By Shoshana
shoshana1013@excite.com
 

DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere
SPOILER WARNING: Through end of Season Six
RATING: PG
CONTENT STATEMENT: MSR
CLASSIFICATION: VRA
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully romance
SUMMARY: Mulder recovers in the hospital.
DISCLAIMER: These characters do not belong to me.
NOTES: Many thanks to my wonderful beta readers, Char and Meggo.
 

Recovery
By Shoshana

~~~~~~~~~~~
August 1999
~~~~~~~~~~~

It was just a routine house-to-house search. In a nice middle class
neighborhood, in the middle of safe, secure suburbia, for God sakes.
We had been cautious, cautious enough, stopping by each residence,
knocking on each door, asking permission to search the premises,
warning homeowners of the armed gunman in their midst.

The last house we came to was unlocked. We had knocked on the door,
waited two long minutes for a response and Mulder had impulsively
turned the doorknob and entered the home, guard down, inured to the
danger after two hours of routine searching.

It was the last house we searched because the bastard who had killed
five of his co-workers earlier that day, blew a hole into Mulder's
right chest. Without a thought, I shot him in the head and he died
instantly. I knew he was dead and even if he hadn't been, my
hippocratic oath would have been sorely compromised. I was
determined to save my partner's life and I was prepared to ignore
whatever agony the perp was in.

I did my best, I staunched the blood flow the best I could,
stripping his clothes off, using his shirt to compress the wound.
The ambulances were there within two minutes. Suburbs always seem to
have enough money for good rescue vehicles. If we had been in a
seedy part of D.C., I don't think Mulder would have made it. Time
had never been so critical. He'd never been shot in the chest before.

The bullet missed his lung by inches. The gunman was an amateur, a
very bad shot. Surgery lasted four hours and Mulder was on the
critical list for the first twenty-four hours. My mother had to drag
me away from his bedside in intensive care and force me to take a
shower in the doctors' locker room. And that was eighteen hours
after the shooting.

Skinner had realized that short of doing the deed himself, he needed
someone to shake some sense into me and get me cleaned up of all the
blood splattered and soaked onto me from the scene. So he called my
Mom, who appraised the situation with cool self-possession. Her
ability to keep her wits about her in stressful situations is a
strength I have often emulated. But all I could see that day was
Mulder's heavily bandaged chest, a multitude of tubes, IV's and other
medical devices attached to his upper body.

I didn't want to leave his side, although he was stable and doctors
were optimistic. I was still worried, I wanted to see more progress
before I even gave a thought to my own needs. I had washed off a
fraction of the blood in the lavatory when I was forced to use the
facilities. I ignored the gruesome appearance of my clothes, my
dishevelled hair and makeup, to sit by Mulder's side.

Mom clucked endearments at me after my shower, mildly annoyed by my
manic devotion. She gently scolded me for ignoring the medical staff
and Skinner, and suggested we go get some food and coffee if I wanted
to continue my vigil all day.

It was already noon, the day after the shooting, and I had slept
fitfully last night, chairside to Mulder. The hospital personnel had
apparently conceded to this, sensing my anguish, yes, but also
intimidated by my steely gaze when they asked if I'd like to take a
break. Mulder wouldn't have left me alone in Intensive Care, and
hell if I was going to do so until he was out of danger.

That night, he was taken off the critical list, and the next day he
was moved to a private room. It was all a blur to me now. My mother
stayed with me a lot, as much as she could endure. Skinner was there
before and after work hours, pleased that Mom Scully was there for
me.

In fact, things were looking pretty good. He was stable, his vital
signs were good, the wound was going to heal well. He just hadn't
woken up yet. It was forty-eight hours after the injury and he still
hadn't opened his eyes. The doctors were confounded by this, but
didn't want to draw any conclusions till another twenty-four hours
had elapsed.

Later that night, when it was relatively quiet and I felt myself
dozing off in my armchair, I heard scratchy, small noises from him,
his throat abused by intubation the last few days. He had been
breathing on his own since earlier that evening, yet continued to
receive oxygen through a nasal cannula to aid his recovery.

I threw off the hospital blanket and rushed to his side, leaning
close beside him.

"Hey, partner. Don't. Don't try to talk. You're still weak, your
throat's sore from all those damn tubes."

I knew I should go get the night nurse, but I wanted to make my own
brief medical evaluation before they started prodding and poking him
again.

He nodded in agreement and reached for my hand, squeezing it firmly,
a pretty good grip for a man who'd just survived such a traumatic
wound.

"The guy's dead, Mulder. I shot him right after you got hurt..."

"Good," he managed to squeak out.

"You're going to be fine. You just didn't wake up quite as soon as
we thought you would."

He smiled at this, trying to think of something witty to say, then
realized that his throat was limiting him to one or two word
responses.

So he just said, "How you?"

"Oh, Mulder... I'm fine. I'm more than fine now that you've woken
up. I have to get the nurse now, I'll be right back, O.K.?"

He nodded again, shifting uncomfortably, suddenly conscious of the
pain in his chest area. He looked over at me, wordlessly asking for
some relief.

"Hey, hold on, I'll get them to give your medication a little
earlier. Just hold on."

I released his hand and sought out the nurse.

It wasn't till much later, in fact, around nine a.m. the next day,
that we discovered that all was not well in Mulderland. He had slept
well, receiving his medication in the wee hours of the morning and
had woken briefly at around six a.m. He still had trouble scratching
out words, exhausted by his injury and the overall stress of being
hospitalized.

When he woke at nine, he seemed much more alert, and though still
raw, his conversational ability had improved immensely. He asked me
how my Mom and the guys were and if Skinner had been by. Then he
asked me something that shook me up, destroyed any hope that this was
going to be an easy convalescence.

"So when do we go over to the Office of Professional Responsibility
for our hearing?"

"Our what?!"

"Aren't we scheduled to report on our findings from Antarctica?"

"What?! What's the last thing you remember doing before you came to
this hospital, Mulder?"

"I don't remember being shot, but I assumed it was true, because you
told me so. I remember being at home, recuperating from our injuries
in Antarctica. Though, it does seem strange now, I'm completely
recovered from the minor frostbite and exposure problems. I've been
wondering about that when I could stay awake for more than five
minutes at a time. And I was waiting till I got my voice back so I
could ask you about it."

I had a sick feeling in my stomach. I knew amnesia was common if
you had a head injury, but it was usually selective amnesia. Not
remembering your accident, not remembering what you had for dinner
the day before, these were more common side effects of a head injury.

But Mulder had a chest injury, one that was healing quite well. I
found it hard to believe that the traumatic shock of the incident had
led to the loss of one year's memories. Was he kidding? Was this
one of his pranks?

"Hey, Scully. Aren't you going to answer me?"

I snapped out of it and looked him directly in the eye. "Mulder,
this better not be one of your well orchestrated jokes. What year do
you think this is?"

He scoffed, "It's 1998, what else would it be?"

My legs crumbled shakily beneath me and I eased myself into the
armchair next to the bed. I held my head in my hands, attempting to
recover some small degree of composure. Mulder was alarmed now,
recognizing my distress.

"Scully..."

I lifted my head, unable to disguise the sheer terror of the moment.
If he had forgotten the last year...

"Scully, tell me. Tell me what year it is. For that matter, tell
me what month it is too! I thought it was late August 1998. What is
it?"

He was losing patience, but I didn't know what to say. I was still
astonished by this turn of events. I rose, shakily, and walked over
to the bed. I took his hand in my own, distractedly stroking my
thumb across his knuckles. His eyes met mine and I could see his
fear, fear that would escalate with my next words.

"It's late August 1999, Mulder. We've been home a year. We've
already been to the OPR. The X-Files were reopened."

"Well, that was good, wasn't it?"

"No, Mulder. They were opened and Agents Spender and Fowley were
assigned to them. The committee didn't believe that we, *you'd*
found an alien ship in Antarctica. They chastised us for the
expenses. They refused our reassignment."

Mulder shook his head, grimacing at the thought of Spender on the X-
Files. "What irony, Scully. You can't remember seeing the
spacecraft. I can't remember what I've been up to for the entire
last year of my life."

"If it's any consolation, we were reassigned to the X-Files in
February," I said softly, smoothing the hair back from his forehead,
leaving my hand at the crown of his head.

He smiled up at me fondly and it occurred to me in a flash what his
most recent memory would be of such intimate behavior. Those few
moments in his hallway, however ephemeral, had occurred over a year
ago. In Mulder's consciousness, they had just happened, a scant few
weeks ago.

"So, you don't leave me, do you Scully?" he asked, a winsome smile
on his face.

"No, I don't, Mulder." I cast my eyes down at the floor,
embarrassed by his undivided attention.

He squeezed my hand softly and said, barely above a whisper, "Is
there anything else I oughta know about last year. Something I might
not want to forget?"

I blushed at this, well aware of the implication, understanding his
need to define our relationship. He didn't want to screw things up;
he needed to know what or who we were to one another for the past
year of our lives.

He had been as tactful as he could, considering the situation. The
way I'd been holding his hand since he'd awakened, the way I'd
stroked his hair away from his brow, I was obviously still devoted to
him as a friend and a partner. He had every reason to be confused;
for all he knew, we could be lovers by now.

"You taught me how to play baseball," I said, simply stating the
truth.

"Did I hit a home run?" he asked, mirth in his eyes.

"Not yet, Mulder. Not even close."

He gave me a pleasantly amused pout and gazed up at me affectionately.

I was probably beet red by this time, overwhelmed by emotions I'd
expertly repressed all year. Lovingly, I moved my hand to the nape of
his neck, caressing the fine hairs there lightly.

"That's good, Scully. Actually really good. I'd like to remember
when that happens, don't ya think?"

Staring directly into his now watery hazel eyes, I whispered, "Yeah,
I'd like to remember when that happens too, Mulder. Real well..."
 

Recovery II
By Shoshana

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Early September 1999
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

February, February. I'm reading through all my journal entries for
last February with lightning speed, trying to figure out why the hell
Scully stomped out of here in an indignant rage half an hour ago.
We'd been going over the El Rico incident, trying to jog my lost
memories, informing me about events I've lived through but can't seem
to remember since the shooting.

All I did was wonder aloud where Diana had gone off to after the
massacre. I know Scully's always been wary of her, maybe even
jealous of her. But haven't the last two weeks enlightened her, made
it clear in no uncertain terms who I'm most interested in?

Since I got back from my little hospital stay, we've been
inseparable. Sure, she's slept in my bed. But only because I've
insisted on sleeping on the couch, injury or no. I like falling
asleep to the television glow and I wanted to be on *my* couch, a
place so familiar to me, a place I've slept for years. When you lose
a year of memories, you grasp at anything that will restore you,
anchor you to your past.

The fine physicians never discovered a direct cause of my amnesia.
They suspect that my head wound last year (which I *can* remember,
all too well) may have done more damage than originally thought. And
something was triggered by my recent trauma, being shot in the chest
by a gun-wielding madman.

This lame theory was not given much credence by my ever skeptical
partner. She was leaning toward hysterical amnesia, a diagnosis
which I overtly resented. Delirium of any kind was not something I
wanted to be closely associated with, having been confined to a
psychiatric institution in Illinois all too recently.

My partner. My Scully. I knew it was too good to be true. I knew
that there would be something to threaten this miraculous change in
our relationship. Something good had happened this summer, something
that had brought us closer, made us happier with one another. Just
wish I could remember it.
 
I suspect that it all started in April, with that baseball lesson
she's described in detail several times. She's been trying to share
her memories with me, trying to stimulate my mind. Actually it's not
only my psyche getting stimulation these days, as she shares a bit
more of herself than I've been accustomed to.

Not much more, not any more than two teenagers would venture on the
living room couch. But it's revolutionary for us, so novel I have to
remind myself I'm not dreaming, that this is my long-time partner in
my arms every night. Whether it's because of the shooting or because
we've become closer the last few months, I'm not complaining.

I remember wanting her so badly in that hallway, desperate to hold
on to her forever. And after the bee stung her and I brought her
back from Antarctica last August, we didn't discuss the near kiss. I
was waiting for her to make the first move, and clearly she never
would have from what I can gather now.

From my conversations with Scully and the journal entries I've made
it through so far, we were both going to deny that moment ever
occurred for the sake of our partnership. The indignity of having
the X-Files ripped out from under us, the embarrassment of scut work
like background checks and fertilizer investigations must have
suppressed my libido in a big way.

Most likely, and from what I read between my own lines, I lost my
nerve, waiting for her to give me some sign, show me how she felt. I
wasn't willing to take the risk and lose her forever, not after she
chose to stay with me, X-Files or not. She remained my partner, my
best friend all last year. And I'm so very grateful for that. But
something must have happened last February that shook her up, made
her extraordinarily sensitive to the mere mention of Diana's name.

This afternoon, we sat on the couch, holding hands, juggling the
materials from the El Rico file with our free ones. We've been very
demonstrative, affectionate since I got home, but I think we've
realized how difficult the last few weeks have been for the two of
us, both physically and mentally.

Whatever pain I've experienced the last few weeks, she's shared, to
my great dismay. She's a willing participant in my full recovery,
emotionally invested in me like never before. It's bewildering, I
don't know if I can fully accept that she loves me now, that it's
taken a full year (which I *cannot* remember!) for her to become
comfortable in that role. Or at least she was. Until I mentioned
Diana.

On her way out the door this afternoon she spat out, "Ask Frohike
about it! He knows what I'm talking about!"

The fact that she'd neither talked to me about it or wanted to at
that temper-filled moment didn't escape me. I was so shocked at her
anger that I could do no more than sit passively, watching her storm
out the door. I sat in stony silence for several minutes, furious
that I was being made the bad guy here. Jesus, Scully. Been shot
lately? Whoops, I guess she was in January... Better keep that
observation to myself.

So I called Frohike and he told me to look in my journal. He's one
of the few people who know I keep an electronic journal. I've
allowed the guys to safekeep a copy; no one else has read it. They
wouldn't dare. I needed, I wanted, some permanent record of my work,
away from the Bureau's prying eyes.

That it turned into a personal record of my unrequited love for
Scully was an accident. I'd write about the routine course of our
lives first, carefully documenting any interesting discoveries, any
relevant information that I'd failed to note elsewhere. But then, as
if driven by some irresistible force, I'd always end each entry with
several paragraphs about Scully, about how much she meant to me, how
much I cherished her in my life.

I'd been re-reading all the entries from late August 1998 on. I'd
only made it to November, since I had to do it on the sly, when
Scully went to the grocery store or took a long hot bath. It's
amazing to read words you know you've written, whole paragraphs that
could only have been written by you and not remember any of the
incidents described therein.

I couldn't remember the hard facts, the details of our cases, but I
had no problem empathizing with the man who wrote of his love for the
most beautiful woman he couldn't have. I would note what she wore
that day, what she ate for lunch, what she smelled like when I dared
to get too close to her. Clearly, I was caught in a form of madness,
a mania for Scully. And I had to keep my cool around her, never let
her know otherwise.

Once in a while, I'd record something outrageous I'd said to her.
Something that was clearly a joke, meant to annoy more than
titillate. But I'm sure I meant it when I told her I loved her after
she fished me out of the Sargasso sea. And even now, knowing how she
might have felt about me at the time, I understand why she said 'Oh,
brother.' That was Scully, deflecting the truth, blaming it on the
numerous drugs pumping through my water-logged system.

That's how far I'd gone in the journal, up to that little incident
in the Bermuda Triangle. I still wondered about the story I'd
recorded, the one about being on board the Queen Anne in 1939, seeing
Nazis, seeing Scully's doppelganger, kissing her... No wonder she
thought I was delirious. I'd just cooked up an unbelievable yarn
like that one, and then I tell her I'm in love with her. Great job,
Mulder.

Well, back to the journal, specifically the February entries. I've
finally gotten to the ones written immediately after the massacre.
With great trepidation, I read through them carefully, searching for
clues to my Scully's moral outrage. Oh, damn. Goddamn. Here's what
I said. What she said. Transcribed from that all too clear memory
of mine.

I really deserve to be horsewhipped for saying this stuff to Scully.
In light of Diana's all but complete disappearance from the Bureau.
In light of her suspected complicity with C.G.B. Spender. In light
of her betrayal of my trust. No wonder Scully left in such a huff.
I was such an asshole. It's all here in black and white. 'I know
her, Scully. You don't,' I'd said. 'I hope you've got something more
than that to indict her with,' I'd said.

And the worst thing I could ever imagine from Scully's rose red
lips, 'Well, then I can't help you anymore.' My heart sinks like a
stone. How could I have pushed her so far? What kind of man am I,
that I would let my best friend, my most treasured love, walk away
from me like that? So I could defend my ex-wife, someone I can't
trust now, someone I should never have trusted, someone I should
never have gotten involved with, ever...

Jesus, I wonder if there are any other affronts to Scully's
integrity, her honest, loving trust in me? If I felt better, I'd run
right after her. I'd drive across town, I'd knock on her door, I'd
let myself in. I'd force her to listen to me, I'd tell her how much
I loved her last February, how much I love her still. I was just
stubborn, too stubborn to see beyond my own misguided faith in old
friends, old lovers.

But here I sit, still out of it on pain killers, forbidden to drive,
dependent on others for food, medication, XXX videos... Sadly, I'll
be watching a lot more of those in the future if I can't convince
Scully how truly sorry I am. She might never come back, never bother
with my worthless, obstinate hide again.

On the other hand... she has to come back. She can't leave me high
and dry like this. She's been taking care of me for almost two
weeks, cooking, cleaning for us. It's been a little dose of domestic
heaven and I've loved every minute of it. Every night, we've
snuggled on the couch, watching tv, watching videos, catching up on
all that I've forgotten.

A romantic relationship is difficult enough, much less when one
participant feels so adrift, so detached from their life. However,
we've managed to savor every touch, every kiss between us, taking our
courtship slow, making up for lost time. Time that is literally
missing, erased, most likely suppressed from my mind.

I have to absorb a whole year's personal and professional events,
without ever really experiencing them. It's not fair to either of us
to move too quickly, to force the moment. And I know we love one
another. I know she'll be back. I just wish it were right now.
Because it's getting so damn lonely in this apartment and only she
can cure this attack of the blues...

What's that? A knock at the door? A turning key? Scully... I knew
you'd come back to me...

fin

Please send feedback to: shoshana1013@excite.com