Title:  all the way home

Author: Vickie Moseley

Spoilers:  Oh yeah.  DeadAlive.  Big ones.

Summary:  Skinner doesn't understand how Scully can be so calm.

Warnings:  this product is completely Doggett Free and thereby 
Mulder Safe

Category:  SkA

Rating:  PG

Disclaimer:  I found these really neat characters in a dumpster 
behind a studio lot.  As soon as I can find a cop in LA, I'm 
going to have the father arrested for negligence.  In the 
meantime, I'm taking care of them.

Archives:  yes, please

Comments to me:  vmoseley@i-made-this.com

I keep working without a net, here, folks, so errors are my own.  
My betas are all busy writing-or they better be <VEG>

  

 

all the way home

By Vickie Moseley

vmoseley@i-made-this.com

 

Bethesda Naval Hospital

ICU, Fox Mulder's room

11:15 pm

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"And that will cure him?" I ask.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

The end

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