Ignorance is Hell - Chapter 05

by Mik

I drive by the apartment on Hegel Place. Of course he's not home. I think about breaking in again, but decide against it. Knowing Mulder, he's probably already packed and headed out. Damn him. He sucker punched me with all that talk about long-term relationships and swearing our feelings for each other. He was going to go, to not look...Just what I did to him in Charleston. Mulder is the grand master of getting his own back. I am in awe. I'm hurt but the pain is dulled somewhat by such unexpected depths of vengeance. Okay, Mulder, you win.

Reluctantly I return to Agent Scully's apartment in Annapolis. I left my coat there. I knock. She comes to the door in Academy sweats that on any other occasion I'd find distracting and adorable. She looks up at me, surprised and hopeful. "Well?"

I sigh. Heavily. "He's going to go."

She backs up, lets me cross the threshold, a very gracious gesture, considering how I failed her, failed us. "What reason did he give?" she asks in a very firm voice, a voice that says 'I will not cry'.

"Does he really need a reason, Agent Scully?" I ask wearily. I'm giving myself the same command. "He's been abused physically, emotionally and professionally for the past fifteen years. What reason could he produce that would be more convincing than that? He hates working without you, he hates Fraud, he hates being under Kersh's thumb. In short, he hates. He's looking for a fresh start, fresh faces, a fresh challenge. There was nothing I could offer, in the wake of all that, that could convince him he wanted to stay." I run a hand under my glasses. "I can't give him back all his work. I can't give him back his reputation." I straighten my glasses and look at her. "I can't even give him back you."

She absorbs this, accepts it, albeit sorrowfully. "Would you...would you like some coffee, Sir?" she offers.

"Yes, Agent Scully. I would like that very much."

"Dana," she says turning away from me. "Please call me Dana."

I arch a brow in her direction. "But you get to call me Sir?"

"I'll try to remember...Walter." Shy smile. She turns back, puts one of those ladylike little hands on my arm. "Thank you for trying, anyway. I know you gave it your all."

I nod, wondering if even after my shower, she could smell Mulder on me, and know just how much I gave him. I am disgusted at the way my cock twitches remembering it. "We tried, Dana," I say softly, considering her coppery hair. Damn it, I want to be attracted to her, to shift my affections from one of them to the other, but in this, they are not interchangeable.

She hands me a cup, a dark blue one, similar to the one that sits so often on the corner of his desk - used to sit there. "Thanks."

We sit at her dining room table, a big sturdy oak piece, and I wonder how she ever got it through her front door. She is staring into her coffee, and I am staring at the top of her head. Why didn't he ever take her in his arms, kiss her with all the passion I know he has? Did he really think he wasn't worthy of her? Does he think he's worthy of me? That's not really the question, I decide, as I watch her sigh deeply. Am I worthy of him?

She lifts her head. "Pardon?"

I frown at her.

"Sir, you said..." She frowns and shakes her head.

"I wasn't a very good A.D. for him, for either of you," I say, deflecting the question. "I let you both down too often. Sometimes playing by the rules wrecks the game."

"Ah." Now she thinks she understands. "You wouldn't be you, if you didn't try to follow the rules."

"I don't think that's a compliment," I observe.

"Oh, no, Sir - Walter. It is." She speaks with such fervency that I believe her. "You know, maybe it's just as well." She looks into her coffee cup, as if divining the future in the whirls of cream. "An experience as intense as the X-Files couldn't last. I would have burned out sooner or later, and so would he. Probably sooner than later."

"Oh, he's resilient," I say, against my better judgement. I feel her look up at me. I am looking at her computer desk. Scotch taped to a corner of the screen is a yellowed newspaper clipping with a photograph. It's Mulder. I remember the case, three years ago. Scully was in a coma when he solved it. He made the national papers. He hated the notoriety, was grateful when it died down, and he could focus on Scully again. He loves her so much. Why can't he love me even half that much?

She looks up, follows my gaze, and blushes slightly. "He doesn't like having his picture taken," she says. "It's the only one I have."

"He has one of you, you know," I tell her, knowing I'm breaking a confidence, but too mad, too hurt, to care.

Her brow arches. No one does that like Scully. "He does?"

"It was one of those candid shots taken at the Christmas party two years ago. You were wearing...ah..." I close my eyes, pretending to try and remember, even though I saw the photo last night in his wallet. "...green, I think." I shrug appreciatively. "Don't be embarrassed. It was a very flattering photo."

"How did he get it?" she demands, but I can tell she is pleased.

"Judging from the pinpricks in it, I suspect he just took it from the bulletin board in the Employee Lounge." I pause thoughtfully. I could almost see him doing that, furtively of course, so that no one would ever be able to say that he was the one to take it, even though everyone would know. "I never took Mulder to be sentimental about things, but I suppose, in an odd way, he's very sentimental, isn't he?"

She nods. "Very."

I look at her. She speaks as if she has some guilty knowledge, some deeply treasured memory that I'll never pry out of her. "Yes, well." I put my cup down, half empty. "I'd better get going. I just came by to tell you he's made up his mind, and to retrieve my coat."

"Oh, yes." She's jerked awake from a pleasant little daydream, and I am envious of it, whatever it is. She rises, goes to a closet, pulls my coat from a hanger, and holds it out to me. Over her head, I see a denim jacket. It reminds me of one I hung up in a hotel room last night. I nearly gasp. She turns, sees it, and touches the sleeve ruefully. "This is brand new," she says. "His mother sent it to him for Christmas last year. As far as I know, he wore it the one time, New Year's Eve, and left it here. He's still wearing that ancient one he's had as long as I've known him." She sighs. "I suppose I should bring it back to him, if he's determined to move away."

"If he wanted it, Dana, he'd come for it," I tell her, tacitly giving her permission to cling to her memories. At least she has something tangible to hold.

She smiles at me gratefully. "Well, thank you for coming by...Walter. I'll...I'll see you around, I suppose."

"Stop by anytime," I tell her. "It's always a pleasure to see you. And Kim likes you too."

"Oh, how nice." She smiles the appropriate smile. "She's a wonderful assistant."

"She is." We are walking toward her door, making small talk, knowing that it will be a very long time before we talk again. As she opens the door, I take her hand, it is so tiny in mine, and I give it a little squeeze. "Goodbye, Dana." I walk away, hearing her close the door. I feel like a chapter of my life has officially closed.

*******************************************

I'm in the Ops Room, watching the live feed from the warehouse. I have my arms folded over my chest, trying to keep my heart from pumping out. It was my turn to stay here and run Command, but like any Director who ever came up from the field, I want to be out there. My men - and women - are putting their lives on the line, because a madman is threatening to blow up a building with five hostages, little kids swiped from a field trip. Thanks to CNN, this is not only high priority, it's high profile, and we've got every available agent up and down the Eastern Seaboard working on this. It took us almost thirty six hours just to figure out which warehouse he was holding them in, and now our deadline is coming up, and those little kids and their families and the whole world are expecting us to find a way to get them out of there in five whole pieces.

We've sent in bomb squads, dogs, snipers and negotiators and no one has done anything more than confirm that he's got enough C-Four to at least take out all the windows for a couple of blocks. And he's sitting with five kids around him - shield by kindergarten.

Another last ditch negotiating team went in about fifteen minutes ago. We don't know what he wants. We just know he's going to blow the place to hell in another four hours.

 I'm sweating. I want to be down there. I don't know what more I can do standing behind the K-rail, in a bulletproof vest, with a pair of binos in my hand, but I'd feel better about it. I pace. As I turn away from the television screen, toward the door, there is a sudden bang, so loud it feels as if a gun went off in this very room. I whirl around. The camera is moving jerkily, toward the front of the warehouse, as a metal door bangs open and five men in black Kevlar come barreling out, each holding a child in one hand and a gun in the other; they're shouting, the children are screaming.

Inside Command, we're all cheering and yelling, until we realize that our commandos are yelling that there are still friendlies inside. Suddenly, there is a deafening roar, and orange-red heat flowers out of windows, doors, taking down one wall. We practically feel it there in the Ops Room, five miles away. From the television, there can be heard screaming and yelling and the thunder of the explosion and fire. Inside Command, it is silent. There's no question that we just lost agents.

"Damn it," Abernathy hisses.

Norton bangs his fist on the table.

I reach for my jacket. "I'm going down there." I yank the door open, and step out into the hall. Word has already spread. People in the hall look to me for confirmation. 'Is it true? Did someone I know die today?' they ask. I don't have an answer yet, but I will.

I am, by nature, a careful, considerate driver, but I'm sure I left a wake of elderly women on walking frames, mothers with infants in strollers, boys on skateboards, all flying into the air. All I can think about as I create my own lanes in stalled traffic, fight my way to the warehouse district, is that maybe, if I'm there, something will change.

By the time I reach the scene, the warehouse is nothing but a charred skeleton, keeling to one side, blackened, smoking, destroyed. The fire is pretty well under control, but not completely knocked down. People are milling about looking dazed and anxious which is an odd and disconcerting combination. The children have been rushed to the hospital. Television reporters are standing in front of camera crews, positioned to talk with the crumbling ruins as a backdrop.

A car pulls up as I try to get some miniscule detail from an eyewitness that will tell me something I don't already know. I turn, surprised when I recognize the redhead climbing out of the car. She runs to me, and her face is absolutely white. "Then it's true," she breathes.

I look at her. And I feel cold. Something that had never occurred to me has just been confirmed, and I didn't even know to ask. "What are you talking about, Agent Scully?"

"He was in there, wasn't he?"

I want to pretend I don't know who she's talking about. It's been six weeks. He's up in Boston. He's safe. He's good at negotiation. He knows how to profile someone and get inside his head. He would be the only one who could make that man let those children go in time. I swallow, hard. "I have no confirmation of that, Scully."

She looks at me, infuriated. "Of course he is. He came down this morning. He was part of the negotiating team. He's identified the bomber. His profile was on the wire last night."

I read that profile. I didn't even know it was his. I should have. I look down at her. "That doesn't mean that he was in the building when it exploded," I say, because I want to believe it. I want to believe.

She shook her head. "The last negotiating team didn't make it out." Her eyes are filled with feeling, but she's not crying. She's daring me to prove her wrong.

"Some of them may have. Witnesses say there were two men on the fire escape when the blast took place." But their bodies will probably be found under the rubble of the blown out wall. "Agent Scully, go on back to Quantico," I tell her. She doesn't need to be here, if she's right, if it's true.

"Fuck that," she snaps. "Sir."

I won't reprimand her. I know that J. Edgar Hoover himself could rise from the grave and order me back to my office right now, and I wouldn't budge. Not until I see his body. Not until I know.

But it's more than three hours before the fire is down and the building deemed safe to enter, to search for bodies. They find them, sprawled together near a door on the second floor, as if they had all been scrambling to escape before the blast. They're too damaged to be identified at the scene. Scully surveys them, one by one, with a clinical eye, as they are brought out, in their black, rubber bags. She turns to me, as if assuming that I'm in charge. "I'll do the autopsies," she announces, taking charge herself.

"Agent Scully," I begin.

"I will." She walks away. I am relieved. If one of those mangled, charred figures is Mulder, I want her to be the one to tell me.

*******************************************

It has been forty-eight hours of hell. They're still mopping up at the scene, but those of us who have been on the case since the beginning have been ordered to stand down. I want to go to a bar and get very, very drunk, but I'm dirty and sweaty. I've worn the same clothes for three days, I'm covered in sweat and soot and someone's blood. And Mulder's probably dead. Instead, I promise myself a long hot shower and a bottle of Jack Daniels. And then I will think of him. I will have my own quiet memorial; let a kaleidoscope of his expressions play across my battered brain. I will honor him the only way I can. I will weep.

I let myself in, taking my shoes off at the door to keep the soot from the carpet. I check my mail and messages, find nothing that will hold my interest long enough to keep me standing in the hall. What could possibly matter more than the fact that Mulder is probably lying, en brochette, on a metal table?

I climb the stairs slowly, tugging at my tie with my free hand. I go through my darkened bedroom, to the bath, and start to strip. It isn't until I'm naked that it occurs to me that my bathroom is awfully humid considering I haven't been home to bathe in three days. Then I notice a drop or two of blood on the floor just outside my shower stall. I scramble for my gun, and heedless of my dishabille (what kind of word is that?) I step out into my bedroom, and nearly trip on something left on my floor. I bend, collect. It's a pair of pants. Size thirty-four long. Armani.

I swallow again. Someone's idea of a cruel joke? My eyes, now accustomed to the dark, sweep my room. There's a lump in my bed. No joke. A blessing. I creep to the bed, pants in one hand, gun in the other. He's asleep, on my side of the bed. He's curled up, on his side, almost fetal, one hand tucked under his cheek like a child. He looks almost luminescent in the pale light coming through the window. His lashes, too long and thick for a man, are very dark against his skin.

My heart is pounding. Someone opened the gates of Hell and released me. I am soaring Heavenward. Not only is he not laying on a slab, charred to dust, he came to me. He is alive, and in my bed. I smile, tiptoe into the bathroom, take a very quick shower and return to the bed, sans gun. When I lift the bedclothes to slip in beside him, something makes me stop, makes me swear. "Shit, fuck, damn!" There's a pool of blood, a very large pool of blood. I reach out and tentatively touch his throat. Thank God. His skin is cool, but there is a pulse - a very faint pulse.

He moves beneath my fingers. The eyelashes flutter slightly. He opens his eyes and turns to me, wincing. "Walter," he croaks.

"You're hurt," I say stupidly. I'm certain that he is aware of that. I want to pull him against me. He came to me when he was hurt. He still needs me. "What the hell happened?"

"Fell," he mumbles thickly, trying to turn flat. He touches the blood that he is laying in. "Shit. Sorry."

"Never mind." I reach for the telephone. "We've got to get you to a hospital -"

His fingers come around mine, surprisingly strong. "No hospital."

"Mulder, you're trying to bleed to death."

"No hospital." His voice is as dry and thin as paper.

"Tell me why?" I command.

His eyes slip shut, and for just a moment I panic. They open, and they're far too bright. "He got away."

"Who?"

"Malcomb. The bastard managed to get out before the explosion. I followed him." He's speaking with effort. "He sh-shot at me. I don't want him to know he didn't kill me."

"Why not?"

"Because he's going to do it again."

My mental reflexes are still slow. I say the only thing that comes to my mind. "What? Shoot you?"

"Blow something - someone up," he answers, with effort. "I w -want to c-catch him before he does." His teeth are starting to chatter. He's cold. Blood loss. Shock. Death.

I twist free of his fingers. "Mulder. You won't catch him if you bleed to death first. Let me call 911."

He gives his head one small, but pathetically insistent shake. "No. Walter. The next time it won't be five little kids. It will be a hundred, a thousand people. He was just trying it out this time. It was just a t-test."

"I'll call Scully," I offer.

He nods. He closes his eyes.

I grab the phone, dial her cell. It takes her a long time to answer. She sounds frayed, impatient. "Scully."

"Scully," I say. "Do you know where I live?"

A loud, exasperated sigh. "Sir, I've got -"

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Get over here. Bring your bag."

"With all due respect, Sir -"

"Get over here, with your bag. Don't tell anyone."

She's quiet for a very short moment. "Very well." She disconnects without further discussion. I've always admired her ability to assess a situation and act accordingly.

I hang up and look down at him. "She's on her way."

"G-good."

"Mulder, let me see." I reach for him. He doesn't resist but he doesn't move toward me. "She'll be forty minutes at least. I've got to do something in the meantime." I throw the bedclothes back, and flip on the light, making us both wince. "Good God."

The bullet hole I expected isn't there. Instead, there is a narrow piece of bloodied, jagged bone, probably a rib, torn through his side. Blood has caked around it, and down his hip, but still oozes every time he moves. I jump up, go to the bathroom, and collect towels. Then I go to the den and get a roll of duct tape. I fold the towels until they're several inches thick and I put one against the wound, and move his hand to hold it in place, and place another around the bone to keep it from being jarred. Then I begin tearing strips of tape to keep it there. In a moment I've got him duct taped, and secured. He's watching me with a pained expression and bemused frown. "Tool time surgery, Sir?" he asks weakly.

"How did you get here, Mulder?" I ask, rummaging through my dresser for sweats and socks to get him warm.

His eyes tracking me, he makes a face. I'm not sure if it's pain or concentration. "Well, Sir, as near as I can figure it, my parents met about forty years ago at a party in Rhode Island -"

"Here, Mulder," I rasp, coming back to the bed. "Damn it, how did you get here, to my place?"

"Drove," he answers, laying back, letting me dress him.

"You drove?" I nearly drop him even as I lift his hips gingerly, to slide the sweat pants up. "Mulder, I should have left you in that institution," I declare roughly.

"You could have added five kids and seven S.W.A.T.s to the death toll today, too," he tells me in a maddeningly conversational tone. How can he lay there, making jokes and calm observations? Every moment must be excruciating for him. I would shake him, but it could kill him.

"Mulder, I don't doubt for a minute that you saved lives today, but would that matter one bit, if you lost consciousness behind the wheel and killed someone on the way here? Or, if you killed yourself," I add in a whisper.

"I didn't," he insists quietly. His eyes are closed. His teeth are chattering. "C-Cold," he says plaintively.

"I know, baby." I pull the socks on, draw the bedclothes up over him. "I'll be right back." I know it goes against every medical indication, and I know Scully will kill me when she gets here, but I can only think of one thing that will warm him up from the inside. I go downstairs to the bar, splash a little whisky in a glass, and then splash a lot of whisky in another glass. I carry them both upstairs. "Mulder?"

He opens his eyes, sees what I have in my hand, and smiles crookedly. "Going to sterilize the wound from the inside out?"

"Here." I put the glasses down on the bedside, and kneel beside the bed, sliding an arm under his neck, and raise him just enough to let him sip some of the warming liquid without spilling. I rest my cheek against his clammy brow, wanting to hold him forever.

His breath hitches a little as he is eased down again. Then he opens his eyes and tries once again to smile at me. "As fetching as you are, Walter," he croaks, "don't you think you ought to at least put on a tie or something before Scully gets here?"

I look down, surprised to see that I'm still naked. I get up and rummage around, find jeans, another sweatshirt, and collect his abandoned clothes, the once white shirt is a gory mess. That's one for the trash. I'm just pulling socks on when I hear the doorbell. I send a glance toward Mulder. He's very still and pale on the bed. I hurry downstairs.

She looks furious. She looks ready to ream me out. "Where is he?" she demands.

I stare, dumbfounded. "How did you know?"

She's pushing past me. "There is a car out front, the seats are soaked in blood. Why the hell isn't he in a hospital?"

"He won't go," I explain, actually trotting a little to keep up with her determined stride. "He's upstairs." Now, with the lights on, I can see where he bled a little on the landing. "In here." I push my door open.

She stalls, takes in the bedroom in one sweep, and goes to the bedside. "Mulder?" she asks, oh, so tenderly.

He opens his eyes, smiles at her. "Scully."

"You're not a Fox, you know," she says, gently teasing as she eases the bedclothes back, pushing the sweatshirt out of the way, taking in my handiwork with a grimace. "You're a Phoenix, and you've risen from the ashes once again." She starts to work the tape away, but even as she does so, she's frowning at all the blood on the sheets. "You need to be in a hospital, Mulder. You've lost a lot of blood. You need transfusions." Then she pushes the towels aside and Dr. Scully, the Queen of Autopsy Bay Eighteen, blanches at the sight of the wound. "Oh, my God, Mulder."

"Just … just a flesh wound," he says, sounding winded.

She peers at it, opens her bag, slides a glove on and begins to poke around. "Well, it looks like you broke the sixth rib. The gash is about two centimeters. I can feel the broken piece. It can be reset but it's going to hurt." She doesn't look at Mulder. She won't embarrass him by seeing the tears that spring to his eyes, the way he bites down on his lower lip. "I can reset this and close it up, but you need blood, Mulder. There's nothing I can do about that."

"But I can," I say suddenly, going to the phone. "Mulder, what's your blood type?"

"B positive, of course," he says, trying to sound lighthearted instead of lightheaded.

"What are you doing, Sir?" Scully asks, looking up from her bag, as she collects the necessary accouterment to close the wound.

"Ordering an IV stand, transfusion drip and some blood," I tell her as I listen to the phone ring.

"Those aren't usually available at the local Wal-Mart," Scully points out, with a little frown of concentration furrowing up her brow.

"I know. I have some connections too, Agent Scully," I say. "My ex brother-in-law is an Internist at Baltimore Gen. He can have what we need here within the hour." I look up at Mulder. He's gone, passed out, but he's still breathing. "Will he last that long?"

She lets her eyes come to mine briefly, saying much. "I don't know," she says carefully. "You'll have to help me hold him down. He'll jump when I try to reset this. Ordinarily, we would make an incision here, equal to the break, and slide the rib back into place and pin it. We don't have that option here. We'll have to reset it as if it was a broken leg or arm." She stands and shrugs out of her jacket.

I abandon the phone for the moment. "What can I do?"

"Get your arms around his shoulders." She climbs up over the bedclothes, and straddles his legs. Not looking up, she demands, "Are you ready? He's going to jump."

I have to look away. I know it's going to hurt him. I look at his face, so pale, so pained. I wish it was me.

I don't see what she does, but I feel it. He bucks sharply in my hands and his eyes fly open with a cry.

"Hold him!" Scully snaps.

My arms tighten around him, and he stiffens and then falls limp. I hear Scully sigh. "There," she murmurs, sitting back. She scrambles for her bag. "That should hold it. I can sew him up now."

I climb off the bed, shaken, and reach for the phone, needing to do something else so that I won't concentrate on what I just saw, felt. From the corner of my eye, I see Scully settle at the side of the bed. She begins working her stitchery with all the care of a grandmother embroidering for her granddaughter. "Why won't he go to a hospital? How the hell did he get out of that inferno? What is he doing here?"

I don't answer. I'm making my plea to Sharon's brother. Stephan doesn't ask questions. He's always lived for a chance to be a hero, and I've promised him this is his chance, but he can't tell anyone about it for a while. When I hang up, Scully's snipping the suture off. "He says the perp, Jason Malcomb got away somehow. Mulder chased him out of the building prior to the explosion and was shot in pursuit - at least Malcomb thinks he was. I think what happened was Malcomb fired a shot right around the time the building exploded and Mulder fell from the fire escape."

Scully looks down at her bloodied hands. "I almost wish he had been shot."

I nod. Mulder's survived gunshots before. "He's convinced that this was just a test for Malcomb, and that he's going to do something bigger, better. He wants Malcomb to think he's dead, so that he can catch him in the act."

"And you believe that, Sir?"

I shrug. "What do you think, Scully?"

She sighs, tugging the gloves off. "I think he's right about Malcomb, but I also think he's going to be in no condition to stop him." She reaches for one of the glasses, sniffs and then sips. She shudders as it goes down. "Why did he come here?"

"That I can't tell you, Agent Scully." And that's the absolute truth. I come to that side of the bed, and reach for the other glass of whisky. "What do you think? If we can get him a blood transfusion, can we keep him here?"

She doesn't like the idea. In fact, she hates it. "We'll see." She takes another sip, looking at our patient. "Maybe, if we can keep him still enough, while the bone begins to knit. We'll need to watch out for infection, of course, and I wish I could monitor his blood pressure and get a chest X-ray."

"Stephan's bringing a BP cuff," I promise, taking a drink myself.

"And is he going to bring a defibrillator if Mulder decides to crash on us?" she challenges.

I put a hand on her shoulder, let my fingers tighten slightly. "You'll keep him alive, Scully. He trusts you."

"I can't believe he's here," she murmurs.

"You think I expected this?" I ask.

She leans down to brush his hair from his forehead. "No, there's nothing predictable about Mulder." She sighs and puts the glass down on the bedside table, empty. "I suppose that's part of his charm?"

Mulder's eyes flicker open. "Are you two through discussing me as if I was the Blue Plate Special?" he asks in a whisper. "I came here because I knew this was the last place anyone would look for me."

"Who would be looking for you, Mulder?" Scully chides.

"Oh, I don't know …" He shifts restlessly. "Whoever taught Malcomb how to mount C-Four with double mercury rocker-bars."

I freeze. That's a signature. I know it. I scowl. "You saw it?"

Scully's looking at me, bewildered.

Mulder nods, with effort. "Four of them. Red-wire, black-wire. Trademark."

"You know someone who sets them like that, don't you?" I go to my window and look down. I have to move Mulder's car.

"What's going on?" Scully demanded.

"Do you remember a train car that blew up, with Mulder locked in a sterile compartment?" I ask, still considering the rental Ford. I imagine that even from here I can see bright red on the upholstery.

"Yes." Scully turns to look at Mulder. "Your so-called Mr. X got you out."

He nods. "C-Four, double mercury rocker bars, no primer cord," he whispers. "Just like this."

"Then there was a car that blew up, and nearly took Alex Krycek with it," I continue thoughtfully.

"And a warehouse in upstate New York, filled with clone embryos," Mulder adds.

The car seems to be a neon light saying 'Mulder is here!' "You should be in a safe house," I decide, starting to go to the phone.

Scully puts up a hand. "He can't be moved, unless it's by ambulance, and that will tip someone off. We'll just have to make this as safe as we can."

"I'll go move his car," I say, and reach for my gun on the bedside table. "Scully, do you have your gun?" She nods. "I'll identify myself when I come back upstairs. If anyone tries to come through that door without identifying themselves, shoot first." I tuck the gun at the back of my waistband and go downstairs.

*******************************************

It's dark. My bedroom has been turned into General Hospital. Stephan is sitting at the bedside, examining the drip pump, watching the portable EKG monitor. Mulder's been out for hours. Scully's asleep in a chair downstairs, having spent an hour on her cell phone trying to get updates on the autopsies she abandoned. I'm leaning in my doorway, looking downstairs. Mulder's hold on life seems to have been tenuous all afternoon, and toward evening, Scully almost threatened to pull a gun on me to get him into a hospital. Stephan calmed her and soothed her and argued her into submission. Stephan's got a great bedside manner. Too good, now that I think about it. Stephan's gay.

As if he knows I'm thinking about him, Stephan gets up from the bed and comes to stand beside me. "He'll pull through, Walt," he promises, in an almost cheery voice. "She's got him too scared to die. Hell, I'd be scared to die if she told me I'd better stay alive." He chuckles. "What a fireball. So, how long have you two been together?"

I jerk around guiltily. "What are you talking about?"

He grins at me. "Relax, ex. Your dirty little secret's safe with me."

I scowl down at him, trying to intimidate him into thinking he's wrong. "Steve -"

"Look, I know you're not supposed to boink your subordinates, but -"

"In the first place, Steve, I don't boink anyone. And in the second place …" I pause because Mulder has begun to moan softly behind me. We both return to the bed.

Stephan checks tubes and bandages. "Too bad about this one," he sighs, straightening.

"Why?" I demand. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. He's a babe." Stephan laughs at me. "I know, you probably don't want to see it, but trust me, your little redhead and I both know a babe when we see one."

Oh, he thought I was 'boinking' Scully. "Steve, you're drooling," I say, sneering.

"You know, Walt, this is really rich." Stephan eases the bedclothes up around Mulder's chin, and brushes a wisp of hair away from his brow. I want to slap his hands. I don't want him touching Mulder. "You've this incredible hunk of handsome in your bed, and all you're worried about is if the guy's going to live long enough to shoot some psychopath." He sighs again and backs away from the bed. "He's probably straight, huh?" His eyes dart toward the door. "Is he boinking the fireball?"

"Steve, show a little respect. Dr. Scully and Agent Mulder have been partners for several years."

"Oh, so he's straight, and she's getting it." Stephan looks back to the bed mournfully. "Too bad."

"Steve, it makes me very uncomfortable to hear you talk about my agents like this," I tell him. "Especially my male agents."

Stephan considers me gravely for a moment, as if ashamed of his thoughts, and suddenly grins at me. "Lighten up, Walt. I'm just yanking your chain." He rubs his hands together gleefully. "But when he wakes up, I want to play doctor with him."

I cuff the back of his head. "Knock it off, asshole. As I recall, you've got someone else to play doctor with. He wouldn't like hearing you talk that way about another man."

"Okay, okay. Keep an eye on him, will you?"

I think of Scully downstairs. She was ready to kill him earlier. "Where are you going?"

"To defrost some more blood." He jerks a thumb toward the bed. "Vlad over there has already gone through six units." The merest hint of a frown flits across his face. "I'll be back in a minute."

I wait until I hear him on the landing, and I return to the bed. Stephan's right. He is a babe. My babe. I touch his hand, and his fingers twitch. He opens his eyes. "Is he gone?" he mutters.

I nod.

A frown puckers his brow. "Friend of yours?"

Jealousy? I shake my head. "Ex brother-in-law."

"He's probably a lot of fun at John Birch meetings."

"Shh." I stroke his fingers. "How do you feel?"

"Like I took a cannonball to the gut," he says. "I want a desk job. I'm tired of being shot at. Don't the bad guys ever miss?"

"It's that bull's eye you've got painted on your chest," I answer, teasing lightly. "In case I forgot to mention it earlier, it's good to see you."

Half his mouth twists in a smile. "I wasn't too sure of my welcome, considering how we didn't say goodbye."

I shrug. "I know why you went that way."

He nods. "Good." Then he rolls his eyes. "Oh, crap, here comes Dr. Dootoomuch."

Stephan comes into the room, another bag in his hands. "Here we go - another Bloody Mary. Is he awake?" He peers over my shoulder. "I'm Dr. Steve Riley. How are you doing?"

Mulder mouths a word.

Steve looks at me.

"He said he's fine."

"Good. Now, I'll just hook this little cocktail up." Stephan mounts the next unit on a piggyback, and runs a hand along Mulder's thigh. "Are you warm enough?"

Mulder flicks me a warning look and then nods at Stephan.

I put a hand on Stephan's shoulder. "If you're fond of that hand, Steve, I suggest you move it."

Stephan smiles at me, and murmurs, sotto voce, "It's not like he can do anything about it."

"No," I agree equitably. "But I can."

Stephan pulls an outrageous pout. "You are no fun." He turns to Mulder, and I see the professional that I've always known Stephan to be. "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder. I've been having some fun at my brother-in-law's expense. I meant no disrespect to you, and I apologize for everything I've said or done to make you feel uncomfortable."

Mulder's trapped now. There's nothing he can do or say. He gestures faintly with one hand. "Okay," he whispers.

Stephan pulls out the BP cuff and his stethoscope again. "I'm going to check your blood pressure one more time." He pumps, pauses, and listens. He nods and stands, unwrapping the cuff, draping the 'scope around his neck. We both move away from the bed. "He's still a little thready, but barring any wound infection, he'll pull through." He stretches. "I'm sorry I went too far, Walt. I hope he's not too upset."

I shrug. "He'll get over it. He's a pretty forgiving person." I flick another glance toward the bed. He's apparently forgiven me. "Besides, it's the least of his worries right now."

Stephan nods. "I'm going downstairs for a while. Need anything?"

I shake my head. "I'm just going to sit here and keep watch. Is there anything I should be watching for?"

"Just that he keeps breathing and doesn't rip out the IV." Stephan goes out the bedroom door, rubbing the small of his back.

I want desperately to go back to the bed and keep vigil over Mulder, but I hear Stephan greet Scully on the landing. A moment later, hair deliciously tousled, pale pink blouse rumpled and bloody, eyes puffy with lack of sleep, she comes into my bedroom. It isn't the thrill I always thought it should be. "How are you doing, Dana?" I ask quietly.

She answers with a sleepy shrug. "How's he?"

"Seven units of blood, his BP's thready," I answer.

She frowns too. "That's a lot of blood. There may be more to his injuries than we thought."

"Steve's adopting a wait and see attitude," I say.

"Your brother in law has adopted a wait and seize attitude," she retorts. Then she lowers her eyes contritely. "I'm sorry, Sir. That was uncalled for. After all, he did do us a tremendous favor."

"It's all right, Scully," I soothe. "I've already spoken to him about his unprofessional behavior. He's apologized to Agent Mulder, and Mulder has accepted."

"Oh, then Mulder's awake?"

"He was."

We both turn toward the bed as Mulder makes a restless sound. "C-cold," he complains softly.

I can't stand it. I have to be with him. I have to take care of him, protect him, and if I can't do that, at least I can attempt to make him comfortable. I sigh heavily, and march to the bed, lifting the bedclothes, trying to prevent myself from tangling in the IV tubing.

Scully watches me, horrified. "Sir, what are you doing?"

"What we used to do in 'Nam when this kind of thing happened, Agent Scully," I answer, gently easing Mulder over enough to make room for myself at the edge of the bed. "Using body heat to keep him warm." I slide in, but before I ease down beside him, I shoot her a challenging look. "Care to join us? He has two sides, you know."

As I inch down, and press my body against his, Mulder's shivering seems to slow.

She blinks, clearly disturbed at the sight of her former boss snuggling down next to her former partner. But she cannot know how grateful I am for this opportunity. All she sees on my face is grim resignation. Belatedly, she moves toward the bed. "All right."

"Careful," I warn her, pointing. "You'll ruin your clothes. There's a lot of blood on that side. Why don't you get some pajamas out of that top drawer, and get out of that suit before you do this?" Damn it, I never thought she would take me up on this.

She nods and moves to my bureau. While she is collecting pajamas and stepping into my bathroom, I take advantage of the privacy to draw Mulder as close to me as his injuries allow; to savor his scent beneath the smell of sweat and blood, to feel the smoothness of his skin, the softness of his hair. He shifts closer to me, and sighs.

Scully comes back into the room, hesitates at the edge of the bed and then resolutely climbs up beside Mulder, taking care to avoid his injuries. She settles down against him, and his shivering ceases completely.

He opens his eyes, looks at Scully and groans. "You know, this has long been a fantasy of mine."

"Hush, Mulder," she murmurs, but she draws closer to him.

- END chapter 05 -
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