What =Really= Happened II Revisited by Deborah Goldstein > Copyright (c) 1999 by Deborah Kay Goldstein DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer may archive. Places where I send it may archive. Others, please ask before archiving. Mailing lists, please do not automatically forward elsewhere without permission. RATING: PG--swear words only Category: S Spoilers: Demons Keywords: Mulder/Scully friendship SUMMARY: This is "What =Really= Happened II--Demons Aftermath" with a different ending. This version is NOT a death story. In fact, it has a rather happy ending, although probably not what you were expecting. This is _not_ a sequel to "What =Really= Happened I". DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Mrs. Mulder and Mrs. Scully, The Lone Gunmen and "Northeast Georgetown Hospital" belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting, and are used without permission. The rest is mine. Editorial help provided by Abbie, Suzi, and Ten. Scully watched the ambulance pull away, siren wailing, lights flashing, and her heart went with it, though her feet stayed firmly planted. This was one ambulance trip Mulder would make alone, because she had to talk to the police, convince them not to press charges against Mulder for what he'd just done. And talk she did. It took more than an hour, but she was finally free to see Mulder. Assuming he was OK. Assuming he hadn't had another seizure, a grand mal one this time. * * * * * She chose the Emergency Room entrance. It was possible Mulder was still there, rather than having already been admitted to a room. Besides, if he had been admitted, it was after visiting hours and they wouldn't let her visit if she went through the front door. A quick stop at the ER registration desk to find out where he was took much longer than she expected because the clerk made her fill out the admit papers. Finally, twenty minutes after she arrived, she went through to cubicle 4, just in time to see a nurse gathering the last of Mulder's clothing off the floor to stuff into a garbage can. She winced: Mulder would never have let them cut off his clothes if he'd been conscious. So he'd had another seizure, bad enough this time to make him not care what the doctors and nurses were doing to him. With an unvoiced sigh, she approached the nurse. "Excuse me. Can you tell me what room Agent Mulder was admitted to?" The nurse startled, nearly dropping Mulder's shoes and the bag she held. "Oh! I didn't hear you come in. You're . . .?" Of course they wouldn't give out information to a stranger. Scully pulled out her ID and flipped it open. "FBI Special Agent Dana Scully. I'm his partner." After a careful comparison of the picture to her face, the nurse gave back the wallet. "He's in Neuro Intensive Care, so they can monitor him. He had a seizure in the ambulance, and then a bad one, lasting nearly ten minutes, here. We--" Scully interrupted. "How much Valium did it take to stop it? Was he sedated sleepy or post-seizure sleepy when he went upstairs?" A frown and a wave of her hand that encompassed the cubicle accompanied her next sentence. "Did he have any idea what you were doing to him?" Taking a deep breath, the nurse said, "Agent Scully, you need to talk to his doctors. Dr. Farmington was the doctor here, and he's been transferred to Dr. Joel Smith, one of the senior neurology residents. You need to remember that it's _Joel_ Smith. His twin brother Jeff is on during the day." She finished putting Mulder's shoes into the bag and handed it over. "His wallet and ID were given to Security to be locked up. Any of the guards can direct you." Scully nodded, then took a quick look around the main ER area. "Um . . . that way?" She pointed to a door at the far end of the area. "Sorry, no, to your right. See?" She pointed to a green door. "Through there, then take the elevator to five. Neuro ICU is to the left." The elevator was empty and the fifth floor hall was empty. The ICU waiting room was empty. That was either good (the families were at home because the patients were doing well), or very bad (the families were in the ICU because the patients weren't expected to last the night). In the first case, the nurses wouldn't be too busy; in the second, they'd be running their asses off. She mentally crossed her fingers and pushed the door open. Silence, except for the various beeping monitors. The nurses were sitting at the nurses' station, writing and talking. Mulder had lucked out: he'd get all the help he needed if he had another seizure. Just as she reached the nurses' station, to ask which room he was in, one of the monitors, in one of the rooms, started screaming its alarm. On the heels of that came a "Shit!", followed by "He's seizing again. Carol, IV Valium. Stat!". Scully spun away and ran to the last room, sidestepping the nurse running for the Valium. Someone, probably Dr. Joel Smith, was trying to hold Mulder's head away from the bed rail, letting the rest of his body do whatever the muscle spasms dictated. She hurried around to the far side of the bed and grabbed Mulder's left foot and ankle, trying to push his leg back through that bed rail. That failed when his hip and knee muscles spasmed into flexion, and suddenly it was all she could do to prevent him from breaking his leg against the unforgiving plastic of the rail. It was three minutes after Carol came back with the Valium (and a second nurse to help hold Mulder) before the seizure ended. Scully spent the time hanging onto the leg grimly and wishing Mulder could have waited the few extra minutes till the padding was in place inside the bed rails. "Thank you. You probably saved him from having a cast or surgery on that leg. I'm Dr. Joel Smith. You are . . .?" The doctor finished Velcroing the padding into place on his side of the bed, stripped off his gloves and held out his hand. Scully came back around the foot of the bed and took the hand. Joel had a firm grasp and shook her hand as if he really was pleased to meet her. "FBI Special Agent Dana Scully. I'm Mulder's partner. I hold his Medical Power of Attorney." Best to get that out of the way now, so they'd know who they were dealing with. "Good. Right now Mr. Mulder's in no shape to make any decisions for himself. Can you tell me anything about his seizures? When did they start? How many he's had?" She looked around the room. Now that Mulder was out of the ER (and quiet) the nurses were setting up things for a sponge bath, to clean off the sweat, saliva, and tears--and the feces from when he lost control of his bowels. The Foley catheter had prevented him from wetting himself. "Is there somewhere more private where we can talk?" The doctor shook his head, an abrupt jerk like he was coming to his senses. "Of course! I'm sorry. Let's leave Carol and Joanna to clean your partner up. We can talk at the nurses' station." The office Dr. Smith led her to was behind the nurses' station, and from the minuscule size and bare walls and desk, was probably a dictation office, rather than one belonging to a specific person. He grabbed one of the nurses' chairs and brought that in for her before going to sit behind the desk and open Mulder's chart to take notes. She sat for a minute, ordering her memories of the last few days so she'd include only the pertinent information and none of the side issues. "Mulder wanted to recover some memories of his childhood. He went to see a psychologist, a Dr. Goldstein, whom he'd learned about on the internet. Dr. Goldstein was using completely unethical methods, including ketamine, an animal tranquilizer that causes hallucinations in people, and, God help us all, drilling _holes_ into his patients' skulls. I witnessed five seizures in two days, three of them not even thirty seconds apart and less than fifteen minutes before the ambulance arrived to bring him here. He almost certainly had one before he called me on Sunday morning and probably had others while we were apart. I suspect he had at least one last night. Prior to the one in the ER--or maybe the one in the ambulance--they've been partial seizures, with momentary muscle weakness, decreased awareness of his surroundings, severe headache pain, and I think he was having hallucinations or flashback memories." Dr. Smith jotted that down and asked, "No prior history of seizures? No recreational drugs, no alcohol abuse?" Scully snorted her amusement. "Mulder? Take drugs that he isn't forced to take? Doctor, when he's awake again, you'll meet the 'real' Fox Mulder, the man who doesn't even like to take prescribed pain pills because they cloud his thinking and interfere with his photographic memory. He does take antibiotics: he learned that lesson the hard way when an infection flared up again and he landed in the hospital on IV antibiotics for a week. As for prior seizures, no, of course not. He would never have passed the physical to become an FBI Agent." The doctor nodded. "Well, he _won't_ be an agent for a while, after this. I don't know the laws about using a gun, but in most states a person can't drive until he or she has gone six months without a seizure, whether that's on medicine or not. Mr. Mulder will be on anti-seizure medicine for at least a month, more likely two or three, given the number of seizures he's had. I've already started him on Dilantin. If that doesn't work, I'll switch him to Tegretol. The Valium is only temporary. It's--" She interupted. "It's addicting. But it's the drug of choice to stop seizures, even in patients already on anti-seizure meds. "I'm a doctor, a forensic pathologist. It's been a while since my internship, so I'm a bit rusty on what you'll be doing for Mulder." Another nod from Dr. Smith, this time accompanied by a smile. "And I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to do an autopsy. So let's go back to basics." He ticked things off on his fingers. "Get the seizures under control. Prevent him from hurting himself if he has more seizures. Determine what blood level, what dose, of Dilantin or Tegretol or whatever will keep the seizures under control. Make sure he understands why he's got to take the medicine exactly as prescribed, for as long as prescribed. Get counseling for him when he realizes that the _minumum_ length of time he'll be behind a desk is seven-eight months, probably closer to a year, and possibly even for the rest of his life, if he continues to have seizures when we try to wean him off the medicine. Watch for and treat side effects from the Ketamine. And . . ." He trailed off, then looked towards Mulder's room and back to her before continuing. "Did Mr. Mulder let this . . . quack . . . drill holes in _his_ head?" Scully froze. In all the worry about what had happened at his parents' summer house, and then getting him to agree to go with the paramedics, she'd forgotten about that. "Yes, yes he did. So you'll start him on antibiotics and we'll all pray he doesn't get encephalitis or meningitis or something worse." She stood up. "At least he's current on his tetanus booster. I'll approve whatever treatment plan you decide on, Dr. Smith, but right now I need to make some telephone calls." Dr. Smith stood up also. "You can use this phone; dial '9' to get an outside line. This office is normally free at this time of night, but if I or one of the other doctors need it, you'll have to leave." With that he left, taking the second chair and closing the door behind him. Scully stared at the closed door in bemusement. Dr. Smith was unbelievable: he was polite, didn't talk over her head or condescend, and he actually remembered to take the extra chair out with him. Either his parents had taught him incredible manners, or someone had slapped him down recently for acting like the stereotypical arrogant doctor. She preferred to think of him as well-mannered. The call to her mother went quickly. Mom would look after her and Mulder's apartments and collect their mail until things had settled down and Scully felt she could leave the hospital. She debated calling Mrs. Mulder and finally decided against it. Mulder could call himself, when he had decided what to tell her. It wasn't as if he visited or called his mother every week, although he apparently did stay in somewhat more regular contact since her stroke. And it certainly wasn't as if they'd parted on the best of terms yesterday. The last call, to Skinner, was the one she dreaded. She had no idea what the Assistant Director would do when told that Mulder would be riding a desk for eight to twelve months. Unless, of course, the FBI doctors could be convinced to make an exception, to let Mulder do field work as long as he didn't drive. But the odds on that were astronomical. She made sure she had her voice under strict control--Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D. testifying in court control--with not a single emotion showing, before she picked up the phone. She made it all the way through what she had to say, and then waited, terrified at what Skinner might unleash at her, as if it were _her_ decision that Mulder couldn't work. He surprised her. No, stunned her, with his calm acceptance. As if somehow he'd known it would come to this. "All right, Agent Scully. Thank you for calling. I'll start the paperwork and see what I can find for Agent Mulder to do until he can requalify. The ISU obviously would love to have him back, but I doubt he'll want to go there. "As far as your position goes, I'm sure Quantico will take you back, and I know Violent Crimes would be pleased to have you. If, on the other hand, you want to continue in the X Files section, I'll start looking for a temporary partner for you. When you've decided what you want to do, let me know." She thought he was going to hang up then, but his voice changed, stopped being the A.D. and became personal. "Agent Scully? Dana? How are _you_ doing? Have you called your mother? You shouldn't have to handle this alone. If you want, I can explain things to Mulder so he won't--" The first sob caught her totally unaware, and then she had dropped the phone and was simply crying, clutching the plastic bag of Mulder's shoes that she'd completely forgotten she was still carrying. It wasn't until someone came in and hung up the phone that she was able to control herself enough to look up. Up into the compassionate eyes of the hospital chaplain. "Agent Scully? I'm Gregory Markham, the night Chaplin. Assistant Director Skinner asked that someone come be with you now, until he and your mother can get here." He handed her some tissues and helped her stand. "Do you want to see your partner before we leave? I told Mr. Skinner we'd be in the Chaplin's Office." She nodded dumbly, giving herself to him, letting him decide what she would do, where she would go. It was that or completely break down and get herself evicted from the hospital because she refused to leave Mulder's side. Three days later 12:10pm "Mulder, your lunch is here. Are you hungry?" Scully took the warming lid off the plate and scooped up a mouthful. When she brought it toward his lips, a faint, undefinable expression passed over his face, then he was as passive as usual. Touching the spoon to his lips got him to open his mouth, and when she pulled the empty spoon out, he chewed and swallowed. A mouthful of room-temperature decaffeinated "iced" tea, another mouthful of food, and so on, until he'd eaten everything on his tray except the dessert. She stared distrustfully at the ice cream, wondering if it was safe or if the cold would trigger more seizures again. It didn't seem possible, but that first morning, when he'd practically attacked his breakfast because he was so hungry, the very first mouthful of cold orange juice had sent him into another round of grand mal seizures. Now he was on so much Dilantin and Phenobarbital he barely responded when prodded or poked, let alone initiating any movement or conversation. At least he could swallow safely, or he'd have an NG tube, and she knew how irritating those could be. After staring at the ice cream another minute, she sighed and put down the spoon. Better safe than sorry. She'd talk to Jeff (or Joel) when he stopped in, let him know the kitchen still wasn't getting Mulder's diet order correct. Quiet footsteps and a muffled cough behind her reminded her to jot down on the slip of paper on his tray how much he'd eaten and drunk. That done, she picked up the tray and started to give it to . . . "Sir! I'm sorry, I thought you were the nurse." Assistant Director Skinner smiled at her. "Not hardly." He glanced over at the agent sitting up in bed, and nodded in his direction. "How's Mulder doing? Has his doctor said anything about cutting back on his medicines yet?" Scully shook her head. "Just a minute, sir." She turned back to the bed and put a hand on Mulder's arm. "Mulder, AD Skinner is here. I'm going outside to talk with him. I'll be back within ten minutes, OK?" A moment waiting for a response that didn't come, then she turned and left with her boss. In the ICU waiting room, Skinner led her to the corner where he'd left his coat and hat draped over two chairs. After waiting until she was seated, he sat down himself and turned toward her, an intent expression on his face. She shook her head in reply to his earlier question. "I talked to Joel--Dr. Smith, Mulder's neurologist--last night and he said he's going to leave Mulder on this drug regimen for another couple of days. If something as simple as a cold drink could start him seizing while on the Dilantin alone, then he's too unstable to change anything yet. The kitchen sent ice cream for dessert today, but I'm afraid to feed it to him, for fear he'll have another seizure." She shrugged helplessly. "Sooner or later we've got to let him try the really cold and really hot things, but right now I don't want to take that responsibility. When the doctor comes by later today, I'm going to ask whether the ice cream was a mistake, or if he meant for us to try it this soon." Skinner nodded. "So it doesn't look like he'll be able to transfer to a D.C. hospital any time soon?" Another shake of her head. "Certainly not while he's in the ICU. I'm obviously not an expert on this, but I assume Joel won't let him transfer till he can comprehend what's happening. The only other option would be to sedate him completely for the transfer, but the shock of waking up in a different room in a different hospital might be enough to start him seizing again. The good thing is that it doesn't look like he's gotten an infection from the holes Dr. Goldstein drilled." Another nod, then Skinner looked down at his hands for a long minute, and finally back up to her. "Agent Scully, I took the liberty of checking your and Agent Mulder's personnel files for accumulated leave time. Neither of you have much: he had three sick days, and you have six days of vacation and personal time. Mulder will be on medical disability leave starting tomorrow, although I'm trying to get Payroll to transfer his unused vacation days to his sick day bank. Do you want to return to work or take unpaid leave?" It was a question she hadn't wanted to face. She had been thinking optimistically: Mulder was going to be seizure-free, if depressed about his change in status, and they'd already be home. Now it looked like it could be two or even three weeks before he could transfer, and she . . . . Because of her cancer she no longer had enough money saved to allow her to take unpaid leave. She wouldn't ask her mother to help either: her father's pension was good, but a lot less than they'd planned on, because no one had expected him to die years before he would have retired. She shut her eyes momentarily, then looked up at her boss. "I'll return to work. At this time I'd rather not be sent out of town on cases, so I'll take the position at Quantico." Still another nod, then Skinner stood up. "I'll tell Agent Mulder I ordered you back to work, so he doesn't feel guilty about your leaving." "He won't--_probably_ won't--understand or remember a word you're saying, sir. And I won't lie to him if he's aware enough to ask, when I have to leave." She felt the prickle of incipient tears and refused to let them flow. After a minute she was able to continue. "He'll feel guilty whatever we tell him, because none of this would have happened if he hadn't decided to see Dr. Goldstein." "All right, then, Agent Scully. You do as you feel best. Kim will call you with specifics when your temporary transfer back to Quantico is finalized." And with that he picked up his coat and hat and walked out. One week later 6:42am Mulder flinched and tried to pull his arm away when the blood pressure cuff inflated. Sheila cheered to herself. Finally! It had taken until yesterday to wean Mulder off the Phenobarbital, and only now was he starting to initiate anything. As she jotted down his BP, unwrapped the cuff, and tucked it into the holder on the wall, she wondered what kind of person he was when alert. Then she shook her head. She'd never know, because Audrey's adoption was supposed to be finalized this afternoon and she'd be on adoption leave. By the time she got back Mulder would have long since transferred to Washington, D.C. How could she have forgotten that? A weak grasp on her hand startled her enough that she squeeked an "Oh!" before she could get herself under control. Mulder was trying to get her attention; when she looked at him, he tried to say something. When only a croak came out, he frowned, cleared his throat and tried again. "Scully." Sheila smiled at him. He was as intent and focused as Dana had told them. And if Dana was his first concern, it looked like he might have escaped seizure-related brain damage. "It's not even 7am, Agent Mulder. Do you want me to call her and give her a message?" Better not to tell him right now that "Scully" was back in D.C. Mulder nodded, but again nothing came out when he opened his mouth. Before he could try again, Sheila picked up his water glass and guided the straw to his mouth. "Here. Take a sip and then try again." He got the most disgusted look she'd seen since her oldest child had tried his first bite of broccoli. A shudder while he swallowed and then Mulder said, "It's _warm_. Yuck!" Definitely no brain damage there! Sheila smiled again. "Sorry, Agent Mulder, doctor's orders: nothing cold or hot till you've been awake at least two hours. Now, do you want another sip?" She held the straw to his lips, encouraging him to take another drink just by the glass's proximity. He screwed up his face, but took another sip, and a third one, and then finished the entire glass, a full 180 cc's. So she reached for the pitcher to refill the glass, looking the question at him. A slight shake of his head, then Mulder simply wilted back into lethargy again. Quantico, Virginia FBI Academy, Pathology Department 6:51am Scully hastily hung her coat on the back of the door and snatched up the nearest office phone, wondering what kind of emergency couldn't wait till the department officially opened at 7:15 or until her boss arrived at 8:00. "Pathology." A momentary silence, then a tentative "Dana?" That was immediately followed by, "It's Sheila. You didn't answer at home, so I took a chance that you'd be at work already." Scully landed with a thump in the chair, totally unprepared to hear from anyone at the hospital, let alone the one nurse with whom she had become friendly, this early in the morning. It couldn't be bad news, could it? Suddenly her hand was shaking so much she had to lean forward and stab at the "speaker" button. Two tries later she put the receiver down and said, "Sheila, what's wrong? Has Mulder . . . ." She couldn't finish. "No! Nothing's wrong. Mulder's alert! He asked about you, and complained about the lukewarm water, and after drinking a whole glassful he just drifted off again." All she could think to say was a surprised "Oh". It was at least a day earlier than she'd expected, but then when did Mulder ever do the expected? Gathering her scattered thoughts, she said, "When the next person gets here, I'll tell him or her I have to leave. I should be able to be there by noon. If Mulder wakes up again before I get there, just tell him I was delayed. I'll explain myself." As it was, she barely had time to call her mom and Skinner before Matt stopped by to tell her the coffee was brewed. Five minutes later she was walking out the door, hurrying towards her car and the airport. * * * * * At 12:02 she was walking through the doors to the Neuro-ICU. Darlene, one of the day shift nurses, intercepted her. "He's been 'waking up' for a few minutes at a time all morning. Each time he's alert he asks for you; he doesn't remember that you've been delayed. He's oriented to person and place, but not to time, of course, and we've been instructed _not_ to ask if he knows why he's here." Dana nodded. Keep the stress down, in hopes that it wouldn't be such a shock if he remembered on his own. A much smaller chance of a seizure that way. "OK, I'll remember that. On the other hand, if he doesn't remember on his own when he's fully alert, or can't remember things we're telling him, I'm going to be very, very worried, because he has a photographic memory." "I'll make a note of that. We'll start keeping track of how much and exactly what he's able to remember." Another nod and Dana was free to go to Mulder's room. She stood at the door for a moment, looking at him. He was freshly shaved and bathed, including a shampoo. His hair looked weird because they carefully combed and taped it away from the scabs over the holes that Dr. Goldstein had drilled. It was a major miracle that Mulder hadn't gotten infections in those holes. _He_ certainly hadn't done anything to keep them clean. She stepped up to the bed, but before she could do or say anything, Mulder murmured, "Mmm?" His eyes were at half-mast, as if he wasn't sure whether he was waking up or drifting off again. She gently took hold of his nearer hand and said, "I'm here, Mulder. Open your eyes and say hello." It took another minute or so, then she saw his eyes open a bit more and felt his grasp tighten. "Scully." His voice was weak but happy. "I feel so . . . ." He trailed off. His eyes closed and his forehead wrinkled in an intense frown. ". . . so . . . ." Another pause. "Uh . . . can't think. Um . . . um . . . ." This time when he trailed off, Scully didn't know what to say. Mulder hadn't actually asked what was wrong, but she knew that's what he wanted to know and she also knew she wasn't supposed to tell him. Finally she settled on the literal truth, leaving out the reasons and hoping that he wouldn't insist on knowing those reasons. "You're coming off Phenobarbital, Mulder. You'll feel that way for a while yet." Another wait, then a fractional nod. "'f you say so." His grip went lax and he was gone again. After another couple of hours, Mulder was alert enough to hold a conversation, as long as she didn't mind repeating herself every five or so minutes. He complained about the warm water even as he drank it. He complained about how much the various electrodes itched and about the Foley catheter in general. He complained about the noise of the monitors and the bed rails being up, but most of all he complained about not being able to see anything except straight up toward the ceiling and down towards the foot of the bed. He seemed completely unaware of the padding inside his bed rails and he didn't actually question the things he complained about, as if he was unable to comprehend the concept of a question. Scully was beginning to seriously worry by 5p.m., because Mulder still wasn't thinking coherently. It was with real relief that she heard Dr. Jeff Smith's voice at the nurses' station. She excused herself to Mulder and left before he had a chance to say anything. "Jeff, I need to talk to you. Before you see Mulder." His eyebrows climbed, but he nodded. "Do we need privacy?" She shook her head. "No, it doesn't matter. I'm worried about Mulder's cognition. He should be thinking more clearly by now, if you got him off the Phenobarbital yesterday evening. On the other hand, I have no idea if this is an idiosyncratic reaction to the Phenobarbital or to the Dilantin, or brain damage from the seizures." "Has he ever taken Phenobarb before?" "Not that I know of. I wouldn't know about before he and I became partners, because he hasn't really talked that much about those days." She flinched when a monitor alarm went off and was immediately silenced, then realized it came from her right, not her left. It wasn't Mulder; Mulder was still OK. Jeff nodded again. "Then we'll start by assuming it's his personal reaction to the Phenobarb and wait till tomorrow. If he's still the same in the morning, Joel and I will discuss lowering his Dilantin dose. Only if we do that and there's still no change will we consider the possibility of brain damage. Don't forget that he's on the maximum safe dose of Dilantin, and side effects are a very real possibility." Scully felt herself relax for the first time since she'd started to worry over an hour ago. She thanked Jeff and, since he wanted to see Mulder, took the opportunity to get herself dinner before Mulder's dinner arrived. She wanted to see if he could feed himself yet, and more importantly, if he could figure out what to do when presented with his tray, with the cover on the plate and the sugar in packets and the plastic "silverware", napkin, and salt and pepper packets in that horrid little sealed plastic bag that you practically had to tear open with your teeth, even after you stabbed through it with the tines of the fork. * * * * * Breakfast was no better than dinner: he stared at the tray without making the slightest move toward taking any lids off or buttering and sugaring his oatmeal, which wasn't all that hot by the time the trays arrived. But once she did that, he fed himself, and even used the napkin competently. He didn't comment on the fact that his juice and milk were cold, and his coffee hot. He didn't start seizing again either. By mid-morning she was talking with one of the hospital psychologists, trying to give her an idea of how Mulder's mind worked, so that she would have an idea just how "off" this Mulder was. "If you ask him questions, or hold a simple conversation, he sounds fine. He answers nearly as quickly as normal and he remembers what we talk about. But he doesn't question anything, he . . . . No, it's not that he doesn't question, but that he doesn't _ask_ questions. Things bother him and he'll complain, but he doesn't seem to know there could be an alternative or how to fix things or how to ask someone else to fix them." "He can't 'problem solve'?" "Exactly! And that's not Mulder. When he starts asking when the IV and Foley can come out, and when he can get out of bed, and most of all when he starts insisting he's well enough to go home, that'll be the Mulder I know." A sudden horrible thought caught her unaware, but she forced it down and concentrated on Francine Milliken's next question. "What's his specialty? Aren't all FBI agents lawyers or accountants?" Scully smiled at that common misconception. "Not these days. You already know I'm a Pathologist. Mulder has a PhD in criminal psychology. He's licensed in D.C. but he never practiced: he joined the FBI right after he finished his clinical year. His specialty is profiling serial killers. His hobbies include--" After a short pause she said steadily, "His hobby is UFOs. He reads voraciously though, in a wide variety of subjects. He even read and apparently understood my undergraduate thesis, which was in quantum physics." That got her a pair of raised eyebrows and a quirked smile. "So I'm probably going to be testing someone who's more intelligent and certainly more widely read than I am. This could be interesting." She tapped her pen a couple of times on the yellow pad in front of her, then said, "I imagine that constantly dealing with serial killers would be terribly stressful. Has Mr. Mulder-- No, you said said he prefers just 'Mulder'. Has Mulder ever been in counseling?" "It's mandatory any time an agent has to shoot someone; Mulder's killed several people over the years. I was kidnapped and missing for nearly three months a couple of years ago. I imagine that Skinner--Assistant Director Walter Skinner, our boss--made him talk to someone then, too. But I don't think Mulder would have said anything important or revealing to the Bureau psychologists." Another nod. "He would know what they want to hear and would feed them the appropriate degree of anxiety or emotional distress initially, and then the appropriate lines about how he was coping. It's a familiar problem when one of our own doesn't think he needs help. But right now even that much of a response would be good, correct?" Room 233 Four days later 7:10pm "This is crap! Pure crap! I don't need an ambulance to take me back to D.C. Scully can drive me, or better still, I can fly. And I don't need to go in the hospital when I get back, either. I'm _fine_. I understand about the Dilantin. I'll be fine at home. Now sign the damn authorization so I can leave in the morning." Joel Smith put on his best 'You're being stupid but I'm too polite to mention it' face. "No." He let that single word sit in the silence of the room. Mulder froze, looking like a deer startled into immobility by oncoming headlights. Then he shook his head once, a denial of what he'd heard. "You can't--" "I can and I will, Mr. Mulder. You've read the official ruling from the FBI doctors. You know that your only hope of being a Field Agent again depends on your following _all_ of your doctors' orders until you've been off the Dilantin and seizure- free for six months. These are the first of those orders: you _will_ allow the IV and the electrodes that will monitor your condition, and you _will_ ride back to Washington in an ambulance, because you are _not_ going to be flying any time in the near future. You _will_ be admitted to Northeast Georgetown Hospital for 24-hour observation when you arrive in Washington. And when you're released you _will_ submit to regular blood tests while you're on the Dilantin to make sure you're taking it as ordered. "Now, are we in agreement?" When Mulder sulkily agreed and got back into bed so the technician could place the electrodes and run a baseline EEG, Joel finally let himself relax. Dana Scully had warned him, but he'd had a hard time believing that the passive, compliant patient in Neuro-ICU could turn into this argumentative, impatient man. For just a moment he let himself think about ordering a sedative for the morning. Then he told himself to behave. Besides the fact that it was unwarranted and therefore unethical, it wouldn't be a fair test of whether Mulder could avoid another major seizure on just the moderate dose of Dilantin he was currently taking. So Joel said goodnight and went to write the orders that would set things in motion for Mulder's discharge the next morning. Assuming everything went well overnight. En route to Washington, D.C. Between New York city and Philadelphia 11:25am Mulder's ambulance pulled off I-95 and into the McDonald's parking lot. Scully followed it to the far end of the lot, where the RV and 18-wheeler parking spaces were. She parked next to it, feeling completely dwarfed by the larger vehicles all around her. As she got out of her car she could hear Mulder arguing, and she hurried to the open back door of the ambulance to see what the matter was. ". . . to go in. I'm _not_ an invalid. I can walk, and I can order my own--" He caught sight of her. "Scully, you tell them. There's nothing wrong with me." He was sitting up, the back of the gurney raised to support him, the safety straps still fastened across his legs. He had his arms crossed and wore the "Mulder being stubborn" look that she'd come to recognize in all its variations over the years. So she simply smiled and said, "Of course you can go in, Mulder. As long as you don't mind parading around in your hospital gown and 'footies', holding your IV overhead and trailing EEG wires, with one of the paramedics one step behind you with the portable EEG machine." He actually cringed. Of course he wouldn't want to be seen like that, but he just hadn't thought about what "constant monitoring" would really entail. When he sheepishly acquiesced, she addressed the two paramedics. "Do you want me to bring you lunch?" When they shook their heads and Jim started for the restaurant, she said to Mulder, "I'll bring you something you can eat. Most of the stuff here is loaded with sodium and fat, and you've been on a controlled diet. And yes, I will bring you unsalted fries with extra ketchup if you agree to eat whatever else I bring." It was almost comical watching him struggle with the decision. Mulder loved MacDonald's French fries, but he also loved Big Macs and bacon-cheeseburgers. Finally he asked, "If I skip the fries, can I have a Big Mac? If I get the fries what's the 'whatever else'?" Scully had to shake her head to his first question. "No Big Mac. You can have a double-meat hamburger with mustard and ketchup, or a chicken salad with salad dressing and a small fries. Or you can skip the salad dressing and have a medium fries. And a large iced tea, of course." With a groan of anguish that belonged with life-altering decisions, not what to eat for lunch, he finally said, "Small fries and Thousand Island dressing on the salad. Can I have croutons, Scully? _Please_?" "Maybe. I need to see how much sodium and fat they have in them." Another forty-five minutes and Mulder was finishing the last of his tea and looking longingly out the back of the ambulance. Before he asked, she looked over his head at Mark to get his OK. When Mark shook his head "no" she had to say, "Sorry, Mulder, but Dr. Smith's transfer orders didn't include a stretch-your-legs break." * * * * * The rest of the nearly 9-hour trip passed without incident-- unless you considered their arrival at Northeast Georgetown Hospital part of the trip. She hadn't really thought about what lying or sitting on the gurney for that many hours would mean, and she certainly hadn't thought about him having to have the safety straps in place for the entire trip, including the strap across his chest and arms when he was lying down. When they reached his room, the nurse asked if he could transfer himself, and of course Mulder said he could. He swung his legs over the side of the gurney, stood up--and promptly collapsed into a heap on the floor, pulling out the IV and unsnapping or tearing off half the EEG electrodes. Chaos was the simplest term for what happened then. The paramedics tried to pick him up at the same time he tried to stand up himself, which was at the same time the nurse grabbed for his hand to staunch the bleeding from where the IV had been. Jim's foot slipped in the IV liquid now dripping onto the floor and he ended up half-sprawled across the bed. Mulder ended up right back on the floor with the nurse on top of him. And all that right in front of someone who turned out to be his new neurologist. Scully herself could do nothing but stand there and giggle. Her giggles stopped abruptly when she realized that she was the only person who had been in position to see everything that happened. Before things could get worse, she said, "Mulder, stop trying to get up! Let them do their jobs." Her loud command cut through the commotion. Mulder went passive and in less than two minutes he was in the bed with a small pressure bandage on the back of his left hand. Meanwhile, the doctor had stepped into the room, picked up the phone, and called for an IV nurse to come to room 512 stat, and then for an EEG technician, also stat. "Mr. Mulder, I'm Duncan Henry. I'm your neurologist. I'd like to hear what you think happened." Mulder nodded. "I stood up and grayed out from postural hypotension. The next thing I knew I was on the floor, so I tried to stand up." "Not another seizure? How can you be sure of that? Do you often have postural hypotension?" "Huh? Oh, no, only when I've been on strict bedrest for several days. And then the nurses or physical therapists are really careful. I never thought it would happen after only nine hours in bed." Scully interjected, "Nine hours without being able to move your legs, Mulder. That makes a big difference." Dr. Henry looked at her and asked, "Who are you?" She bridled at his condescending tone, but forced herself to answer politely. "Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D. I'm Agent Mulder's FBI partner." Dr. Henry's look dismissed her completely, as being unimportant and probably an interfering busybody. "Mr. Mulder, as soon as the IV is restarted and the EEG has been completed, I'm transferring you to Intermediate Care. I want you monitored around the clock for the next 48 hours. _I'm_ not convinced it was just postural hypotension, not with your history of reacting to acute stress with seizures." Mulder sat up abruptly. "Once! _One time_ I reacted that way. When I still had a lot of ketamine in me. Besides, this wasn't stressful. I've been in enough hospitals and been transferred to different rooms enough times that I know the routine. I also know the difference between graying out and--" "ENOUGH! You are being transferred. You have no say in it. Will you cooperate with the nursing staff while they examine you for injuries from when you fell or do I have to order a sedative?" A suddenly very subdued Mulder nodded and didn't say another word. Scully excused herself: Mulder wouldn't want her around when the nurse had him strip so she could do a complete skin check, looking for bruises and abrasions as well as any incipient or actual pressure sores, and recording all his scars and recent needle sticks. She found Jim and Mark sitting in the 2-North visitors' lounge, filling out their Incident Reports. She sat down at the table also and started on hers. Three questions down the page, she snorted in disgust. 'What action or inaction on your part contributed to the incident?' Hell, she had been on the other side of the bed when it happened! Mark looked up with a smile. "Question three, right? Wait till you get to number six." A glance at it, and then the entire form, and she was shaking her head in disbelief. Nowhere was there a place for an observer to report what he or she had seen. Every question assumed that the person filling out the form was somehow involved in what happened, and most of them assumed she was also a staff member. She ended up marking nearly every question N/A--Not Applicable-- and then she wrote "see back", where she described what she had seen. * * * * * By 6:30 Mulder was complaining loudly about the Foley catheter Dr. Henry had ordered, as well as the fact that he wasn't going to get anything to eat or drink till tomorrow morning. Scully was tempted to get dinner for herself and just let Mulder eat it, because she also thought that Dr. Henry was being overly cautious, as well as deliberately antagonistic. However, she decided to remind Mulder that everyone can have a bad day once in a while, and maybe today just happened to be Dr. Henry's. On her way back from dinner she stopped in the ER to talk to Dr. Anita Northcutt, who knew Mulder and had probably interacted with every physician in the hospital at one time or another. That talk completely overturned her impression of Dr. Henry. He was widely considered to be one of the best neurologists in the country, although definitely not one of the easiest to like, and he only took those cases that interested him. For him to be Mulder's physician meant that either the Drs. Smith or the Bureau physician, or all three of them, had specifically requested him, and _that_ meant that Mulder's return to work was nowhere near as cut and dried as she had assumed. She went back up to Mulder and said good night, using the excuse that she was exhausted from the all-day drive. In reality, she was planning to sit down with the copy of Mulder's chart that had come with him and read it all the way through, and then she was going to tackle Dr. Henry. Whether or not anyone was planning to tell Mulder his true prognosis, _she_ was going to know it. It was horrible. Since the Phenobarb had been stopped Mulder was having at least fifty petit mal seizures a day, all of them so short that only the constant EEG monitoring had picked them up. It was as if the "treatments" Dr. Goldstein had given him had caused minute short circuits throughout his brain. Dr. Henry would certainly live up to every bit of his reputation if he could cure Mulder. By the time she finished the entire chart, she had decided against talking to the doctor. He needed time to see for himself exactly how Mulder was doing, and to formulate a treatment strategy. The forty-eight hours of observation would also give her time to find out as much as she could about treatments for epilepsy: if Dilantin alone wasn't working, and effective levels of Dilantin plus Phenobarbitol made Mulder nearly a zombie, then there had to be alternate drugs, or alternate treatment choices. Two days later 9:00am Scully had the visitor's chair in Mulder's small room. She was armed with up-to-date information on all the current anti-seizure drugs, and three alternate treatments that seemed to be promising. Dr. Henry might be famous, but he wasn't going to be able to dismiss her as an interfering busybody today. Mulder sat up in bed, padded safety rails raised, IV in place, EEG electrodes peeking through his hair and wires trailing down to the transmitter box in the chest-pocket of his hospital gown. He just looked resigned. Whatever had happened between him and Dr. Henry over these past two days--things he refused to talk about--appeared to have taken all the fight out of him. On that depressing thought, the door opened and Dr. Henry walked in. His glance passed completely over her, and he stepped to the bedside and appropriated Mulder's over-bed table. Mulder's chart was plopped down on top of whatever was there, and flipped open to a specific page. "All right; here's what's going on." He spoke directly to Mulder, but that was to be expected. "You're having approximately two dozen petit mal seizures a day. You aren't aware of--" At that point, Mulder interrupted. "I _am_ aware of them." The neurologist almost sneered. "You can't be. They're too short. Now--" Mulder got his stubbborn look and interrupted again. "You're wrong. I don't know when I'm having one, but I know I've had them. I have an eidetic memory. When I think back about something, there are gaps. It's like watching a film with splices in it: a frame missing here and there." Mulder had the decency not to look smug while Dr. Henry simply looked stunned. It was probably the first time in years that anyone had dared to contradict him, let alone prove him wrong. After regaining his composure, the doctor continued. "Stress increases the number and frequency of seizures. The number dropped when I put you back on IV Dilantin, controlling the dose more closely. Dilantin plus Phenobarbitol completely control the seizures, but only at doses so high that effectively you're a vegetable. "I'm going to try you on the other anti-seizure drugs, and if none of them works alone, then I'll try all the safe combinations. My goal is no seizures at all for one year, at which time we see if your brain has healed itself. If I can't completely stop the seizures, we'll go with the drug, or drug combination, that offers the best control, which means the fewest number of seizures. There's no way of knowing now whether that 'best control' means pills or IV administration. "Surgery to cut the corpus callosum, the tissue connecting the two halves of the brain, is unlikely to help and therefore is not an option." Scully nodded to herself. She had learned that the surgery only helped if the seizures started in one hemisphere and spread to the other. As for the rest of what he had said, it was what she had been hoping for. When she looked at Mulder, he had on his "I'm thinking; don't interrupt me" look. Then he gave a decisive nod. "I assume you're going to insist I stay in the hospital while you're trying things out. What I want to know is, how much freedom will I have? Are you going to insist that I stay in bed that entire time? Because if you are, I'm leaving. I can live with the petit mal seizures just fine. I can't deal with being bed-bound indefinitely, especially when I feel fine." Scully was stunned. Mulder OK about being in the hospital?! _Mulder_ warning his doctor that he'd walk if they couldn't reach a safe compromise? These were things she would do. But not Mulder. She didn't have time for more thoughts because Dr. Henry was talking again. "Your freedom depends entirely on how well you're doing. With only petit mal seizures--no loss of consciousness, that is--you can have the freedom of the floor. You can't leave the floor because the EEG transmitter you're wearing won't reach further than that." He held up a hand to forestall Mulder's questions. "I know that sounds unreasonable now. I will be talking with the engineering department to see if they can come up with a better solution. I _want_ you to leave the floor. I need to see what happens when you climb stairs, work out in Physical Therapy, deal with the noise and bustle in the cafeteria, etc." It was a much happier looking Mulder who listened to the rest of what the doctor had to say. "In between each drug trial, and for at least twenty-four hours after starting a new drug, you'll be confined to bed. You will almost certainly be having seizures while we get you off each drug and before the next one reaches therapeutic levels." Another nod, then Mulder asked, "Can we get rid of the catheter? I get UTIs if it's in more than two or three days. If I'm going to have to keep the IV, then I want a central line, and I want it now. Do the bed rails have to be up whenever I'm in bed? That's a real nuisance when I need to go to the toilet. And lastly, do you really mean I'm free, or do you mean I have to be escorted whenever I'm out of bed?" Scully suppressed a smile. Mulder had definitely learned things from his various hospital stays. He certainly did get urinary tract infections easily. She couldn't think of a single hospital stay without at least one. As for the IV, in most hospitals sites were changed every three days. That meant a lot of needle sticks, whereas a central line went into a major vein, or was threaded directly into the heart, and could be left in place indefinitely. The escort question also was a good one. In her experience, a Mulder waiting for someone to help him out of bed was a very cranky Mulder. The neurologist's answers were short and to the point. "Catheter out, yes. Central line IV, yes. You decide which side. Bed rails down, no. I can't overrule hospital policy on that. Escorts depend on how mentally alert you are on any given day. If you're too confused or too groggy to understand that you can't get up alone, then you will be restrained. You'll need to sign a waiver for that. The ward secretary will bring it." He scribbled a note in the chart, flipped it shut, then said, "If there are no further questions, then I'll order the central line, and after that we'll get you off the Dilantin so we can try Tegretol." And with that, he was gone. The next three months were stressful for everyone. Tempers got short as drugs were tried and rejected, one after another, singly and in combination. Mulder got bored, of course. He mentioned, more than once, wanting to go back on the Dilantin and simply live with the petit mal seizures. Scully was able to talk him out of that: she reminded him of what they had gone through to get him to that stage of control. Since neither of them had liked Mulder as a zombie, that idea was shelved. Finally there was another conference, this time with Skinner, Mulder's case manager from the insurance company, and a stranger and her Seeing Eye dog, escorted in by Dr. Henry. Mulder's escort left as soon as Mulder sat down. They were in one of the meeting rooms because Mulder's room wasn't big enough for six people and a dog. Dr. Henry summarized things in a few sentences. "It's either this combination, delivered via a modified Insulin pump implanted in your abdomen, or we try to get you back onto the Dilantin alone. I don't recommend that. As I'm sure you know, the petit mal seizures have increased in severity these past three months, no matter what drugs we've tried. They're now long enough for you to be aware of about half of them. "But you've had no petit mal, and only four grand mal, seizures since we started the current drugs two weeks ago. The first time you fell and could have severely injured yourself because you were in the bathroom alone. Hence the escort now when you're up. "Which brings me to Alicia." She nodded while he was turning toward her. "Alicia agreed to come talk to you. She's had severe epilepsy for the last five years. Her seizure control isn't as good as yours, Mulder, and it almost disqualified her from getting a guide dog. Only the fact that she graduated from college with honors, in spite of the seizures, convinced them to accept her last year." At that point, he touched Alicia's arm and she took over. "One day during the first week of training, my dog started acting strange, pawing at me, not obeying orders to stop. Ten minutes later, I had a seizure. The same thing happened five more times before we finished training. Whitefoot was aware of the impending seizures and could warn me to call for help and sit or lie down. With him, I now live a nearly normal life and have a good job." Dr. Henry then said, "I want you to get a seizure dog, Mulder. Otherwise, my recommendation will be that you _never_ be alone. That will have profound implications for the rest of your life." The case manager took over. "This is the first case of its kind that our company has dealt with. After researching the issue of seizure dogs, we've decided to cover the day-to-day expenses involved in your owning such a dog, just as if he were a medicine you need to take. It's certainly less expensive than whatever hospital costs would be associated with your injuring yourself. "The modified insulin pump, the surgery to implant it, and the anti-seizure drugs are, of course, covered. Since Dr. Henry doesn't recommend trying to go back onto Dilantin alone or having the brain surgery, unless you can get two other doctors to overrule him, we won't cover the costs associated with either of those." Skinner cleared his throat, then asked, "Dr. Henry, how will the dog make it possible for Mulder to continue working?" "I'll let Alicia answer that." She smiled and turned somewhat in Skinner's direction. "Whitefoot stays with me all the time. At home, if we're alone and I start seizing before I've told him everything is taken care of, he pushs a button that activates a pre-recorded call to 911. At work, if no one is with me when I start seizing, he's trained to go find any of my co-workers. What usually happens is they stay with me until I'm alert, make sure I'm OK, and then we return to what we were doing. I'm lucky; I don't get super-sleepy after a seizure and can go right back to what I was doing." She reached down blindly to pat her dog. "And Whitefoot gets a big hug and a doggy treat for doing what he was trained for." Scully asked, "Where do you live?" "I'm living with my parents until I have enough money saved for a down payment on a house. I can't find anyone to rent me an apartment because of the liability issue if I'm alone when I have a seizure." "You're going to live alone?!" Mulder sounded nearly as stunned as Scully felt. "She has my blessings, Mulder. Since she got that dog she hasn't had a single seizure-related accident or injury. In fact, her seizure rate has gone down, which is probably due to the reduced stress she's under." Dr. Henry looked smug, as if he were personally responsible for Alicia's successes. Mulder openly turned toward Scully, but didn't say anything. It took her a few seconds to figure out why--he wanted to be sure she agreed with Dr. Henry that this was the best thing to do. Not only was it the best, it was over and above anything she had imagined when she realized his seizures were getting worse, not better. So she said, "Go for it, Mulder. Let's get you out of here and find that dog! And in the meantime, as soon as you and Skinner decide where you're going to work, I'll start looking at houses." Mulder enacted a mock heart attack. "Scully, are you proposing? Because if you are, the answer is 'no'. No one can come between me and my dog." Then he asked the room in general, "Where do I get a seizure dog? I only know of guide dogs for the blind and service dogs for the physically handicapped." There was a long silence before the case manager said, "I'm not aware of any specific organization training seizure dogs. That's not to say that there aren't any, just that I didn't run across any when I was researching the subject." Another long silence, this one tinged with discouragement, then Alicia said, "I'll try training a dog for you, if my employer gives me permission to bring another dog to work, and my parents let me. They already have a dog, so that would be three dogs in the house at once. "I just have to figure out how to train your dog not to be a guide dog also!" On that note of humor, the meeting broke up. FBI Academy cafeteria Six months later 12:30 "So, Mulder, how's it going?" Scully stabbed blindly at her salad, not caring what she ended up with. She had her attention focused on Mulder. With him taking a heavy load of classes here at the Academy and her undergoing a new, very experimental cancer treatment that seemed to be working, they hadn't seen much of each other recently. Mulder shrugged. "It's going. A house of my own is a lot more work than I expected. I really would prefer an apartment if I could get anyone to rent to me at any reasonable rate." Scully snorted. "That's _not_ what I meant, and you know it. The job, Mulder, the _job_. How do you like your new job?" This time she deliberately aimed at a piece of chicken. Chicken--meat; meat--flesh; flesh--Mulder. A Mulder who was sitting across the table, too far away for her to poke him with her finger. "Too soon to tell. The classes were . . ." He trailed off, and after a pause, finally offered, "interesting. Who'd a thunk? 'Spooky' Mulder in management. After I pass probation in the new rating, I'll probably end up managing a field office in East Nowhere, with two agents and a secretary." He grinned at her. "Maybe one day I'll be your boss again. What would you think about that?" That earned him a grin in return. "I think I'd like that. At least I'd get to see Rachel more often that way." At the sound of her name, Mulder's dog "woofed". "Shh, Rachel. We're in public." Mulder reached down to pet her before continuing. "You're welcome to visit any time, Scully. You know we both enjoy your company. Rachel especially enjoys seeing you. I think she somehow knows you're special, that you really know what to do if something should go wrong. She's much more relaxed when you're around." Scully carefully slipped her fork underneath a piece of avocado that was too soft to spear. It was either that, or let Mulder see how much she was affected by what he oh-so-carefully wasn't saying: he liked having her around for a lot more reasons than her medical skills. By the time the avocado was safely on the fork, she was sure she had her face and voice under control. "I'll take you up on that. How about dinner tomorrow? You cook, of course." "Of course." Author's note: This version of What =Really= Happened II comes to you courtesy of The Learning Channel, which aired a show on "medical" dogs, who help people in ways I never would have imagined.