What =Really= Happened by Deborah Goldstein Copyright (c) 1997 by Deborah Kay Goldstein Distribution: Posting to the a.t.x.c. and archiving in any of the Gossamer Archives is fine. If you want to put it in a personal web site, however, you must have my specific permission--write to dkg@teleport.com. Summary: The real end to "Beyond the Sea", not the typical TV sweetness and light that we saw. This is based on the background line "A through-and-through to the upper femur" during the scene in the ER. No Spoilers. Credits are due to J. Darlene Samniak for writing the absolutely incredible "On Call", which inspired this, and to her and Greg Perron for helping me get the medical details correct. Classification: S/A Keywords: Pure Mulderangst Rating: PG because of a couple of swear words. Disclaimer: The usual: they're not mine, they belong to Fox, blah, blah, blah. Raleigh, North Carolina January, 1994 Mulder stared up at the night-dim ceiling, counted the holes across a tile, then counted the holes down the tile, then tried to multiply them out. Only he couldn't. He'd forgotten the first number. Then he realized he forgotten the second one also. Not that it made any difference. He was on enough morphine to keep him in la-la land for a week. Even his throat didn't hurt any more. Someone must have been in a God-damn hurry to get him off the respirator because he distinctly remembered the searing pain when they'd pulled the tube out. And he couldn't even do anything about it because both hands had been restrained. What did they think he was going to do? Attack the doctor who'd pulled the tube out? Fat chance! He couldn't do anything but gag and cough and try to catch his breath. He couldn't even turn his head away when the doctor insisted on inspecting his throat. He didn't have the strength for that. He didn't have the strength to move his leg either. Not that they'd let him. They kept telling him over and over again: "Mr. Mulder, you can't move your leg." Too much chance of popping stitches. Too much chance of bleeding all over everything again. Too much chance of another emergency trip to the OR. So he didn't move his leg. Tonight. Tomorrow he would be allowed to move it. Maybe. He sighed, wished--for what felt like the hundredth time--that hospital beds weren't so hot and sweaty, tried to shift just enough to relax, and-- The scream that came out of his throat was totally involuntary. He couldn't even stop when the nurses came running to ask him what was wrong. He had *never* felt such pain. Such pain was _not_ possible . . . Janet grabbed and yanked. The drenched and dripping sheet came away in one move, and before she could do anything else, the fountaining blood had caught her directly in the chest. Both her hands pressing directly onto the torn-open section of incision did almost nothing to slow it. A second pair of hands appeared, holding one of the towels that were tucked along both sides of Mr. Mulder's leg as a reminder not to move it. She counted "One- two-" and on the count of "three" she removed her hands and the other pair pressed the towel down firmly. That's when Janet realized what she'd felt besides the pulsing of arterial blood. Bone. The now-separated pieces of femur, jagged edges and all, were moving under the skin, moving and tearing flesh with the all the force of spasming leg muscles. She swallowed hard, refusing to let her 3:00 a.m. "lunch" come back up. But even as she realized that, did that, her hands continued to work automatically. She took the bandage that was being stuffed into her hand, slid one end of it under Mr. Mulder's leg, high up in the groin, pulled the ends up, crossed them, tucked the top end under the other, and pulled the first half of the square knot hard, as hard as she could. She pulled hard enough that she could see the skin indent deeply and the incision pop open under her improvised tourniquet--but the blood being pumped out of the re-opened femoral artery slowed and stopped. She finished the knot, knowing that it was so tight they would have to cut the tourniquet off in surgery. But Mr. Mulder would live long enough to reach surgery now. Five days later When he woke up this time, Mulder *knew* there was something wrong. There was no way to miss the crying and the shaking hand that held his. And behind and around that was the dead silence that was scarier than any monitor. Because it meant they'd shut them off. Because he was going to die, and there was nothing anyone could do, and Scully'd told them to stop trying. He had to say something. To tell her it was all right. That he didn't mind. Really didn't mind. She'd done her best, and he understood. What came out was a tiny dry sound Mulder himself couldn't recognize. The crying noises shut off as if someone had flicked a switch. "Mulder!" Scully's hand clamped impossibly tight on his, then relaxed again. He tried again. "S--" Nothing else would come out. "Wait--wait--I'll get the water." Scared. Scully was *never* scared. "Here. Small sips." Her voice was slightly less shaky this time. He took one tiny mouthful, swished it around, and swallowed. Heaven. A second sip. Paradise on earth. A third. Ice cold water. At last he took a regular drink. Finally felt like he might actually be able to talk. "Scully?" It didn't sound like a dying man's voice. There was too much strength in it. "Mulder? Do you remember what happened?" His eyes snapped open--then immediately scrunched shut against the glare of normal room lighting. After the pain died away he opened them again, slowly, slowly, building up his tolerance to the glare and the roaring in his ears. Then he looked to his right. Scully was bent over the bed rail, one hand supporting herself on the rail, the other smoothing his hair. He hadn't even felt that. She had tear-tracks all over her face, her makeup was almost non-existent, and she look liked she'd been living on coffee and two hours of sleep a night for a week. Which could very well have been true. "Do I remember what happened? Of course I do. I got shot. I'm in the hospital in Raleigh, North Carolina." He tried to look around, but her hand tightened in his hair and the other one moved to hold his head still. "No. Not yet, Mulder. Just stay still. You'll probably vomit if you try to move your head too much." He tried to reach up to her hand. Couldn't. Felt the pull of the cloth restraint against his wrist before he'd really moved the hand. Tried the other hand, felt that restraint too. Felt the fear blossom again, and tried to swallow with a mouth suddenly gone desert dry. "Sc-Scully?" The fear was there in his voice. Scully's face was calm. "I know, Mulder. They didn't want you pulling anything out." The sudden anger gave him back his voice. "Who cares if I pull anything out if I'm dying! Why didn't they just let me pull and bleed to death?" He jerked against the restraints, a jerk that stopped because he simply didn't have the endurance for continuing. Scully straightened up in total shock, her face going pasty white, then red with anger. "Dying? Who made you think you were dying? You're not, Mulder. You're NOT dying." "Th-the monitors. They're off. Why else . . .?" Her mouth quirked into a smile. "They're off because you don't need them. Not because you're dying. Do you understand? You're going to be fi--" Her voice strangled, her face went white again, and she simply dropped into the chair behind her as if someone had cut her legs out from under her. "Oh, Mulder, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I . . ." Scully was babbling apology after apology without ever saying what she was apologizing for. So he interrupted her. "_Scully_." She stopped in mid-word and he continued, "Scully, what's wrong? I'm sorry I moved. I know I wasn't supposed to. But I just had to. I was so hot and uncomfortable. You said I wasn't dying. What else could possibly be wrong?" She went even whiter than before, if that was possible. Her voice was a thin whisper, talking to herself. "Oh, God. You don't remember. It's been nearly a week, and you don't remember any of it. Oh, God." She was rocking back and forth now, so upset about whatever it was that he almost couldn't make himself look at her. And his arms were restrained and he couldn't hold her and the only thing he had was his voice. He made sure her fear wasn't echoed in his voice, but it was a close thing. "Scully. Stop. You're not doing me any good. Just tell me. Whatever happened a week ago can't be all that bad." She flinched, as strongly as if he'd slapped her full-strength across her face. Then she froze, mouth a moue of tightly-held control, nostrils flaring and relaxing with each breath. He couldn't see her hands, but he knew they were fisted. He didn't want to know. He *had* to know. He schooled his voice to gentleness. "Scully. C'mon Scully. Just tell me." After a long, long minute, she nodded, just a fraction of an inch. Took a deep breath, held it an impossibly long time and then blew it out explosively. "They had to amputate your leg, Mulder. *I* had to give them permission to amputate your leg." The world was a white haze, and the only thing in it was a voice screaming, shrill and terrified. And then there was nothing. Washington, D.C. One month later Everything had this halo around it, like all the corners had been rounded. Even his thoughts had rounded corners. Corners so rounded they weren't corners at all. Just soft, mushy thoughts in a world of big fluffy clouds. Nothing to push against. No way to anchor himself and find out what was going on. And even _that_ worry had its edges blunted and rounded. "Agent Mulder, pay attention. I need you to pay attention to me." Silence. "*Now*, Agent Mulder." Skinner's whip-crack order brought him to focus, as much as he could focus. His eyes moved vaguely around the room until they found Skinner's face. He blinked. Skinner looked like shit. "Sir?" His voice was nothing he'd ever heard. There was no "voice" to it, just a hoarse whisper. A whisper that was so painful in his throat that he couldn't get out more than that one word. Skinner flinched at his voice. His eyes squeezed shut briefly, then opened. "Just nod. Don't try to talk again. OK?" At his nod, Skinner continued, "Agent Mulder, you're back in D.C. now. Do you understand?" "No! They didn't! She couldn't let them *do*--" And then it didn't matter _what_ he wanted to say because it hurt so much that the only thing he could do to stop the pain was to stop talking. "Agent Mulder, I know it's a shock. I _know_ you're upset. But you *have* to pay attention to me." Skinner's need, whatever it was, was nothing compared to the terror that was threatening to haul him back into that place where there was nothing but-- "STOP THAT! RIGHT NOW, Agent Mulder. Listen to me." Skinner's hand was bruisingly tight around his wrist. He forced himself to open his eyes and look at his boss. Forced himself to swallow that thought and forced himself to pay attention. Forced himself to nod. Skinner's grip relaxed. "Agent Mulder, you _have_ to come to terms with this. If you don't, I'm going to lose you and Agent Scully both. She can't take it any longer. The guilt is tearing her apart. "So you have to stop. Now. Face the fact that you--" He could only concentrate on the fact that Scully needed him. She needed him more than he needed to deny that his life, his work, his entire reason for living, was gone, never, ever, was going to be there again. But Scully was there. And she needed him. "Untie me." Skinner cut himself off in mid-word and gaped at him. "Untie me. Get me out of here. I have to go see Scully. I won't let her do that to herself." His throat was a million splinters of agony and it didn't matter. Scully was all that mattered. Skinner did it. Broke the rules and untied a patient who had obviously tried several times before to hurt himself. Mulder tried to sit up, tried to just push himself higher up the bed, and couldn't do either. There was simply no strength at all in his arms. "How long?" The words were panted because he'd spent all his energy on trying to sit up. "How long? Three weeks that you've been back here. A month since you really understood you'd lost your leg. Almost five weeks since the surgery. Thirty-six days, twelve hours, and--" Skinner checked his watch "--twenty-one minutes since you got shot. Is that what you wanted to know, Agent Mulder?" He lifted his head, nodded, then let his head flop back against the bed. Even that had been hard work. He had a lot of recovering to do before he could "go see" Scully. Skinner was waiting for him. He realized he must have drifted off for a moment and made himself focus again. "It's obvious I'm not going anywhere soon. So bring Scully . . ." He stopped at the shake of Skinner's head. "She won't come. She hasn't been able to visit you in more than a week. I waited this long because I hoped her not visiting would somehow penetrate and bring you back to yourself. But I couldn't wait any longer." The pain in his throat had reached some sort of crescendo. Whether he talked or not no longer made a difference. "Then call her. Don't tell her it's me. Just call her and give me the phone." Skinner nodded, pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number, waited, then said, "Mrs. Scully? This is Walter Skinner. I need you to put Dana on the phone. _Don't_ tell her who's calling. Just get her on the phone." There was a pause, a long enough pause to scare him thoroughly, before Skinner reached down and held the phone to his face. "Scully? It's all right, Scully. I'm back. I'm not going to do anything. I need you Scully. I need you more than ever before. Please help me, Scully." Quantico, Virginia Twenty-one months later Mulder pulled into his reserved handicapped parking space, turned off the ignition, opened the car door, and with practiced ease reached behind the seat to pull his folded wheelchair around to the front, put it outside the car and pull it open. Another two quick moves and his custom-made seat cushion was in place and he had transferred himself over to the wheelchair. As he was locking his car door he heard the distinctive sound of Scully's walk. He was halfway to the entrance when he heard her not-quite- laughing, "Wait up, Mulder! You're faster now than when you could walk." Smiling, he spun the wheelchair around to face her. "Am not. You're just out of shape. Too many autopsies, not enough chases." He held out his hand. "Sit down. I'll give you a ride, let you rest your weary feet." She slapped his hand aside playfully. "Can it, Mulder. At least I get more exercise than you. Doing autopsies is a lot more like real work than sitting at a desk writing profiles." Their mingled laughter echoed off the entrance to the FBI Academy building then continued in two separate directions, his toward the elevators and the ISU, hers toward the stairs and the Pathology department. The End Debbie Goldstein dkg@teleport.com