TITLE: Recovery (1/1)
AUTHOR: Shoshana
EMAIL ADDRESS: 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..."


fin

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