been tampered with somehow, although she was
honest enough to admit that there was no feasible way for 'Them' to do so.

This new subject was a thirteen-year-old boy with Stage IV rhabdomyosarcoma,
with metastases to the lungs and bone. Scully didn't know this boy
personally either; she'd selected him at random by stealing a look at his
card, which had been one of a stack of cards placed on the nurses' station
bench. The boy was on the same floor as Mulder's room, but in a different
wing. It would take about five minutes to get to the boy's room, how ever
long for Walker to do whatever it was he claimed to be able to do, and then
time to return here to Mulder; this was assuming the boy didn't have anyone
in the room with him. Moral ethical questions aside, for how long would
Scully be away from Mulder? What if something happened while she was gone?

"How much time will you need to - to do... it?" she asked worriedly.

"Not long. A few seconds."

Scully gave him her best look of incredulous disbelief.

"It is a matter of healing by touch," Walker claimed. "Nothing more. None of
the hale or firestorms, or flashes of blinding light. Certainly not a
lengthy procedure requiring hours."

That had been among her reasons to see Walker heal someone other than Mulder
first - to determine just how he did it. A touch of the palm of a hand on
someone's body didn't make a very good prescription.

Walker tried to look past her into the room. The door between Mulder's room
and the decontamination area was half-ajar, held that way by Scully's
leaning against the edge of it. She wanted to be able to hear if anything
unexpected happened with Mulder.

Walker calmly observed, "He is dying. It can happen any time now."

Scully couldn't say anything to argue with the truth.

Walker looked out into the corridor, then back at her. "I should heal Mr.
Mulder now."

"No!" Scully exclaimed, although a part of her was screaming that yes, she
should command Walker go in there and heal Mulder right now, was she crazy?
Mulder was stable for the moment, but who knew when things would suddenly go
horribly wrong? She forced herself to remain firm. "You said you knew what
was expected."

"You still want to waste time going through a 'presentation'?" Walker
spluttered in disbelief.

"I can't risk Mulder's life by taking your word at face value."

"Risk his life?" Walker gestured inside the room. "You think I could
conceivably make him worse than that?"

Scully hated to concede that Walker had made a very good point. And she was
torn between her need to have proof and assurance of safety, and her
unwillingness to leave Mulder's side; at the very least she had to be within
sprinting distance. She'd only left him for fifteen minutes just now... look
what happened.

Finally, she reached a decision. She was going to chuck aside all her best
laid plans and go with the flow and face the risks. She couldn't afford to
waste more of Mulder's time. She said quickly, "Fine. We do this now. But I
will remain with you."

"That does not concern me. However, those other people must leave."

"Your appearance..."

"I have yet to be noticed by anyone," he said. He raised a hand to stop
Scully from interrupting him. "I could impersonate his doctor, perhaps?"

"Have you seen any of them?"

"How could I have? You never allowed me to visit," he proclaimed dryly.

"You are able to change your height and weight?" Scully asked, just as
another worry, one that she really should have worried about earlier, came
to her. Impersonating a doctor the nurses knew wasn't at all a safe thing to
do - they would immediately detect that something wasn't right if Walker
didn't behave exactly the way that doctor would be expected to behave. And
what if the real doctor really did show up?

"Yes, but I do need to see the face, at least," Walker replied. "However, it
does not matter. I have come prepared." He pulled a small bible out from his
jacket pocket and placed it solemnly against his chest.

Scully was surprised and also quite pleased that he would take the
initiative. "A priest." A family priest whom nobody else would know, or
expect to know. "Yes. That can work."

Now she needed to get the nurses out and make sure no one came in while
Walker did the healing. There was a sudden tapping on the door. She stepped
away, and one of the nurses pulled the door open. It was the older of the
two, and Scully realized with belated regret that she didn't know any of the
nurses' names, hadn't been bothered to ask, and this one wasn't wearing any
nametag.

Nonetheless, she laid a hand on Walker's arm - he hadn't morphed into
another form, probably hadn't had time to - and said simply, "This is
Reverend Walker."

Walker smiled courteously and thankfully remained silent.

The nurse returned the smile but cast Scully an odd look. "You brought a
Father McHugh - McCue, yesterday?"

"Yes, but - but Mulder's mother is Protestant," Scully explained. The nurse
frowned and opened her mouth to ask another question, only to be interrupted
when the other nurse came out of the room also.

This was it. The nurses were discarding the blood soaked bandages and the
dressing sets; they would take some time also to remove their bloody gloves
and wash their hands, and they must have ensured that Mulder was stable
enough - no drop in blood pressure, no tachycardia or bradycardia - for both
of them to leave him alone for at least half a minute.

Scully muttered, "Excuse us," and went into the room, with Walker tailing
her. The two nurses didn't stop them, didn't follow them. They knew she was
a doctor, knew that she should be able to at least notice anything going
wrong. Scully had to hope that Walker's cover as a Reverend would hold even
if Mrs. Mulder and the doctors returned unexpectedly.

She turned around to close the door, and as she did so she instructed the
nurses: "Please allow the Reverend and I some time alone with Mulder."

One nurse smiled kindly, then asked, "Should I call his mother?"

"No!" Scully answered quickly. "I believe she's still in shock. She's still
recovering; I would let her rest. The Reverend and I would appreciate the
privacy. Thank you."

The older nurse stared at her suspiciously but didn't comment. Scully closed
the door. She hoped this would buy them a bit of time.

And please God, she prayed, let the less than one-minute cure be
accomplished without hale or firestorms or flashes of blinding light.

Walker stood quietly beside Mulder's bed, and gazed down at him. Scully
watched Walker and felt an irrational wave of expectation, which she tried
to quell. She was letting this man - entity - lay his hand on her partner,
to save her partner's life, presuming he could. She was going to count on a
miracle. A true, unproven miracle. She was going to forsake all logic and
follow this path. It was a familiar enough path, still, it wasn't a path she
had ever wanted to tread again.

Her hand strayed to the back of her neck, her fingers playing briefly over
the scar tissue there. Scully sat down at her place by Mulder's side, never
taking her eyes off Walker, except for a quick glance at Mulder to see that
the bandage had been changed, and that his heart rate was regular, though it
was a bit fast.

Walker placed the palm of his hand on Mulder's forehead. He closed his eyes
and swayed back a little. Scully held her breath. She reached a hand out to
grab Mulder's arm, the other hand she moved from behind her neck to her
throat, to nervously finger her cross.

And in her heart she recited the Lord's prayer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder felt the heavy pressure of someone pressing something against his
forehead. He winced, tried to turn his head away, but the something pressed
his forehead harder so that he could not move.

Suddenly the pressure was gone, but he was coughing to get rid of something
stuck down his throat. He kept trying to inhale but there seemed to be some
problem with that too; then he heard Scully's voice telling him to hold on,
followed by the instruction, "Now cough."

The thing stuck down his throat was pulled out. He choked back a few more
coughs, before opening his eyes. He blinked in confusion. He was in a
strange bed, in a strange room. Scully was on his right with what looked
like a ventilator tube in her hand, on his left was a strange, yet familiar
looking man; both were looking at him expectantly. There was also an IV pole
with bags hanging overhead, the lines trailing down into his wrist. He
lifted his right arm and was startled by the number of bruises visible
there, and how bony his arm looked. He gulped down some air and was about to
ask Scully what was going on when she called his name.

"Mulder?" her voice was tentative, nervous, hopeful.

"What?" he asked. His mouth felt like he hadn't had a good rinse in a while.
He opened and closed his mouth in distaste. His voice was croaky, probably
because of soreness in his throat from having that tube stuffed down it.
Other than that he didn't feel too bad.

"How are you?" Scully asked.

"I don't know. I think I'm fine, but if I were fine why would I be in here?"

Instead of giving him an answer, Scully dropped the tube, clapped her hands
around his right hand and laughed. A hearty, joyous, giggly laugh. He stared
at her quizzically. He knew he had to be in the hospital, which had to mean
that he must have just survived some accident or other - he couldn't
remember that bit, but it must have been serious. Probably been just 'this'
close to death yet again. He'd been on a ventilator after all. So it
couldn't have been a laughing matter now, could it?

But Scully continued to laugh, and it was such a beautiful sound that it
made him happy to still be alive to hear it. One of those 'top ten reasons
it's great not to be dead and six feet underground' things, and he smiled
along with her.

He heard the sound of a door opening and someone asking loudly, "Miss
Scully, what's wrong? What's happened?"

She kept on laughing, wouldn't let go of his hand. In fact, she was suddenly
bent over him, hugging him. He felt a trickle of water slide into his ear.
Was Scully crying too? Laughing and crying? What in the world?

He patted her back with his left hand. Oh well. He was sure she'd explain
things later.

~
END PART 14
~~~~~~~~~~~

REGARDING A CURE
PART 15
~
15th day
~~~~~~~~

Brian Oakes sniffed with distaste. The foul odor of horse manure permeating
morning air was not one of his favorite things.

He walked stiffly across the pasture, over to where the
distinguished-looking Englishman was standing with a brush in one hand. The
Englishman was combing a horse, presumably his own. Even here in this field
of mud and horse excrement, the man, wearing a fancy riding suit or whatever
one called the outfit, still managed to exude an air of stiff upper-lipped
arrogance. Had to be something all snotty Englishmen were born with.

When Oakes got close enough to be noticed, the Englishman turned to him and
gave him a smile that was pure hypocritical friendliness. "Ah, Brian. Good
morning. Have you had your breakfast?"

Oakes scowled. He stopped in his tracks a good five feet away from the
horse. He didn't want to get trampled or kicked or bitten if that beast went
berserk. He said, "Don't bother being so merry."

The Englishman shrugged and turned back to his horse, combing the mane
enthusiastically. "You did your job well. I wanted to tell you that."

"Thank you. But next time, make sure you have my back covered if you want to
drag me directly into this business."

The Englishman paused in his actions and said, "Everything was covered. She
was lying. About the phone tap and about spying on your office. You were
never, at any point, at risk. A.D. Skinner does have contacts at the IRS -
as a man in his position is wont to have, but he called neither of them. Mr.
Skinner's impunity is troublesome; we may have to deal with him someday."

"I would have been happier if you had bothered to share all that information
with me earlier."

"Why fear them if you have nothing to hide? Why worry when you know that we
are all here for you?" the Englishman wondered slyly and started to comb the
horse's mane again.

Oakes made a face. "Easy for you to say. You aren't the one with an open
file at the FBI now. It doesn't matter that they find nothing - I do know
how to take care of myself - it's the insult that they were even thinking of
coming after me."

"Pride comes before a fall," the Englishman murmured, then asked aloud,
"How's the girl?"

"Samantha is coping," Oakes answered brusquely, irritated with the
Englishman for changing the subject. "Look, you assured me that the job was
all about talking to that FBI woman and getting her to accept Walker's help.
That was all. Instead it's ended with my name being dragged through the
mud..."

"It's ended. Stop griping," the Englishman admonished him.

"Ended," Oakes retorted. "Well, Samantha reported that unknown men are
calling her, then hanging up. She's worried."

"Tell her to change her number," came the sarcastic reply. The Englishman
stepped away from his horse and started clapping the brush in his hand
against the palm of his other hand, nodding in satisfaction as he observed
the nice sheen to the horse's mane. Oakes barely hid his contempt.

"Quit fooling with the horse, will you. I thought you called me here so that
we could discuss these matters. I do have better things to do."

The Englishman sighed his regret that Oakes wouldn't share his appreciation
for beauty. He said, "We have things under control. Everything. The FBI
poses no threat. There is nothing anyone can track down about you, the girl,
her family, and certainly nothing about our Walker." The Englishman was
thoughtful for a while. "Walker. Interesting name."

"What about that scientist, what's his name..."

"Dr. Mason?" The Englishman gave the horse one last loving stroke, then
started to walk away. Oakes followed him eagerly, relieved to be away from
the smelly beast. "Dr. Mason will continue to work where he is and produce
more of the drug for us, for keepsake in case yet another careless American
soldier finds himself exposed to the aliens' circulatory system. I do
believe though that it is about time we rewarded our good doctor."

Oakes' curiosity was piqued by that statement. "What do you mean?"

"Well, when he first identified the retrovirus, we made him an offer to join
us. He refused, but accepted the challenge of finding the right drug against
the virus. We've been discreetly funding his efforts - until he eventually
discovered and created the drug that would kill the retrovirus in the lab.
Unfortunately, there were no human subjects. I can't even begin to tell you
how wonderful it was that Mulder would have his relapse at that time, and
Agent Scully going straight to Dr. Mason again for help. It was perfect."

"Fine," Oakes said impatiently. The Englishman had already glossed over
these details previously but had an annoying habit of repeating them again
and again. "What did you mean by 'about time we rewarded him'?"

"He refuses to accept any form of material reward from us, that's what I
meant," the Englishman replied in a tone of regret. "The man enjoys his work
too much, thinks we owe him nothing."

The lawyer in Oakes made the obvious observation, "Then why bother with
rewarding him? If he is happy with nothing, give him nothing. Better than to
insult his pride. There are people out there who are like that, strange idea
though it may seem."

As the Englishman mulled over these facts, Oakes went on with the issues at
hand. "That woman doctor at the hospital, the one who actually administered
the drug, what about her?"

"Dr. Pamela Davies. She gave him the injections every day, four times a day.
Very dedicated woman, knew how to cover her tracks. But in answer to your
question, we're removing her."

"Discreetly."

The Englishman cast him a look that indicated how annoyed he was that Oakes
would want to remind him of such a trivial thing. He asked a question of his
own. "The other doctors never knew, you are sure?"

"They did not."

The Englishman nodded, satisfied. "Dr. Davies was very good. Mason did right
to recruit her for the task. It would be a shame to lose her..."

"Look, just lose her. She's a bit ambitious, they say. Don't trust that she
won't reveal the existence of the drug eventually. She wrote notes about it,
you know. She wants to publish. And really, we don't need her. She's not
that special."

This time the Englishman gave Oakes a warning look that hinted that he
should well remember where his position was in the hierarchy of the
Syndicate. Oakes was not in the least bit intimidated. He may not have rank,
but he'd been one of 'Them' for long enough. And more importantly, everyone
knew just how vital his role was to the rest of 'Them'.

"Don't try to spoil things, all right," Oakes said. "We now have those two
people believing that miracles arranged by us are possible, and totally
ignorant that a new drug can kill retrovirus Mil3. That was the plan and
we've made it work. Enough. Time to wrap things up and clean up the slate."

"I am curious, though," the Englishman said, in a tone that hinted he was
genuinely so. "Would Mulder have died without Walker's intervention?"

"Most likely." Oakes tapped his palm against his chest. "He had some sort of
respiratory problem because of this septicemia thing. Couldn't breathe on
his own anymore. Walker had to heal that, and the septicemia."

"Why did Mulder have that problem, you think?"

"I don't know. I'm a lawyer for Christsakes. I didn't even want to get
involved..."

The Englishman interrupted his complaining. "Side effects to the drug,
perhaps?"

"Who knows? But maybe not. I know they were making him symptomatically sick
by giving him lots of AZT - that's that HIV drug. I think it was Dr. Davies
and Dr. Mason who encouraged the AZT. Don't know why?"

"Dr. Mason explained that the new anti-Mil3 drug is very effective in its
task of killing the virus - too effective. Mulder would have begun to show
signs of improvement immediately. So he needed to suppress Mulder's blood
counts for as long as possible, to prevent anyone from suspecting that he
was already recovering. AZT was the right drug for that trick, especially
since Agent Scully was encouraged to believe that it was necessary."

"Whatever. As I understand it, it was the - what's the word - suppress? - it
was the suppressed blood counts that led to Mulder developing the
septicemia. That septicemia was killing him. Dr. Mason shouldn't have pulled
that trick."

"He's a microbiologist dabbling in pharmacology on the side," the Englishman
said, defending the absent Dr. Mason. "It was impressive enough for him, all
by himself, to come up with the drug that could eliminate the Mil3 virus. If
he had known that giving Mulder that much AZT would result in such a
catastrophe he would have surely avoided it. But I am not sure that he
remembers these clinical matters in great detail."

"And you expect me to know?" Oakes retorted. His English companion gave him
another warning scowl. Oakes was inclined to believe that all that power the
chap had been wielding had gone to his head. But he shouldn't complain too
much about this encounter. The Englishman was usually far more snappish.

"Mulder is still in hospital, is he not?" the Englishman asked after a
moment of silence.

"Yes," Oakes confirmed. "A couple more problems with weakness. Some other
miscellaneous problems, including iron overload from too many blood
transfusions; did you ever know that could happen? And they want his blood
counts to improve a bit more. Anyway, petty problems by comparison."

"Your source in the hospital is reliable?"

"Of course he is. And yes, I have reminded him to send a copy of the medical
records to Dr. Mason at USAMRIID."

They had reached the road. Oakes' car was parked just a bit further along.
He said to the Englishman, "I can't say that its been a blast. Leave me out
of these things from now on, will you?"

The Englishman smiled ruefully. "You told me once that you wished for more
activity, more direct involvement. I thought this simple task would suit
you."

Oakes shook his head and shot him a look of disgust. The Englishman said, "I
apologize then. I forgot to mention that the FBI woman can be quite a
formidable opponent."

"You know, I still can't believe why you even bother with this whole
charade."

"We have them in our debt now. They think that we've given them a miracle,
and no one, not even that woman nor any of the doctors there, can question a
miracle."

"You could have just sold that drug at a high price."

"No!" the Englishman stressed. "We don't want anyone finding out about that
drug. It's one more secret we must keep from our colonizing friends. Come,
Brian, not everything is about profits."

Oakes made a 'hmmpp' sound. The Englishman continued, "Besides, Mulder could
have died because of those other unexpected problems, which Walker healed.
So I should say that our charade for a miracle turned out to be quite
necessary in the end."

"The others are going to find out that we used a healer."

"Never mind them. We did all this because he is Bill's son. We don't want
Fox to become a martyr just yet."

"They're not going to keep accepting that excuse for long."

"As long as it's long enough for Mulder to do what he will have to do."

They were already at Oakes' car and he was already holding his key ready in
his hand. He was eager to get the hell out of the smelly, hilly pasture. He
was grateful enough that he hadn't stepped in anything resembling excrement.

The Englishman gave him a farewell nod and a firm handshake. Oakes could
honestly say that he absolutely detested the Englishman. He'd canceled a
picnic with his children and grandchildren for this man?

As he got into his car, the Englishman had one final question, "Mulder will
recover fully?"

Oakes sat himself down comfortably and pulled his seatbelt on. He answered,
"Yes, he's expected to be fine."

"Excellent," the Englishman said, and slammed the door shut.

~
END PART 13
~~~~~~~~~~~

EPILOGUE
~~~~~~~~

Dr. Shaughnessy stared blankly at the pages in front of him. Dr. Davies,
fine researcher that she was, was also a bad organizer. And a woman with
horrendous handwriting, to boot. He couldn't make out a single word of her
personal notes on Mr. Mulder's case. But he shouldn't think badly about the
dead. Poor Pam Davies. Smashed by a truck travelling at seventy miles an
hour. What a way to go.

He raised his head and stared instead at his patient, who, God knew how, was
currently alive and almost well and was sitting there in the wheelchair with
his female partner - the platonic female partner - at his side. They were
going home today. He didn't see the mother though; he wondered where that
old lady had gone.

But God help Mall Shaughnessy, how was he even going to explain this to his
colleagues at the next Hematology meeting?

'Mr. Fox Mulder is a fine healthy man in his late thirties, who
spontaneously recovered from a primary retrovirus infection of unknown
origin and secondary respiratory and septic complications.'

Spontaneous recovery. Never in his medical experience.... The nurse who
paged him that afternoon had breathlessly told him, "Dr. Shaughnessy, he's
awake! He's talking, he's breathing on his own!" and Shaughnessy had
responded with a sarcastic, "Right, sure. And all birds float."

Then he'd walked into Mulder's room and there was Mulder sitting upright in
bed, wide awake and fine and lucid, as healthy as a man who'd been diagnosed
with respiratory distress should not be. Shaughnessy's mouth dropped open
and he exclaimed, "My God!"

A strange white man standing by the bed had replied, "Nothing of that sort."

Very funny. Ha ha. Shaughnessy didn't know where that man disappeared to
after that. Nurse Carter told him later that the man was a Reverend.

Now Dr. Agent Scully was coming towards him, and he beamed politely at her.

"Dr. Shaughnessy," she said. "So next check-up next week?"

"Yeah. We're pretty satisfied that he is fully cured. We're also satisfied
that whatever he had was never infectious to the rest of us. Happy ending."

She smiled. She was quite a pretty lady, this Dr. Scully. Shaughnessy had to
admit that. Annoying, pesky, arrogant - and God help them all - she thought
she knew more than she really did, but she wasn't that bad. Really.

She said, "Great. Well, I'm taking Mulder home now."

Shaughnessy looked past her and waved at Mulder. The impossibly alive Mulder
lifted his hand in acknowledgement, but said nothing. They were far enough
apart that Mulder would need to raise his voice to be heard clearly. Poor
guy did still had an awful sore throat, and he'd need time to rest and
recover his strength and gain weight, and he may even need some physical
therapy later. But he was alive. Jeez. He was alive.

There was a moment of awkward silence, finally broken when Scully said,
"Thank you."

He'd have said, 'you're welcome' if he knew he deserved it. As if he was the
one who had actually saved Mulder's life. Somehow he knew that both Mulder
and Scully knew this too.

So he asked her, "Dr. Scully, you believe in miracles? Whole-heartedly?"

She looked into his eyes. Then she answered, "Yes, I dare say I do."

He gave her a wry look. "I was afraid I'd have to say that too."

There was just a slight inclination of her head and a shadow of a smile. She
turned round and walked back to where Mulder was waiting. Both of them
looked back at him again and smiled before she started to push her partner
off to the elevators. They looked very happy together. Very alive and
content together. Platonic. Right.

Shaughnessy sighed as he watched them leave. Then he signaled for the
registration clerk to attend to him and asked, "Mulder's case notes?"

The clerk pointed at the huge stack at the edge of the counter. Shaughnessy
rolled his eyes.

God help him, what had he ever done to deserve a patient like this?

He pulled the stack towards him, thumped Dr. Pam Davies' reports on top,
balanced the whole thing against his chest and staggered off to his room.

~ End ~

By: AINON
mulangst@hotmail.com

LAST NOTES: Thank you for making it right through till the end! I'd
appreciate any comments. Okay, I'll be honest. I'm hungry for any feedback!
Please write and tell me what you thought.

This story was first conceived sometime in the early months of 1998 - yes,
it took almost a whole year to complete. It was supposed to have been posted
at the same time as Ten's "Redrawing The Line" and "Candles of Ice" as part
of a little 'pact' we made about writing post-Colony/EndGame retrovirus
stories. She's obviously a faster and way better writer than I am, and not
only did she make the deadline, she's written many more wonderful stories
since then even as she was helping me with mine :) It is especially thanks
to Ten that this story wasn't relegated to the graveyard of
never-finished-never-to-be-posted stories. And it is thanks to Nikki's
well-versed discussions about the show that I was able to ensure that the
characters remain as true to themselves as possible, as far as fictional
characters go, that is.

I took some liberties in terms of clinical management, and the time taken to
properly diagnose a patient with a terminal illness and to type and identify
a potential donor for transplantation. Otherwise I have tried to remain as
accurate as possible; I hope that such effort hasn't resulted in the story
becoming bogged down by too many details.

December 1998