Title:  Comfort
Summary:  Mulder's thoughts when he's been shot.
Category:  V, MT, UST
Rating:  PG
Spoilers:  References to Beyond the Sea, Bad Blood, The Ghosts
That Stole Christmas and Folie A Deux, but not detailing plot lines
Disclaimer:  Same as always.  I didn't make them up, but I put them
in this scenario.  I won't make any money, and if nobody sues me,
we'll all be happy.
Archives:  Yes
Comments to me, vmoseley@fgi.net
Dedication:  Susan 'Potatoes' Proto, Happy Third Candle
Notes:  yes I know it's an old theme, but I just thought it bore
repeating.  I thought it up trying to justify to myself how
MulderTorture is not MulderBashing.  I have a sick mind, but it's
mine and I'm keeping it.

Comfort
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net

I hate this.

I hate everything about it. 

But what I hate more than anything else is the utter powerlessness,
the helplessness that I feel right now.

Might as well get used to it, I'm gonna be feeling it for a while.

One minute, I'm running down an alley, gun drawn, shoulder's
tight, listening to Scully's footsteps clicking rapidly behind me. 
How that woman runs in three inch heels, I'll never figure out.  I've
often wanted to tell her 'Scully, the difference between 5 foot
nothing and 5 foot three just ain't enough to mess with those
deathtraps on your feet', but I've never gotten the nerve.  

Contrary to popular belief and totally discounting what is happening
right now, I don't _like_ to be shot.  Especially by my partner but
definitely not by some punk ass kid in a Houdini outfit.

I can see her, my partner.  She's standing just a few feet away,
arguing with a paramedic.  The poor EMT wants to look at the
bloody patch of sleeve on her arm, and Scully is reading him the
riot act, all the while yelling orders at the two EMT's working on
me.

She is a wonder when she's riled up.

Her eyes meet mine for an instant.  I'm worried about her, she's
worried about me.  She won't let them look at her, but I know that
she's hurting.  It's probably a flesh wound, but they still hurt like
hell.  Me, I'm lucky.  I'm in shock and quite frankly, unless they
bump me or jostle this gurney too much, I'm not really feeling the
pain.  

Oh, it hurts to breathe.  I hate that feeling, too, because it's scary
when you can't just pull air into your lungs on instinct.  When each
time you draw a breath, you wonder if it's going to be that much
harder next time.  And each time, it is harder.  Until finally you
wonder if it's worth the bother.

The EMT with the long blond braid has figured out that I'm having
trouble breathing.  She's putting the damned oxygen mask over my
face.  I caught a look at my profile once in one of these things and
it makes my nose look a hundred times bigger.  Just what I need. 
But immediately, it's a little easier to breathe, so I'm not
complaining.  I just hope the 'papparazzi' aren't anywhere nearby. 
Scully doesn't need any more black mail pictures of me than she
already has.

I look over the mask, which isn't that easy, and I can't find her. 
The other EMT is gone, and the two that are left are looking at
some point over my shoulder, both with worried expressions.  I can
hear them talking, but it seems like they're talking through two tin
cans and a string.

"Can she wait?  We really need to get him in, his B/P is really low."

"The second unit was right behind us.  They should have been here
already."

I'm not sure what they're talking about and since I can't see Scully,
I call for her.  It comes out closer to 'Sc-c-c-c-al-l-l-l-e-e-e-e' but
she knows her name, she'll answer to it.

She's not answering.

Now I'm not so happy to be lying here.  I call out to her again. 
Damn it, Scully, answer me!

"Sc-c-c-cul-l-l-e-e-e-e!"

A hand is pressing down on my shoulder.  "Easy, sir.  Just take it
easy.  We're helping her.  She's right here, she's just, uh, she just . .
."

She just _what_, I want to scream.  I try to rise up a little, see over
the mask.  

GoddamnitalltohellThatHurts!

The blond is pushing me down on to the gurney, but I'm really just
falling back.  And trying to impress upon my memory that I
_never_, _ever_, do that _again_.  But before I got that rather nasty
reminder that I'm on a damned gurney for a good reason, I saw
what the EMTs were all a fluster over.

My partner, where she collapsed on the ground.

Now I'm hurt _and_ scared.  And I'm not having much luck at
communication.  I want to call out, I want someone to listen to me. 
I make sounds, but they aren't words, even I know that much. 
They're moans and Scully would know what I'm asking, what I
need to know.  Scully, tell me it's not bad.  Tell me you just fainted
because it's late and you're in shock and when they get you warm
and get some fluids in you, you'll be fine.  Tell me it's what you
always are telling me, when I get shot.

The blond is wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my right arm
again.  It squeezes and she frowns as she listens to my pulse with
her stethoscope.  "We need to move.  _Now_!"

But I don't want to go 'now'!  I'm not going anywhere without
Scully.  I pull against the straps, which hurts like hell and it's taking
all the strength I have.  I notice, just a second or two too late, that
the blond is drawing up a syringe and I know as well as I know my
name she's about to sedate the living shit out of me.  If I had a
concussion, they wouldn't even think of that, but with just a
gunshot wound to the upper thigh (right leg this time), it's not even
a question.

I'm still struggling when the needle bites my arm, but a minute later
I can feel my fingers go numb.  My lips and my tongue and the tip
of my nose.  Just like when I used to get really plastered at Oxford
and try to drive us home, only to have Phoebe pour me into a cab
and then pay the cab driver to take me to our flat.  Always pissed
her off . . . that I couldn't . . . get . . . it . . . up . . . drunk . . . 

Crash!

I hear the gurney hit the doors and it jars me out of my stupor. 
Must be the doors to a treatment room, because most hospitals
have sliding glass doors between the driveway and the Emergency
Room.  If I were really good, I could fight the drugs enough to
open my eyes.  But I discovered once that pulling that trick only
gets more drugs.  So now I keep my eyes shut, but my ears open.

Shouting.  Not loud, not even angry.  More like rapid-fire orders. 
Calls for blood, calls for drugs.  Order an OR.  I could have
guessed that.  But all I want to hear about is Scully.  I wish it was a
small town hospital, with those little bitty ER cubicles which are no
more that curtains in a big room.  

No such luck, we're in LA.  Big hospital.  Nice treatment rooms,
almost like self contained little surgical suites.  But it won't be long
before I'm being taken down the hall.

I can feel the gurney moving and I know where we're heading. 
Soon they're going to assess how 'out of it' I really am and start
pumping that poison in my veins.  Great choice of alternatives we
have in modern medicine.  Get poisoned and not feel pain or stay
awake and die from the pain anyway.  I'll take 'none of the above',
quite frankly, but I've never been given the option.

I'm straining to hear her name.  Scully.  That should be easy
enough to pick out of all the mutterings about my blood volume
and hypovolemic shock.  Finally, some beautiful sounding nurse
asks the question I've been wanting to ask.  

"How's his partner doing?"

I wish I could open my eyes, look at this woman and offer to have
her baby, but Scully would probably be pissed as hell at me if I did.

"The bullet hit the humorous, cracked it.  She's gonna stay the
night.  Aparently, since she woke up, she's been chomping at the bit
to . . ."

I lost the rest of the dialogue as we enter the operating room.  I can
hear more voices, but as cold starts pouring into my vein from the
IV, I know I'm not going to be aware much longer.

Fingers pry open my left eye and shine a damned 1000 watt
flashlight in them.  Why the hell they do that . . .

"He's semi-conscious, at least."

Damn, the game's over.

"Mr. Mulder, we're in the operating room.  Now, I want you to try
and relax for me, all right.  You're clenching your fist and that
won't help us right now.  Just relax your right arm for me, please."

Like hell I will.

"Shouldn't the valium be working by now?"

"Give it a minute.  I'm looking at the x-ray's so he can keep for a
while."

Nice of them to discuss the plan when they already know I'm
listening.  Hey, as long as we're a chatty bunch, how did the bone
setting go on the really pretty red head with the stupid three inch
shoes?  It's her left arm, I'm not concerned about field agent status
here.  But as her one and only partner I would sure love to know
that she's not heading into a long recovery from this fi . . .

Where did the rest of that word go?

It's funny.  I hate drugs not because they make me feel bad.  They
make me feel _too_ good.  Like right now.  Like I could sincerely
give a flying shit about anything or anybody right now.

Hey, guys, the valium's kicked in.

"That's better, Mr. Mulder.  Nice and relaxed, just like that."

They could rape me right now and I'd laugh about it.

"We're going to change this mask over your face now."

Guys, I've done this so many times, I could be standing there doing
the surgery.  Well, up to this point.  Then I'd get lost real quick. 
But I could fake it probably.  Should give that a try sometime.

"OK, just take a few deep breaths for me now."

Sure, no sweat.

"That's great!  You're doing great!"

Yeah, I'm a world champ at breathing . . .

They're prying at my eyes again.  I really don't want to be awake.  I
was beginning to get real comfortable in that nice hazy place I've
been in and I really don't want to know that I'm not reacting well
to the knock out juice and they'll have to saw on me without it.

"He'd doing fine.  Let him go back to sleep."

Sounds like a plan.

There are noises all around me.  My own blood is thumping in my
ears.  I can hear a hissing near my nose and can feel the little breeze
of air that comes with that.  A beeping near my ear, but not too
close.

All the sounds of a hospital room.  

No voices now.  That's a good sign.  It means they must be done
with the surgery and I'm back in my room, wherever the hell they
decided to stick me.  From the almost total silence, except for the
sounds of the machines, I'm guessing ICU or Intermediate Care.

I really must have been in bad shape this time.

That pisses me off on several levels.  ICU.  Everyone thinks the C
stands for 'care'.  HAH!  That C stands for 'control'  I Control U. 
Everybody in the place has total control over me, from the doctor
who takes his sweet time coming to check on my progress to the
nurses who are constantly poking me, jiggling my IV, 'checking'
my catheter, to the orderlies who move the equipment around,
always making sure to pull the various lines just a touch while they
mop the floor around my bed.

And it means control of information, too.  

Everyone speaks in such soft, syrupy tones here.  Like I'm trapped
in a hospital on Seseme Street.  If I ask a question, they pat my
arm.  If I tell them something that needs to be relayed to someone
on the outside, like my partner or my boss, they smile and nod and I
know damned well they don't relay it.  If I want to talk to someone,
they click their tongues and tell me that my visitors are limited to
one at a time, and only for 10 minutes at the top of the hour.

Prisoners have more rights.  I know.  I've been one of those, too.

I know what Scully will say.  'Lie back, relax, and get some rest.' 
But I would really like to see her, just to hear her say that.  After I
see her, it won't be that hard to follow her advice.

Scully.

Hit the bone.  The bullet hit the bone in her arm.  And she was
standing there, arguing with the damned paramedic over _my_ care. 
That's why she passed out.  That's why she collapsed.  

I do it for you, Mulder.  All for you.

She claims she never said that to me.  Her version of the events of
that fateful, vampire-hunting night have me being a real asshole,
coming into her room, kicking her out of her bed with her quarters
in the magic fingers and consuming her dinner while tossing my
muddy clothes all over her immaculate linens.

I remember exactly what happened.

I do it for you, Mulder.  All for you.

She took a bullet in the arm, for me.

She stood there and refused treatment, for me.

She collapsed from blood loss or shock or who the hell really cares
why, she just did, for me.

How the hell is that supposed to make me feel?  

Can't they understand that I don't care if it's the 'top of the hour' I
just want to see her?  I just want to know that I didn't lose her
because I was too stupid to yell at them to help her and quit playing
around with me.

I just want her to be OK.

I'm a selfish bastard.  I know that.  I'm working on it.  I felt like
shit on Christmas morning, knowing that I'd kept her out, made her
go through a waking nightmare.  OK, so she came over and she
forgave me and I got this really neat tie that I can almost tolerate
even though it's pretty mundane, but it's 100 percent silk and you
really can't go wrong with silk.  And I got to give her my present, a
nameplate for her desk.  A nice one, not like the cheap gold painted
metal ones from supply, but a wooden one with her name engraved
on it.

But basically, I'm still a selfish bastard.  And right now, this selfish
bastard just wants to be reassured as to his one in five billion
partner's continued well being.

Co-dependence, my ass.  

I'm totally dependent.  And she could walk at any time.  

Right now, I would give my right leg, especially since I'm close to
needing another dose of pain killer and it hurts like a son of a bitch,
but I'd give it anyway, along with my left leg, my right hand, my
left hand, my heart . . . Oh, forgot, I gave that to her already.  Well,
my head, then.  Just to hear . . .

"Mulder?  Mulder, it's me.  Wake up, sleepy head."

OK, it's a dream.  An hallucination brought on by some great
controlled substances.  I didn't just wish hard enough to make her
appear.  Did I?

"C'mon, I know you're in there."

She's cute when she's coy.  But better than that, she's damned
good at this 'doctor' shit.  I feel a dampened cottonball slide like
satin across my eyelids.  Just enough moisture to loosen them up,
not enough to get in my eyes and make them tear.  Damn, how
does she do that?

I have to smile.  It's reflex, everytime she does something nice for
me.

"All right, game's over.  Stop playing possum, it's time to wake
up."

I open my eyes.  Sure, she tried to sound pissed, but she's smiling
at me.  Especially her eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

One thousand percent better.  But I can't let her know that.  It
would spoil the game.

"Shit."  Not my usual comeback, but succinct and to the point.

"I would think so.  Well, Mulder, you now have matching scars on
both legs.  No longer lop-sided, you are now perfectly symmetrical
from the hips down."

I can't help it, she walked right into that.  And she knows it.  I flash
her my best leer.  OK, it's not that good since I'm on morphine
here, but it does the job.

She slaps my upper arm.  Not hard, but a little.

"How are you?"  Three words.  I'm going to be up to polysyllabic
sentences in no time.

She's in a soft cast and a sling.  Already I can tell she's been
fiddling with the straps on it.    "Nicked the bone.  Hurts like hell. 
I'm fine, Mulder, really."  She looks a little teary eyed and I guess it
must hurt a lot.  I reach over and squeeze her hand, the good one.

"Well, you need to get some sleep.  If you're good, they'll let you
go up to a regular room tomorrow morning."

"You going to the hotel?"  See, two words with more than one
syllable.  I'm doing great.

"Nah.  I think I'll stick around.  Check the place out for a while."

Grill the doctor who operated one me, for starters.  She thinks I
don't know she does that.  Gee, I'm not trained for investigations, I
guess.

"Go get some sleep."  I try to use my 'Supervisory, Senior Agent'
voice, but it sounds pretty weak right now.  I couldn't order pizza
with this voice.

She smiles at me and brushes my hair off my head.  I do dearly love
when she does that.  

"I will, in a bit.  But if I have to, you have to.  Close your eyes,
Mulder.  I'll stay till they kick me out, but I want you to try and go
back to sleep."

With her hand stroking my forehead, I do just that.

the end

Vickie

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Season's Greetings
Peace and Joy

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