TITLE: Your Soul In My Heart

AUTHOR: Katvictory & Roda 93

DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere, but let us know

SPOILER WARNING: Several, through Milagro

RATING: NC 17; for language and subject matter might be intense

CLASSIFICATION: Story, M&S UST, Mulder/Scully Angst

KEYWORDS: Mulder torture, Angst

SUMMARY:  After waking up in his car, with no recollection of events,
Mulder suffers some unusual and frightening symptoms. 

Authors Notes: This is a tribute to my grandfather, Angus Mc Kinnon, who
passed away in 1988, after battling Alzheimer's for 6 years. This story
was a catharsis, helping me to deal with the memories of his long, painful
decline. It also let me share a story of a child, a double Ferris wheel,
and a love that touched the stars.


Your Soul in My Heart
 
by Katvictory & Roda93

 "What is the glue that holds a relationship together when one person in
it has changed so drastically? I think it's love. Love, and affection, and
respect, and a feeling of what you have gone through together up to this
time. And a feeling that you have a responsibility to take it as far as
you can." -
    Robert Lumpkins



<><><><><> Chapter 1 <><><><><>



One of life's great mysteries is wherein lies the soul -- in one's heart
or in one's mind. Great philosopher that I am, I once believed that the
mind was the receptacle of man's essence. Now I'm not so sure, because I'm
still here. I still have my soul, e ven though for a time my mind was gone
and it was my partner's heart that saved me. 

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

I woke up with a pounding headache, sitting behind the steering wheel of
my car, which was parked on the street in front of my apartment building.
My first clear thought, after some of the cobwebs had left and I'd taken
in where I was and how I must have spent at least part of the night, was
that I really didn't want my partner, Dana Scully, to find out about this. 

You see, this was not the first time I'd woken up some place, with a
pounding headache, and no memory of how I'd gotten there. The lump I felt
on the back of my skull actually made me happy, because it meant that at
least this time I hadn't been crazy eno ugh to allow someone to drill
holes in my head. But I still didn't want Scully to know that I had been
knocked out again and couldn't remember who did it or why. 

Luckily, it was Saturday and I had no place to go and nothing to do. I
went on up to my apartment, fell dead asleep on the couch and didn't wake
up until Sunday noon. Now, that could have dangerously stupid on my part,
since I had been hit on the head. As it turned out, a mere concussion 
was the least of my problems. 



Scully pounding on my door is what woke me Sunday. It seems she'd been
calling all day Saturday and I'd slept through the phone ringing. I was
half asleep when I answered and I guess I appeared pretty disheveled,
because her look of concern quickly turne d to one of disgust when she saw
I wasn't dead or dying. She actually thought I had been on a drinking
binge, that I had been sleeping it off and woke to answer her knock with a
hangover -- like that has happened so often, me getting drunk and having
los t a weekend. 

I tried to cover for my missing memory by telling her I had a 24-hour bug
of some kind, but that I felt fine now, just a little shaky. She didn't
buy into my excuse for one minute, but her ideas on the truth kept her
from saying anything to me at that tim e, so I thought I'd gotten away
with it. I don't know if I was having some affects from the illness then
or if I was fuzzy that morning because of my bump to the head. All I know
was I was still tired and wanted to go back to sleep. I told her as much,
us ing the excuse that I wanted to rest up for work tomorrow. Scully,
having other suspicions, pursed her mouth in annoyance and shrugged. 

"You *are* going to be *well* enough to be in tomorrow, aren't you?"  She
asked pointedly, heading out into the hall. 

I did catch her tone this time, but was too weary to care, "Yeah," was all
I said and I just might have slammed the door behind her. Or maybe the
wind caught it. 

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

By Monday morning, I felt like my old self. I was in the office at my
usual time...two hours before my partner and took that alone time as a
chance to figure out what I had been doing Friday after work that might
have led up to me waking up in my car with  a huge egg on the back of my head. 

Sometimes, I could kick myself for being so paranoid, because I found no
clue to let me know what happened to my 'missing time.' I didn't think I'd
been abducted, but as it stood then, the last thing I remembered was lunch
with Scully at a deli down the s treet from the office. From the way my
reports looked, and from messages I'd gotten, I saw I must have left early
from work, around 2:30 in the afternoon. 

What had I told Scully was my reason for leaving? I had no idea and was
trying to figure out how to discover what my excuse had been when she
showed up. I put a big smile on my face, to keep her from being
suspicious, but it didn't work. 

"Now what?" she asked, tossing her things on her desk and walking over to
me a frown darkening her face, "We're going to Texas again?" 

I was taken aback by her question and a little hurt. "Great, can't I even
smile at you anymore?" 

Her face softened a bit, and she looked a little embarrassed at having
jumped to conclusions, but she walked over to my desk. Apparently, she had
a bone to pick with me. 

"Sorry. I'm just still pissed because you left Friday without telling me." 

'Well,' I thought to myself, 'At least I won't have to try to guess what I
told her.' But I knew I'd have to come up with a reason for leaving early
and because I really didn't know why I'd left, it would most likely be a
lie. I knew it had better be a go od one. 

"Wasn't anything too important, just an old friend. We met for drinks. I
knew him in college." 

I'm good, huh, covered everything. My mind was certainly firing on all
cylinders at this point. Little did I know what lay ahead. 

I watched Scully's expression and she believed me. In fact, it played
right along with her suspicions that I'd been hung over on Sunday, so much
to my relief, the matter was dropped. We had a slow day, finishing up
reports -- busy work, mostly. 

Looking back on it, Scully claims I had my first episode of dementia then,
a little thing that means nothing, until it's added to all the other small
events. She still blames herself. For not realizing something was wrong
with me. Nothing I say helps her, still, I've tried to let her know I 
don't blame her at all. 

I left the office, to take some reports to Skinner's secretary. When I
came back, Scully wasn't in her chair, she had gone to the ladies room.
About an hour later, after I'd finished up a few more reports, I decided
to turn in all our work at once. I gath ered her files and was checking
through the folders, when I noticed some missing. 

"Scully, what did you do with the Albany Reports?" I asked, spreading the
files out on her desk in order to recheck them. 

Scully looked at me in surprise, "What?" 

"The Albany files, remember? Albany, secretary at DMV, claims she's giving
driving tests to aliens? I gave them to you not more than an our ago. Did
you take them up to Skinner when I went to the head?" She was staring at
me like I'd grown another head an d I was becoming a little perturbed. 

"No-o-o." 

"What do you mean 'No-o-o'?" I was becoming angry. I could feel my face
growing red, so I took a deep breath to calm myself. I didn't know why my
emotions were flaring but from the look on Scully's face, I knew my
response was entirely inappropriate. Mayb e she was only teasing me, and I
was totally overreacting. "Come on, Scully." 

"Mulder, I went to the rest room and you took them up to Skinner." 

She was studying me now and I guess my face went pale. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" She was on her feet and feeling my cheek
before I knew it. She was examining my face, searching for signs of
illness. "You were really sick Saturday, weren't you?" 

She looked crushed and I felt horrible about misleading her, but selfish
bastard that I am, I let her go ahead and think she'd misjudged me. I
wasn't about to tell her about getting hit on the head and waking up in my
car, and I'd dug a hole too deep with my lies to stop now. 

"I told you," I muttered. My memory lapse bothered me, though, and I had
sustained an injury, so I lied to get her professional opinion on what
could be wrong with me. "I was so weak Sunday morning I fell and hit my
head. See? Feel here?" 

I showed her my bump, wincing as she probed it with sure fingers. 

"Mulder! Did you lose consciousness?" Scully asked, holding my face so she
could check out my pupils. "Maybe you should see a doctor." 

I was getting tired of every answer having to be a lie. I was getting in
over my head now. I grabbed her hands and gave her my best grin. 

"No, I think I'm just a little woozy from having the Hershey squirts all
day Saturday," She blanched at my crude description of my "illness" and I
knew I could soon make her drop the matter. "How 'bout if you just take me
home and we can play doctor?" 

That did it, the matter was dropped. Scully gave me her "Oh brother,
Mulder" look and returned to her chair. 

"Well, do you mind taking these up?" I asked hoping I wasn't pressing my
luck, holding the files out to her. 

I wasn't. She must have still felt guilty because she even gave me a
little smile before she left to turn in our reports. 

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

The week passed quickly. We investigated a couple of UFO sightings in the
area, a so-called demon-possessed murderer, but nothing that panned out in
any of the calls. We finished up mountains of long-put-off paperwork and
did research on unsolved cases, o f which in the X-Files there is always
more than I care to admit. All in all, a slow week for the paranormal. To
be honest, given my quickly-unraveling mental state, it was very fortunate
indeed. Had we had a case like most of the ones we take, either Sc ully or
I might have wound up dead. We both need to be in top form to survive our
usual investigations. And I definitely wasn't at my best. 

Scully noticed I was on edge, that something just didn't seem right with
me, but I am an expert at hiding things, having had lifelong experience.
I, on the other hand, was starting to believe there was a plot underway to
drive me insane. Little things wer e missing, people would tell me one
thing and then do another. Once, someone even hot-wired my car and moved
it to another place in the parking lot. My emotions were in turmoil and
because THEY were so clever in their fiendish plot, I never could recover
any proof, so I couldn't even tell Scully what was going on. 

Monday of the second week brought everything to a head. I woke up, went to
my closet and found all of my clean suits -- suits that I always put in
Friday afternoon at the 24-hour cleaners to pick up on Saturday for the
week ahead, dirty on the floor. I ha d nothing to wear for work. A quick
smell check produced the suit I wore Friday as the best choice and I
hurried on to work, my temper flaring at this, the latest of THEIR
persecution. I was going to inform Scully of the plot against me, I had
proof now a nd she and I together would find out who THEY were. 

Since I was running late, I didn't have to wait long for my partner's
arrival, nor, once she took in my appearance did I have to explain that
I'd had a problem with my wardrobe. 

"Mulder, Skinner's going to kill you if he sees you like that," she
announced after one glance of my attire with her hypercritical eye. "
That's the same suit you wore Friday." 

That was all it took for me to begin my tirade. I was too irate to notice
that her first look was one incredulous disbelief when I put forth my
"Let's-drive-Fox-Mulder-crazy" conspiracy theory. I didn't catch her
expression until I was winding down and by then her look was one of 
pure fear and concern which I read as sympathy for me and support of 
my belief I was getting the "gaslight" treatment by some unknown enemy. 

"Did they take your razor too?" she asked calmly, when I'd finally paused
to take a breath. 

Her question caught me by surprise and my hand flew to my face. That
morning, in my anger and frustration over finding my clean clothing
violated, I had forgotten to shave. I moved to the mirror we had hung on
the coat closet for spot inspections of our g rooming and discovered I had
neglected my hair and personal hygiene, too. I stood there stunned,
shocked by my appearance. The man in the mirror was a stranger to me.
Something bad was happening here, but it wasn't what I'd thought.
Realization hit like a  ton of bricks. What was wrong with ME? 

I turned to see Scully standing right behind me, her eyes full of concern.
All anger was gone, I began to cry. She came to me with out stretched arms
and I melted into her. 

"Something's wrong," I whispered to her as she held me. 

"I know," she answered, smoothing my hair, rocking me as she calmed me.
"Don't worry, we'll figure it out." 

It felt like a weight had been lifted. Scully knew, and she would take
care of everything. I didn't have to worry any more. I wiped my face with
my sleeve and offered her a reassuring smile that I felt better now. 

"I'm going to call Skinner, then we'll take you in and get you checked
out, okay?" She spoke slowly, almost as though to a child, but I was too
exhausted and relieved to care. I felt like a child at that moment and she
was better at mothering than anyone I had ever known." Mulder, have you
been having headaches?" she asked checking my eyes. "This could be from
when you fell, when you were sick." 

Now I'm used to feeling like a shit, I know I am a true bastard. I just
normally don't cry about it, but the way my emotions were on that day, I
broke down again. I had lied to her and it was time to 'fess up to my
sins. 

"Scully," I sobbed, hanging my head in guilt. "I didn't hurt my head
falling, I wasn't sick Saturday. I must have gone somewhere Friday after
work and gotten into some kind of trouble, 'cause I woke up in my car..." 

"You don't remember what happened!!" she interrupted me, jumping to the
correct conclusion thanks to almost seven years as my partner. 

My tears began anew at being caught and all I could do was nod. 

"We'll call Skinner from the hospital," was all she said as she quickly
led me out the door. We hurried down to the car and she expertly
maneuvered through traffic to get me to the emergency room in record time.
I knew she was frightened by my revelations  and I reasoned that I should 
be too, but I just felt relief that she was now handling everything. 
I could relax, Special Agent Dana Scully was in charge.


 <><><><><><> Chapter 2 <><><><><><>



"Who are you?" said the Caterpillar. 

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied,
rather shyly, "I--I hardly know, sir, just at present. At least I know who
I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed
several times since then." 

   "What do you mean by that?" said the Caterpillar sternly. "Explain
yourself!" 

  "I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir" said Alice, "because I'm not
myself, you see." 

- Lewis Carroll

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

Scully made sure I got treatment immediately. She walked right in and
loudly informed the staff that I was showing signs of dementia after
sustaining a head injury that had gone untreated for 10 days. I needed to
see someone STAT. That certainly got the b all rolling. It must have been
a slow day in ER because almost every person there responded to her, or it
might have been that my little auburn-haired dynamo of a partner just
knows how to get things done. Plus she was armed. 

I was clad in a nightgown, IV started and undergoing a CAT scan, all
within 30 minutes of our arrival. Scully stayed by my side the entire time
except for when I was having the actual test. That must have been when she
contacted Skinner to inform him of w hat was going on. Our supervisor told
her to keep him abreast of what was happening and assured her that he
would make note that the injury happened while I was working. 

I often wonder what the powers that be at the bureau make of some of our
insurance claims, For example, being attacked by a Moth Man isn't just
your run-of-the-mill, on-the-job injury. 

I was unusually calm and complacent during this part of the ordeal, which
frightened my partner all the more. They admitted me first thing because I
was showing definite signs of being disoriented. The CAT scan appeared
inconclusive, so they started routi ne tests there in the emergency room,
while my bed in the main hospital was being readied. 

A young staff doctor came in to ask some preliminary questions. The kid
looked like he shaved at least once a month, whether he needed to or not.
I tried to make sense of what he was saying to me, but it was as though he
was speaking in a foreign language  and I was too out of it to even be 
alarmed by this fact. I just looked up at Scully and shrugged. She, 
however was terrified by this development, but proceeded to lean over 
and repeat what the kid had asked. I was able to comprehend her for some 
reason, so I answered. 

So it went. If it hadn't been so scary it would have been funny. The young
medic would ask a question, Scully would translate it for me, and I would
answer if I could. One thing that concerned them was I had lost more than
20 pounds since my last visit, n ot too good a thing with my already lean
and lanky frame. The early tests showed me to be dehydrated and anemic, so
one of their questions was when I had last eaten. I honestly couldn't
remember and Scully couldn't recall when the last time she'd seen me
consume anything but coffee. Then it hit her. SHE hadn't seen me eat a
thing since our luncheon at the deli the day this all started. 

Now, I've been in this and almost every other emergency room in and around
the DC area and my reputation proceeds me. I think they have it written
down in my Guinness world record size files -- Fox Mulder, refer to
proctology, a pain in the ass. It was th at very fact that had them all so
concerned this time. My odd personality change. I did show them a little
of the old Mulder they knew and despised before I left the ER, though. 

Right at the end of the interview, when Scully followed the one young
doctor out in the hall to discuss some aspect of my care, another child
came in to start a test. My reaction to his attempt at prepping me, had
Scully not intervened, probably would have caused me wind up in restraints
on the psyche ward. 

The unsuspecting intern came in and without a word swabbed down my back.
As it turned out, he was not trying to perform the spinal tap, he was just
getting things ready, but I didn't know that at the time. I had almost
drifted off to sleep until I felt a cold, wetness on my lower spine. I
opened one eye, and watched this infant walk around in front of me and
pick up a tray with a huge lumbar needle on it. 

"Get away from me with that fucking thing," I hissed, my displeasure
evident. I leapt off the table and raced for the door, gown flapping. 

Doogie Howser didn't quite know what to do, he'd most likely never lost a
patient this way. I don't think he wanted an escape on his record, because
he foolishly stepped in front of me. That's when the screaming match
began. I honestly think I would have hurt the little pisser if Scully
hadn't stepped in and calmed me down. 

I didn't get away with not getting the test, but the kid was no where in
sight when they finally did it. Some good did come from the episode,
because after that my partner had them write in large letters on my
chart...DO NOT PERFORM ANY TEST OR PROCEDURES UNLESS DR. DANA SCULLY IS
PRESENT. So Scully got a mini-vacation from work during my hospital stay. 

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

I fell asleep, dead to the world, the minute they finally got me to my
room. What followed over the next few day were endless tests and countless
examinations. Most were not really painful, just very tiring. They all
turned out to be pretty much useless a nd inconclusive. My doctor, a man
named J.T. Johnson, explained that all they could find was that I might
have been hit on the head one too many times. He informed that my problem
most likely was boxer's dementia, caused from too many concussions, what
la ymen call being punch drunk. 

It was not a good diagnosis for a field agent. I was informed I was to be
released Saturday and cursed with a mandatory six-week sick leave, at the
end of which I would be reevaluated. It appeared my condition had been
irritated by the fact I was sufferin g from malnutrition and exhaustion,
both of which in themselves can cause some dementia. I was to go home and
had strict orders to rest and build my strength up. 

I was not very happy with what he had said and Scully read it in my face.
That's when she presented a plan that she, A.D. Skinner and the doctor had
cooked up. It seems that if I were to spend my convalescence at Scully's
house, rather than my own apartme nt alone, all parties agreed that the
six weeks could be retroactive to the date I was injured. I reluctantly
agreed. Scully beamed. She really didn't know what she was letting herself
in for. So, thus began Dana Scully's sentence as my primary caregiver. 


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

I had stayed the entire night at Scully's once, maybe twice, the whole
time we'd been together. She does have a really nice place, a bit too
feminine for my taste, but all in all fairly user-friendly. She put me up
in a room that wasn't too frilly and it had a really great mattress. I
also had the run of the house during the day, while she was at work. My
time there wasn't too bad, especially given the differences in our taste
and personalities. We made do. I tried not to be a total slob and she
checked h er picky nagginess at the door. 

I was symptom free-for almost two weeks and my emotional outburst had
quieted. The tiredness and lethargy had left while I was still in the
hospital, so I was back to my old hyperactive self, which did prove to be
a problem. Too much time, too little to d o. That might have been why the
symptoms started showing up, I really don't know -- nobody knows much
about the illness. And the only way they can find out if you have it for
sure is by biopsy or autopsy. 

At first, I blamed it on my restlessness. A.D. Skinner called each day to
see how I was progressing and I think this is what spurred my next phase
of delusions. I was starting to notice some little memory lapses during my
second week at Scully's. They mig ht even have been just normal
forgetfulness, but paranoia began to rear its ugly head. I wanted so much
to go back to work and I somehow got in my head that she was reporting to
our supervisor my every move. Trying to hide my slips and cover my ass
just m ade me more agitated. 

Monday of the third week, I was cooking myself some breakfast and I sat
down to watch Sports Center, forgetting completely about my omelet. I was
jarred into remembering by the clanging smoke alarm and rushed into see
her ruffled window curtains on fire. I put out the blaze, packed up my
things and caught a cab home. What was I thinking? What was that supposed
to solve? I don't know. My brain couldn't process the logical and
reasonable response on how to react to what had happened. And I knew
Scully would tell Skinner. My career would be over. So I ran. 

She, of course, followed me. I had her outsmarted, though. I bought a
chain lock on the way home, so even with her key she couldn't get in. She
stood out in the hall begging me to come home with her. I accused her of
being a snitch. The yelling match ende d with me running into the bathroom
and turning on the shower so I couldn't hear her pleas. When it grew
quiet, I turned off the water. She was still there waiting, but she tried
a different tactic. She promised to leave, if I'd call her. Then she left. 

I fell into an exhausted sleep on my couch only to wake up at 6 AM. My
inner clock must have been triggered by the familiar surroundings, because
at Scully's I had been sleeping until almost nine. I got up, dressed in
one of the suits my partner had graci ously had cleaned for me and after a
mad search for my weapon, in which I totally destroyed my apartment, armed
myself and went to work. 

Jack, the guard that works the late shift, was still on duty. 

He had no idea I was not supposed to be back, so he let me pass with a
smile and a "glad you're better." I went down to the office happy as a
clam and picked up where I had left off, doing reports. 

Scully went to my apartment to bring me back home with a bolt cutter and a
prayer that I had not found my pistol. She was disappointed on both hopes.
She called Skinner to check to see if I had gone to the office. He saw
that I had and she told him she al one should be the one to fetch me. He
reluctantly agreed. She didn't mention I was armed and said another prayer
Skinner would keep his word and let no one come near me. 

When Scully walked in, I flashed a big grin at her, all out differences of
the day before forgotten. For a while at least. We conversed about our
plans for the day, her leading the fanciful conversation because I had no
idea what had been happening in my absence. Skinner rang in, apparently
getting worried that we had not emerged from the office. It was one of the
few mistakes I'd ever seen the man make. Scully talking on the phone
triggered my spy delusions and I sprang from the desk, flew across the roo
m and jerked the telephone from her. 

When I heard Skinner's voice, I lost what little reason I had. I slammed
the receiver across Scully's jaw. Without a sound she dropped to the
ground, stunned. Blood trickled from her mouth. 

*I hit you!*

I don't remember much about that horrible day, but I will never forget the
expression on her face when she looked up at me from the floor. Fighting
tears, she reached a shaking hand out -- trying to calm ME, wanting to
help ME. 

"I hit you," I whispered, stunned. The telephone fell from my hands,
jangling when it hit the floor. 

She struggled to push herself up by using the desk. She saw my weapon in
my holster. 

"I hit you," I repeated. 

Scully walked slowly toward me, forcing a smile across her bruised, bloody
face. 

"I hit you," I stated in the same monotone, stuck in a groove that burned
my words into my brain. 

"Mulder you have a gun," she stated, loudly enough so anyone listening to
the phone could hear her warning. 

"I have a gun," I mimicked, trying to let her know that my words were a
fact. I had forgotten how to speak, except to ape what I heard and those
three frightening words... 

"I hit you." 

Scully held out her hand, "I'm okay, Mulder," she lied, moving closer.
"Mulder, can I have your weapon?" 

I took out my gun and placed it in her hand. 

"I have your gun, now, Mulder," she announced to the listeners, then
hastily added, "And you're leaving with me. Right?" 

"Right," I answered, walking over to her. 

She took me in her warm arms and I leaned heavily against her, as she
opened the door. 

"I hit you," I cried, broken forever by the truth in my words. 

"It's okay," she whispered, catching A.D. Skinners eye. 

My supervisor... my friend, signaled the armed agents to move away and let
Scully and I pass, following behind us to make sure we were untouched on
our way out to her car. 

Scully paused as she opened the door to get me my seat and she offered
Skinner a teary look of thanks as she handed him my fully loaded weapon. I
saw his face as he nodded to her and he caught my eye as he shut the door. 

"I hit her," I told him, sobbing in guilty anguish. 

He nodded again. There was nothing else to say. 



<><><><><><> Chapter 3 <><><><><><>



"At first, friends, relatives, and coworkers notice increasingly
persistent forgetfulness, mild personality changes, minor disorientation,
frequent loss or misplacing of familiar items, and mild difficulties
finding the right word (aphasia) or performing arithmetic calculations.
The affected individual may or may not be aware of these changes. This is
Stage 1 Alzheimer's disease. 

As the disease progresses to moderate Alzheimer's disease, memory
deteriorates more noticeably, inappropriate use of words becomes more
frequent, and the person begins to lose the ability to perform normal
tasks of daily living (cooking, dressing, bathing , shopping, balancing a
checkbook, etc.). Affected individuals may wander off, become agitated,
confuse day and night, and fail to recognize friends and relatives with
whom they are not very close. 

In the final stage of severe Alzheimer's disease, affected individuals
become uncomprehending and mute. They lose all ability to care for
themselves, become incontinent, and are unable to feed, dress, and bathe
themselves. " 

Taken From Alzheimers.com

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

I look at these words on the computer screen and my stomach knots. I know
Scully must have seen them or ones very much like them as soon as the
doctors amended their diagnosis to "Severe dementia/early-onset Alzheimer
type. Which in essence meant it looks like Alzheimer's, _he_ acts like 
its Alzheimer's, so it must be Alzheimer's. The wonders of modern medicine. 
Short of them taking a biopsy or doing my autopsy, they couldn't know. 
Scully was there, when Dr. Johnson came into the room to tell me, a week 
after I was admitted. 

But, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm not totally recovered yet, as you
can tell by my rambling disjointed tale, so guess I better start up where
I left off. 

Scully got me back to the hospital.  A.D. Skinner had called ahead, so
they were ready for me, but apparently, they were not prepared for the
remorseful, shivering, half-conscious mass of humanity that arrived at
their door. Our supervisor had told them I  might be showing signs of 
violence. They were confused, but one look at Scully with her bruised 
and battered jaw and they had me in restraints, even with her pleading 
against them. I can't say that I blame them, given the sight of my 
partner as evidence. 


I didn't fight, I actually didn't even care what they did to me. The only
words out of my mouth proclaimed my guilt and I deserved whatever they did
to me. 

"I hit her," I told anyone who came close. 

Scully, knowing that the marks on her face were a constant reminder to
what I had done, found the time somewhere to clean herself up. She
returned to me with the blood washed off and I think she had even applied
a little makeup to conceal my sins. It didn 't work. 

"I hit you," I whispered, as she moved beside me and grabbed my hand. 

"I'm fine, Mulder," she said, whispering the words that became a mantra in
response to my three-word litany. Her gentle hand smoothed my hair back
and I began my whimpering sobs anew. 

Another CAT scan, another spinal tap, more tests, then let's do them all
again, until finally the decision was made to give out a death sentence. 

They ruled out vitamin deficiency, lead poisoning, kidney failure, thyroid
problems, syphilis, HIV, meningitis, encephalitis, brain tumor, stroke,
and last, but certainly not least -- good old Creutzfeldt -Jakobs. Scully
certainly had to have breathed a s igh of relief that I hadn't eaten any
infected brains lately. 

By that time, they had started Xanex for depression and a new drug,
Aricept, to slow my cognitive decline. They seemed to help, for I regained
much of my ability to speak, though I still had trouble stringing complex
thoughts together vocally. What did up set me was that I lost the ability
to read. Single words I could understand, but more than that and the
written word became incomprehensible. What baffled the doctors was the
rapid progression of the illness, though. Because it was so rare in people
of my age, they couldn't even say how things would progress. They were very
interested in studying me, because no one knows what causes Alzheimer's to
develop, so I allowed myself to become their guinea pig. 

That week in the hospital, being poked and prodded, I did a lot of
thinking. Yes, I could still think. Not always clearly, not always
logically, but losing some of my communicative skills left me little place
else to go but into my mind. Being diagnosed w ith an incurable
mind-degenerating disease makes you wonder about your future. In my case,
I hoped, if the diagnosis was true, my future would be short. 

I had nowhere to go. I couldn't ask my mother to take care of me.
"Wouldn't" and "couldn't" are words that come to mind with her. I didn't
even bother to call her and tell her I was ill. It was hard enough to make
myself understood to others, much less tr ying to make myself understood
to a woman who never understood me my entire life. If and when I left the
hospital, going home to Mother's was not an option. 

But, there WAS no where else - -except a nursing home. The thought chilled
me, but I could see there was no other option. I knew Scully was going to
try to argue with me that I could return to her home. I'd already made up
my mind that wasn't going to hap pen. But, I needed my partner to
understand my wishes and help me to carry them out. She was the only
person I could turn to for help, and I had a feeling that time was not
going to be on my side. 

The morning after Dr. Johnson had told Scully and me the diagnosis, Scully
was back up at the hospital early. I was still trying to gather enough
courage to eat what they had given me for breakfast. It was a Saturday,
and she came up ready to spend the da y with me. 

"Hungry?" I smiled, offering her a spoon of my wonderful egg substitute
omelet. 

"No, thanks, I've had my breakfast," she replied, and her expression
relayed her disgust at my meal. 

"I'm full, too," I said pushing the tray aside, with a shrug. 

She took her place in the chair beside me, where she'd been every chance
she'd had since I been hospitalized. I looked at her, studying her face,
hurting at seeing the dark shadow that marred her chin, now fading to a
yellowish-brown. I knew I had to tell her my decision today, this morning. 

"Scully, I need you to help." I spoke slowly, the only way I could, to get
anything more than monosyllables past the barrier that had sprung up
between my thoughts and my tongue. 

She started to come over to aid me, but I held out my hand to stop her
from rising, quickly shaking my head. 

"No, I need you to find me a home." The minute the words left my mouth I
knew she would misconstrue my meaning, so I hastily tried to amend them.
"A nursing home." 

There was no way for her to misunderstand that. I should have foresaw her
reaction, though. I knew what kind of strain all this had put her through.
That was what I was trying to relieve, some of the pressure she was
putting on herself to care for me. Her  eyes misted over to shine a 
crystal blue and her bottom lip began to tremble as she fought her 
tears. I began to tear up myself, wishing I could say what I had 
locked inside. 

"Please," I whispered. " It's what I want." 

She turned her head, and I could see the small shoulders square as she
struggled and won her battle for control. 

"Okay, but in Georgetown, It has to be in Georgetown," she insisted. 

I needed to be near her, too. I nodded. 

"Mulder, you don't need a rest home." 

The unspoken *yet* hung in the air. 

"Well, first, you're coming back home with me," Sully stated bluntly. She
saw my frown and gave me her most coquettish smile, the one where she
lowers her head and you can just see the tiny quotes at the corners of her
mouth. "I promise not to bitch about the toilet seat." 

I shook my head sadly. She read my expression and realized that I didn't
want to, no, make that couldn't, stay with her again. 

"I hit you." 

She flinched as though I'd slapped her. Her face fell as she blinked away
sudden tears. 

"It's okay, Mulder," she whispered, for what had to have been the
hundredth time. 

"I hurt you," I stated emphatically. 

Her chin came up defiantly," Well if they release you Monday, you can't
stay at your apartment by yourself." 

"I know," I interrupted. 

It hit her then, what my plans were, why I had asked for her help now. I
could see her throat working as the realization sunk in to her that I
planned to go from the hospital to a home. A nursing home, where one with
my illness goes to wait to die. She g rew quiet, lost in her own thoughts.
I stretched out my hand and she grabbed it, holding on to it tightly. 

"I'm afraid," I admitted, gazing into those deep blue eyes. 

"Me too," she spoke in a broken whisper, as she lay her cheek against my
hand. 

Silence. 

"Well, I'll see if I can find a place that offers assisted living. But it
has to be in Georgetown!" 

I nodded. I needed her to be near, too. 

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

I was released from the hospital on Tuesday. Scully had found a place,
near her home, that offered both assisted living apartments and primary
care nursing, for when the time came that I would need that option. It was
extremely nice. I had a small kitchen ette, fully equipped right down to a
microwave, but there was also a cafeteria that offered restaurant-style
dining for the residents and their guests. 

The place also boasted a complete gym, swimming pool and a rec room with a
big screen TV and Bingo twice a week. Yee-ha! Although the majority of the
resident were elderly, there were a few who were my age and some even
younger. The other non geriatric re sidents either had Downs Syndrome or
were severely disabled. I was the only person in the building who was
under 40 and afflicted with dementia --early onset Alzheimer type. It's so
great to be special. 

My first night there, Scully and I ate microwave lasagna and salad, dining
together in my new apartment. I had given up my lease, so most of my
belonging were being stored at her place, but she'd brought me my TV,
computer and stereo. After we ate, we tur ned on the radio and tried to
play cards, but much to my frustration, I discovered I could no longer
read a deck of cards. The spots and numbers both were beyond my reasoning
abilities. 

I was just about to sink into a grumpy pout when a familiar song came on
the radio, "Put on my blue suede shoes. Hopped aboard a plane..." 

Scully leapt to her feet and proffered her hand. I grinned broadly and
took her in my arms. We danced. She laughed, God, I love that laugh -- so
full throated and natural. I spun her and tried to impress her with my
best John Travolta-like moves. The nex t tune was one of my favorites,
from my college days and we continued to hold each other, swaying in time
to the '80s-style tune. When the chorus came, remarkably I was able to
sing along, so I whispered the words softly into her ear, "You're in my
heart,
 you're in my soul You'll be my breath, should I grow old You are my
lover, you're my best friend You're in my soul." 

I stopped, when she suddenly pulled away. She wrapped her arms about
herself, bending over as though in pain. I moved to see what was wrong and
saw she was silently sobbing. It was the type of anguish that is so huge
it can only come out in tears, the pai n is too big, so it sticks in your
throat, there's no way to even voice it. 

I pulled her close and eased onto the couch to hold her in my lap, rocking
her gently to soothe her, softly kissing her silky vanilla-scented hair.
Together, we cried. 

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

That Friday, everything fell apart. My illness was proving to be one of
short plateaus followed by sharp drops. I woke that morning from a
nightmare, not knowing where I was. Nothing was familiar, nothing made
sense and I was terrified. I ran out of the a partment and down the hall.
I could recognize none of my surroundings. Luckily, the building had
security cameras, for I was met by two interns and a nurse as I fled down
the stairs. The nurse gave me a shot to calm me and I was taken over to
the primary care wing for observation. I was fortunate that my escape was
thwarted, for I was wearing no clothes. 



<><><><><><> Chapter 4 <><><><><><>



"No magic mirror can erase
       These lines of living from my face. 
            Lessons learned and lost..." 

              Taken from "Into My Own Hands" -
                        by Richard Page and J.Lange

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

Scully came from a military family, so, I suppose how she responded to my
au naturale early morning escape attempt and subsequent rapid
deterioration should be called -- closing up the ranks. I didn't see her
until the next morning, but she was there, as always, by my side, not 10
minutes after they called her. It was at this point, she began to make
vocal her qualms about my diagnosis. In early-onset Alzheimer's rapid
deterioration is common, but nowhere had she found, in all her research
during my illne ss, a slide as rapid as mine. I was careening toward the
final stages of the illness at breakneck speed and to Scully's logical and
fact-grounded mind, something was wrong with the way the disease was
progressing. 

I woke up to find I was completely mute. Me, Fox Mulder, could not utter a
single coherent sound. What came from my mouth terrified me more than
anything else I had ever faced -- when I tried to speak mouth, the words
stayed locked in my brain, all that e merged were animal-like squeals,
moans and groans. I was devastated, humiliated and very, very frightened.
Scully placed a warm, comforting hand on my forehead and leaned over to
brush soft lips to my cheek. 

"It's okay, Mulder." 

But it wasn't. It wouldn't ever be okay again. I tried to tell her this
truth, but all that came out was a mindless tone that so sickened me, I
screamed in anguish. 

"Don't, Mulder" she whispered, leaning close to speak directly into my
ear. She could see in my eyes I was lucid, so she offered me advice. "If
you get upset and don't control yourself, they'll sedate you again. You
don't want that, do you." 

It wasn't a question, it was a statement. She knew I didn't want to be
doped up again. I nodded to her and met her eye, letting her know I
understood and would do what she suggested. 

"The aphasia's worse?" 

Again I nodded. I wasn't about to try to speak again. I was too frightened
by what my last attempt had produced. 

"Do you know what happened? Why you're here?" 

I really hadn't looked around to see where "here" was. She had been all I
had focused on up to that point. I glanced around and saw I was in a
hospital-style room, complete with the typical medical equipment, but the
ambiance was a bit more homey. The bed  -- while sickbed-like in having 
the push button adjustments, had a comfortable mattress and I was even 
covered with a handmade quilt. I recognized it as one of the rooms in the 
primary care wing of my new home. We had toured the nursing home part of 
the facility that first day I moved in. 

I did however, not know the reason I was now in this part of the building,
so I shook my head. 

Scully tried to keep her face bland, but it pained her to have to tell me
of my forgotten escapade. I could still blush and I did, when she relayed
to me the fact I had not been dressed when I'd fled mindlessly out my
door. At my old apartment, I had alwa ys been the neighbor from hell, what
with fake suicides, informants and spies coming and going at all hours of
the day and night. I'd even broken my lease and had a waterbed that wound
up leaking through to the apartment below. But I had, fortunately, nev er
streaked naked down the hallway. Knowing how the manager felt about me, I
probably would have been arrested, if this incident had happened there. 

Scully related the tale and all I could do was lie in the bed, tears
springing to my eyes. No smart ass rejoinder, no sarcastic glib replies. I
had nothing to hide behind, now, nothing to defer or distract people from
seeing who I really was. Not that Scu lly couldn't read me before, but now
there could be no chance for subterfuge. Everything I felt, whatever
thought I wished to convey, had to be there for others to see or I would
be trapped by my silence.  But, to lay myself out like that, open with no
pr otection --the soft, vulnerable underbelly of my soul exposed, was both
scary and tiring. I did it only with Scully. The one in 8 billion I could
trust. 

When she finished, I shook my head, over and over again. NO, I couldn't
take this. Things would only get worse. 

"Mulder, you gotta give me a chance, please," Scully pleaded, somehow
knowing the turn my thought had taken. "Something is not right about this.
I know it, Mulder. I feel it. Hang on and give me a chance to find out why
this is happening. I don't think it 's what they say. Don't give up hope." 

Once upon a time, Scully had been frightened, and she clung to me like my
very touch would save her, could take away her fears. This time, SHE was
MY hope and I held on tight. 

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

I was right, time was NOT on my side. My decline was day by day. I was
losing my battle and myself. I would try to stay in the here, in the now.
But, I began to wander. Scully would be there, by my side, talking to me
and I would quietly watch her. The wa y she spoke, her mouth, her voice. 

There was so much I wanted to say. So much I wanted to tell her. And now I
couldn't. It hurt. It hurt too much. 

So I would go back to the time, there in my memory, when I had shown her
at least a little of what she meant to me. You wonder why, as we grow
older that memories of the past come to us so readily. I can tell you now,
I know why our mind works that way. I t's because in the past, we still
have all our chances -- they still lie there ahead. The past is when we
still had reason to hope. 

Scully watched me fade, watched me leave her, moment by moment. She says
she would study me and it was as though I had gone somewhere else. She was
right.  Systems shut down one by one, and I wandered. 

I walked with my father. Not grown, but a small boy. Back when he loved
me, when he could bear to look at me. Before I became the chosen/unchosen
one. 

Bill Mulder hated heights. Only those closest to him knew this fact -- his
family and a few close, select friends. Even I, his son didn't know it
then, but I was only 5.  He never told me his secret phobia, and by the
time I would have understood, we were n't talking. 

My mother told me, after Sam was taken. During one of my hospital stays. I
think it was the one where I "fell" down the basement stairs and first
separated my shoulder. I was afraid, so she told me of Dad's fear. There
in the past like, now in the present it made me remember... 

the county fair...he'd bought me cotton candy. It was just us guys.
Samantha and Mom stayed home. I had always loved the night sky. Even that
young, I would stare up at the heavens and wonder what was out there.
Classic Trek, the Apollo space program, I w ould sit in front of the black
and white box and visit the stars. And on that Indian summer evening I saw
how I could touch the sky. The biggest ride in that little fair was the
double Ferris wheel. I had to go on it. 

I looked up and saw my dad looking down at me. He knew what I wanted. I
don't remember him even hesitating. We had the tickets and were in line. I
never even had to ask. My father knew what I wanted. When the ride
stopped, we climbed on board and with a r ocking jerk, we rose up into the
sky. I remember reaching up my hands, high in the warm night air and
touching the stars. 

When we set back down on terra firma, Dad quickly gave me some tickets for
the bumper cars and said he'd be right back. He told me he needed to go
check in on Mom and Sam. 

My mother told me, those many years later -- after the father I knew so
well had gone, had become a broken, bitter man consumed by alcohol and
guilt -- that Dad had left because he was sick. She said he'd arrived
home, green of face and confessed he'd vom ited for at least 10 minutes. 

I went back to that night, my eidetic memory serving me well. I relived
what it was like to have my father's hand, so big and strong there to
guide me. How he would look at me and smile, telling me with his eyes,
that I was his boy and he loved me. All th ose years, even after all that
happened, all the pain his troubled mind made him inflict on me, I never
stopped loving him. I finally found a way to forgive him, when I got that
second chance to relive that warm autumn evening. You see, my dad once
helped me to touch the stars. 

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

"And Mr. Mulder do you know when our last BM was?" the witchy angel of
mercy asked me, fiddling with my urinary catheter. 

Like I could answer, like I cared when my last shit was. My days were
spent sitting in a chair, staring at the floor, losing myself, letting my
mind take me wherever it chose to wander. 

Mom lost interest in me, slowly, that year after Sam disappeared. 

It was all lousy timing, everything that happened. It was bad enough
hitting puberty, starting high school two years younger than all the other
kids; having a sister kidnapped --

"or was she murdered by your father?" 

"He's been molesting her, right?" 

"No, I heard HE did it, he was watching her that night." 

"HE killed his sister, you know? They're covering for him." 

"He's nuts, he missed the whole fall semester cause he went crazy." 

"They never found her body." 

* Mom, why can't you look at me? What? You say you're just -- tired? Well,
I'm tired too, MOM. I'm tired of being invisible. Sam's gone, but I'm
here. I'm still here! Do you care? I'M HERE! *

I know what tired is, Mom. Now. I know. Tired is seeing the look in
everyone's eyes when you can't make it to the bathroom in time -- after
they've given you another enema. Tired is trying to eat, but you start
choking -- because you forgot how to swallow . Tired is waking up and not
knowing why they've got a tube up your dick, so you yank it out, and bleed
like a stuck pig -- then you forget and do the same thing the next
morning. 

I understand now, Mom, why you shut down after Sam was gone, there was
just too much to face. 

I understand now, Mom...why you forgot about me, why you couldn't bear to
see what Dad did to me.

I understand now, Mom. 

Mom, I'm so tired. 

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

Scully slipped the tape into the player. She knew I slept better with it
on. She'd made it with all my favorites. Called it the "Mulder Bedtime
Mix." The classic golden moldies lived nightly in my room. I'd float to
sleep to Trower's "Bridge of Sighs," P ink Floyd's "The Wall", The Allman
Brothers' "Blue Skies", Ten Years After's "One of These Days" and Janis
singing "Piece of my Heart." I had to laugh at Scully picking that one. 

She chose Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight" 

Why hadn't I ever played that for her? 

" I feel wonderful,
  Because I see
  the love light in your eyes. 
  And no wonder,
  I get awed
  That you just don't realize,
  how much I love you." 

Why hadn't I ever told her I loved her in a way she would have believed
me. I wanted to kiss to her, to give her a real kiss. If I'd been given
one dying wish, it would have been to tell her "I love you." and to see in
her eyes she knew I truly meant the words. 

But we'd lost our chance; and all I had left regrets and silent memories. 

I remembered when we danced. I dreamed of her laugh, her smile. 

She wasn't laughing too much at that point in time. I was bedridden. My
arms and legs had begun to draw up into the fetal position. They'd
inserted a gastric tube, directly into my stomach - -minor surgery. I
guess you could say, that tube feeding was inv asive measures, which
really didn't jibe with my living will. It turned out the place Scully had
picked was pretty lax on interpretation and as long as the family didn't
object they would carry out whatever procedures necessary to keep their
clients going . And Scully was my family and she wanted me to hang on. She
didn't believe I was dying. She was going to find the answer to what was
really happening to me. 

I actually didn't care about finding truths by then. I was only waiting
for the end.

I was tired. 


 <><><><><><> Chapter 5 <><><><><><>




  "Next fall when you see geese heading south for the winter... flying
along in V formation ... you might consider what science has discovered as
to why they fly that way: 

   As each bird flaps its wings, it creates an uplift for the bird
immediately following. By flying in V formation the whole flock adds at
least 71% greater flying range, than if each bird flew on its own. People
who share a common direction and sense of community can get where they are
going more quickly and easily because they are traveling on the thrust of
one another. 

   Finally...and this is important...when a goose gets sick or is wounded
by gunshots, and falls out of formation, two other geese fall out with
that goose and follow it down to lend help and protection. They stay with
the fallen goose until it is able to fly or until it dies, and only then 
do they launch out on their own, or with another formation to catch up 
with their group. 

    If we have the sense of a goose, we will stand by each other like
that. " 

                  Taken from - Lessons Learned From Geese - Author Unknown

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

With all the time I've had on my hands these last few months of
rehabilitation and recovery, there's a lot of free moments for thought.
I've become a bit of a wheelchair philosopher and I can't help mulling
over how the progression of my illness is such a  good reminder that life 
is a cycle. To every thing there is a season, a time to live -- a time to 
die. Dust to dust. Yadda, yadda... 

In the final days, it was as though I had returned to the womb. I lay
curled up, arms and legs drawn protectively to my chest, a purely sensory
creature, responding only to light, sounds and touch. My thoughts were
trapped within me and I lived in what me mories were left to me. Scully
felt such guilt. See, she didn't want me to suffer. It tore her heart,
what she witnessed when she would come sit with me, but she couldn't stay
away. I try to tell her now, it was she who suffered most. 

The X Files were closed, by her request. She returned to her teaching job,
because it left her more time for me, and more time to do research. Like
I've said, she was convinced that my illness was not what it seemed. She
knew that with early onset Alzheim er's, a person's rate of decline could
be variable, In fact, with any disease there are great fluctuations within
the norm. "Scully the Scientist" would admit that is where miracles come
from. Ask her today how she knew I didn't have the illness with whic h I
had been diagnosed and she'll allow that it was just her belief -- one
that came from her gut. I personally think what she was feeling,
originated up a little higher and a bit to the left. 

She was driven. Every spare moment away from my side was spent hunting for
answers. She bullied, cajoled, even tried sweet-talking in order to get
every result from every test that was done on me. She would sit by my
side, every night, long after she shou ld have been home in bed, surfing
the web. She found red herrings, guesses and what she hoped were clues to
what was happening to me. But she never found the final answer and every
time she looked at me, she was reminded our time was running out. 

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

I was almost in a completely vegetative state. This is what bothered
Scully so much about my diagnosis. She knew in her soul, that in order for
me to have slid as far as I did, in the six weeks since I had been
admitted to the primary care wing, there had  to be some underlying cause. 
But it was rapidly getting to the point that what had caused my illness 
really didn't matter. Dead is dead, no matter if it comes from the 
familiar or the unknown. 

In my dimly-lit room, she sat at her post, listening to the music that now
played mostly for her benefit. After checking her last website for the
night, she stood up to stretch her legs. My temperature had been elevated
since early evening and gently movi ng my clenched arms aside, she placed
her hand on my emaciated chest to feel how I was breathing. The harsh
crackles of congestion made her frown. She knew that the fluid building in
my lungs was probably what was going to take me from her. 

Scully wandered out into the hall, to see if she could find one of the
staff to help her rearrange me to a more upright position to ease my
breathing. She walked to the end and spotted one of her favorite nurses,
Debbie, around the corner in another patie nt's room. Debbie agreed to
stop by as soon as she finished caring for the woman she was with, so
Scully gave her a nod of thanks and headed back to me. She stopped short
at the corner, when she saw a man enter my room. Knowing the entire
graveyard shift was female on that night, she hurried to see what was
going on. 

Standing at my side, silently watching me sleep was C.G.B. Spender.
Special Agent Dana Scully was across the room in two seconds flat. I don't
know what she had planned, she was not armed, but our old adversary was
cagey enough to know he didn't stand a c hance against Scully when she was
trying to protect me. A mother lion protecting her cubs has nothing on
her. 

He held up his hands in submission and cautiously reached inside his
jacket. Scully thought for a moment he was reaching for his ever-present
cigarettes. If that had been the case, I think she would have beaten him
to death with any blunt object on hand, however, a small vial is what he
held out for her to take. 

She grabbed it from him without a word and while she studied the clear,
amber-tinted liquid, he spoke,

"We only wanted to make him forget that one night," he offered sadly. 

Before she had a chance to respond, he was out the door. 

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

Our friends, the Lone Gunmen, were the first people she called. The boys
met up with her at the nursing home and took her to see a friend at GW who
was well versed in chemistry and medical research. The young, paranoid
genius grabbed the vial and retreated to his lab without a word. 

"I think he likes you," Frohike laughed, ushering her away from the door
that had opened and closed so fast it almost bit off her nose. 

"How can you tell?"  Scully asked sarcastically, wondering to herself if
she really had the energy to deal with my eccentric friends and their odd
network of paranoids. 

"Why my little, red, foxy lady," Frohike murmured with a lecherous eye, "
he was happy to see you, that wasn't a test tube in his pocket." 

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

It was the wee hours of the morning when Scully and the three Gunman had
all gathered back at my room. The boys were not too comfortable with the
sickroom vigil but Scully refused to wait anywhere else. It was the first
time any of them had visited since I had become comatose and Scully's
heart ached for them each time she saw a Gunman glance over to my still,
sleeping form, then quickly look away, wincing in pain. 

While they waited for news from the lab tech, they discussed what might
have happened the night this all began. Scully asked the Gunmen if they
had ever found out anything about where I had been on that, my first
forgotten night. 

"Mulder never told us anything that day, but I remember he'd been talking
about something curious going on near Baltimore. Had to do with the
mouthless guys he'd told us about. The resistance?" Langly commented,
twirling a clump of long blond hair as he t hought. 

"He saw something and that black-lunged bastard did this to him! They
spent all those tax dollars and..." Frohike's voice rose with indignation. 

Scully shushed him, and he blushed, realizing that this was not the
appropriate venue for his soapbox. He glanced over to see if he had
disturbed me, and though relieved that he hadn't, it was a reminder of
what THEY had done to me. My partner almost cried when she saw his eyes
glisten with tears behind his thick lenses. 

"They're not going to get away with this, not this time," the eldest
Gunman choked, absently cleaning his glasses as he wiped the wetness from
his face. "Payback is a mother-fucker." 

Scully was just about to ask what he had in mind when the phone rang.
Langly hit the button so all could hear what was said. 

"Where did you guys get this?!" Jamison Bradley's voice crackled excitedly
over the speaker phone. 

"Guess," Frohike spat back, disgust lacing his voice. He, unlike Byers and
Langly, showed his pain in anger. "What is it?" 

There was a pause, the sound of papers shuffling as the unseen speaker
scanned through his notes, then finally answered, "It's some kind of
anesthesia that inhibits Acetylcholine, I can't say for sure but it seems
to go directly to the cholinergic syste m and temporarily causes memory
loss. Hey is the government putting this in our water or something? Is
this why Alzheimer's on the rise? If that's the case..." 

The Gunmen all looked at Scully, questions in their eyes. They understood
less than half of what their friend was saying. To my partner however, the
cause of my illness became all too clear, but it wasn't the news she
wanted to hear. She now knew what had given me my Alzheimer's-like symptoms, 
but what she was hearing offered no idea as to a cure. However, it was a start. 

"Jamison?" she asked, moving closer to the phone. 

"Yes, Dr. Scully?" 

"I was told the effects of this were supposed to be temporary, does it
look like it could cause permanent damage?" Scully asked, biting her lip
as she struggled to put the pieces of a puzzle together. 

Again, there was the sound of shuffling paper and then they heard Jamison
dropping the receiver. 

"Sorry, ahh...I tried a little experiment and found that one subject
recovered fully but the other, the one I concussed, showed signs of
dementia from the get go. The autopsy showed no signs of pathological
damage to the brain.  but of course this was only a preliminary test." 

"Did you look for signs of Beta amyloid?" Scully hurriedly asked. 

"Of course, isn't this supposed to mimic Alzheimer's disease? I didn't see
any, but it was only four hours that passed." 

"We'll get back to you Jamison," Scully said quickly, reaching to
disconnect, "stay close to the phone. And see if you can do some more
trials using the same criteria. " 

All three men stood around waiting for Scully to explain. She was
oblivious to this fact. Her mind was searching for an answer that seemed
so close, yet so far. 

"Agent Scully?" 

It was Byers. My partner blinked in surprise when she saw the trio all
clustered around her. 

"What gives, pretty lady?" Frohike asked. 

Scully smiled her embarrassment and tried to let them in on what Jamison's
call had told her. 

"Jamison says that Mulder was given this...stuff, that's in the tube. From
what the Smoking Man said, I think it's only supposed to cause temporary
memory loss. For some reason, on Mulder, it wasn't temporary. It works by
impeding the neurotransmitters to the part of the brain that affect memory 
and cognitive abilities. What we have to find out is why Mulder was different. 
Was something triggered that caused the Alzheimer's-like symptom?" 

Byers seemed to understand and asked with a nod toward me, "But does it
cause the twisted fiber things and plaques that Alzheimer's does? Is it
already too late to help him?" 

Scully raised a brow in surprise at his knowledge. She smiled at the blush
on his bearded cheeks. 

"My grandmother, she's back home. She's in the last stages, too." 

"I don't know. It looks good that he doesn't show any of the signs of
developing the plaques -- but he never has. I want Jamison to try a couple
of more experiments, give the symptoms a little longer to develop, maybe a
couple of days, then well know bett er if we can try some things I've
found." 

All three men turned at her words and looked over to me. They could hear
me struggle to breathe in the stillness and they all turned back to stare
at Scully, wishing they had her faith that I had two days left. 

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

It was late Sunday when Scully finally called Jamison to discover how the
tests were going. The Gunmen, each with his own laptop, had been helping
her track down all possible treatments in the event that the young
chemist's experiments showed a reason to hope that my condition had not
caused the same permanent damage that Alzheimer's did. 

Scully was speculating that my reaction to the amber memory-loss liquid
had been spurred by my body's reaction to me getting hit on the head. If
she could find a connection, and the test on the lab animals looked good,
she had a few ideas on treatments th at might help. 

Jamison Bradley answered after the 12th ring, just as Scully was ready to
hang up. The young man had gone the entire weekend with little sleep, but
he sounded his normal hyper-excitable self when he told her of his
findings. 

"I think Dr. Scully, that as long as your subject isn't ApoE4, there's a
chance that upping his Acetylcholine treatments and maybe adding large
doses of Beta Carotene could restimulate the neurons. Might even try
estrogen, that's shown to help." 

"Thanks, Jamie," Frohike answered, because Scully was already phoning Dr.
Johnson with the news she had prayed to hear. 

I had the test long before and they had discovered I was ApoE2. In
laymen's terms that meant I had inherited certain protective qualities in
my brain that allows waste cells to be carried away and that help the
brain to regenerate itself. This might be th e reason, after all the
concussions I've suffered, I'd never developed, before the CSM's little
injection, any signs of brain injury-related diseases. It was a good thing
for the treatment that Scully planned. Those who have the ApoE2 gene tend
to respond to THA and estrogen combinations better. The doses Scully planned to give
me to jump start my neurotransmitters were unheard of, but it was the only
way she could see to counteract the drug I'd been given. 

The problem now, was twofold -- first, would my body survive the many
potential side affects of the rigorous treatment Scully proposed, and
second, had my brain sustained too much irreversible damage during the
long time it wasn't receiving the necessary neurotransmitters? Just how
many neurons had been destroyed and would my body be able to repair the
damage that had been done?  Would I be saved, but not be able to make it
back? This is what worried Scully most and there was no way to know for
sure. 

Immediately, I was given huge doses of Acetylcholine-increasing medication
combined with a new synthetic form of DHEA, a sex hormone. What Scully
hoped was that since there had so far been no clear signs of the plaques
and tangles that make Alzheimer's th e irreversible disease it is, I might
have a chance to recover. If Scully had her way, the miracle would happen
and tell me, how often have you known Dana Scully not to get her way? 


<><><><><><> Chapter 6 <><><><><><>




A Gifted Unity

Tears give voice to my pain.  Silent, you do not hear them fall. Silent,
as the sense of helplessness that surfaces when I recall... you, a shadow
of your former self, somehow a reflection of me a person on a journey here
a human being.  I feel the pain and face the fear, then slowly letting go
I bring your picture near, knowing your body is a harbor for your soul and
this part of your journey leads to your becoming whole. 

We are connected you and I both born to live and someday die. Your living
stretches me beyond the corridors of pain to a gifted unity on a spiritual
plane. 

Beyond Alzheimer's your spirit lives. 

Written by Viola Doncaster


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

Two days into my treatment, I recognized Scully. I smiled at her. She
cried. It was working. Slowly, steadily I was coming back. 

By the end of first the week, they could raise my bed up and I didn't fall
over. I could hold myself upright in bed -- not much, but pretty damn
good, considering where I had been. What was even more amazing was that my
cognitive abilities were returning by leaps and bounds. 

There were a few bumps in the road. Ever know anything that I'm involved
in not to be bumpy? The second week I developed severe nausea and vomiting
from one of the medications, one of the common side effects. Scully and
Dr. Johnson cut the dosage, hoping it had done its work. It had. I stopped
throwing up.  The aphasia was disappearing, much to the staff's
disappointment, because I was starting to bitch. This time I can blame my
lousy disposition on the hormones. 

By the end of the first month, I was eating -- real food, through my
mouth. The best thing that happened, though, was I discovered I could
read. My eyes still didn't track too well, but Scully found if she cut a
piece of cardboard so I saw only one word o r phrase at a time, I was able
to comprehend the written word again. It was like meeting an old friend.
I'd reclaimed one of the joys of my life. 

At the end of the second month, I was able to sit up in a chair. All my
tubes and catheters were gone. My motor skills were one of the only areas
that were slow in coming around and my muscle tone was shit. Simple things
like brushing my teeth and feeding  myself were still beyond me and though 
I was grateful to be alive and on the road to recovery, I was still 
frustrated by all the things I had lost and had to relearn or retrain myself to do. 


My first day outside came on a bright Saturday morning. Scully entered
bearing gifts. 

"What's that?" I asked, when she sat a large paper bag on the bed. I was
sitting in my place by the window, watching the beautiful late spring day
pass before me. I was in a bit of a crotchety mood. 

Scully could barely contain her excitement, " New clothes, We're going to
get dressed and take a stroll outside." 

Who was this beaming, bouncy person standing before me -- not Dana Scully? 

"You got a mouse in your pocket?" Old, cliché, but she had me puzzled. I'd
never seen Scully this bubbly, this irritating. 

She ignored my sour grumpiness and grabbing the bag, knelt down in front
of me. 

"This is ..." I couldn't find the word, and was about to give up when it
came to me, "interesting." 

She continued to pretend I was still mute and grabbing a pair of blue
sweats from the sack, she began to pull them up over my scrawny legs. With
her help I stood, and placing both hands on her shoulders for balance, I
allowed her to pull them up over my h ips. I was still searching my mind
for an, if not glib, at least risqué remark, when she gave me a gentle
shove to sit. 

Her blue eyes twinkled when she pulled out a Knicks sweatshirt. My mood
mellowed and I held up my arms without a complaint, letting her pull my
hospital gown off and slip my new shirt on over my head. She stepped back
to see how she'd judged the sizes. No ne too well, for the clothes
swallowed me. 

"Have they weighed you yet?" she quizzed, returning to her knees to put on
the socks and running shoes she'd removed from her bag. 

I nodded, not really wanting to admit the truth, " Yeah, 121." 

I tried to picture what that weight must look like on my 6-foot frame. I
didn't want to think about it. Even in the bath, I kept from looking in
the mirror. The aides were still shaving me, brushing my teeth. Nope, I
didn't want to know. Scully interrupte d my musings with a warm hand on my
cheek. 

"You ready to go?" she asked. 

I could see in her eyes that she knew how my appearance bothered me, but I
didn't really want her understanding compassion right then. I made my face
a blank and nodded. Scully chose not to say anything, hoping my excursion
outside would improve my mood. It did. 

She rolled me down the ramp to the empty courtyard. The air was alive with
the scent of flowers, grass and a recent rain shower. The lawn in the
center looked inviting and luckily, Scully moved me to it so she could sit
on the bench that sat beside the li ttle patch of sod. 

I tried to remove my shoes, but couldn't, "Can you help?" I asked,
motioning to my footwear. "Take them off." 

Scully nodded and once again, knelt in front of me. As soon as she removed
the last sock, I inched my way over and dug my toes into the blades of
grass -- heaven. I sighed in contentment, tilting my head back to enjoy
the warmth of the sun and the cool gr ass beneath my feet. 

"It don't get no better 'n this," I murmured. 

Scully laughed and I opened my eyes to watch her and drink in the
wonderful sound. 

"I love your laugh," I whispered, touching the slightly pink skin of her
cheek. I could see the first of her summer freckles appearing and wished
she'd let them come. 

My compliment caught her by surprise and her cheeks colored even more. She
met my gaze and I drowned in the blue depth of her eyes. She reached out
to softly touch my smile and I kissed the tips of her fingers. 

The mood was interrupted by the door opening, and we watched as an elderly
couple made their way down the ramp. The man walked beside his wife, arm
wrapped protectively around her shoulder, helping her to cross the uneven
ground. He smiled warmly when the y passed us and we returned the
greeting. 

"Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be," Scully whispered, to
herself, to me -- I don't know. 

"Thank you," I said, grabbing her hand. 

"For what?" she seemed almost confused. 

"For everything." I smiled. 

She nodded and kissed my forehead, then stood and took me inside. 

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

It was early summer before I was able to get an apartment in the assisted
living building, but Scully came over to help settle me in and I treated
her to take-out Chinese for her help. My motor skills were returning. I
had advanced to a walker and only us ed the chair when the distance was
long or the walking treacherous. I had gained weight too, I was up to a
whopping 142 pounds. Still way too skinny, but at least I didn't look like
a corpse anymore. When I looked in the mirror I didn't scare myself, so I
 guess things were improving. 

I still hadn't mastered writing by hand and tying my shoes was still a
problem, but that's why God invented keyboards and Velcro. Scully finally
told me about the X Files closing, not long after we'd sat in the
courtyard. I was disappointed, but it streng thened my determination to
get back on my feet and hopefully back to the job. I knew I still had a
long way to go, but perseverance is one of my few virtues. 

We were discussing my plans as we ate, but were interrupted by the phone.
I answered it. It was Melvin Frohike. I was surprised when he asked to
speak to Scully. Dumbfounded, I handed her the receiver and tried in vain
to discover what the conversation wa s about. All I could hear was the one
side. 

"Hello. You found the place? Good, did everything go okay?  Great, so it's
done! Yes, perfect. Yeah, I'll let you know if I hear anything. Thanks.
'Bye." Her eyes glittered as she spoke and it almost seemed like she
avoided meeting my eyes as she handed me back the phone. 

"Okay," I said, my interest piqued. "What was that all about?" 

She smiled mysteriously, "Oh, he was just asking me how I was doing," she
lied. 

I studied her face, the picture of inscrutability and knew I would not get
any more from her, " Yeah." I groused as she busied herself by picking up
the empty takeout containers. 

"So, " she said, sitting beside me after quickly depositing the trash in
the kitchen area. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?'

Reluctantly, I let the Frohike matter drop and tried to get find the
proper mood for the conversation I had been planning for so long. Now that
the moment was here, I didn't know how to begin. All the words I'd planned
to say vanished from my head and I w as left to awkwardly stare at my
shoes. 

"Well?" Scully said after a long silence, leaning over to try and catch my
eye. 

I don't know why I did it, but suddenly I grasped her face and pulled her
to me, quickly moving my mouth over hers, before either of us had a chance
to think about my actions. She seemed to resist at first, but at my
tongue's gentle prompting, her mouth r elaxed and her lips parted. A real
kiss, the first promise to myself was fulfilled. 

When she pulled away, I felt the time was right for my second desire. 

"I love you," I said, looking her straight in the eye, wanting her to know
how much I truly meant it. 

She seemed stunned, but after a moment her eyes softened, "I love you
too," she admitted softly. 

It was more than I'd hoped for, a lot better than "Oh, brother," but I
wanted to reassure her, the pressure wasn't on. That we had time, we
needed time to make sure this could work. I was afraid, I knew she was
too. I didn't want to rush, to make a mistak e that might jeopardize the
relationship we'd built over our years together.  I told her as much,
speaking slowly, choosing my words carefully. She agreed. 

We sat together in comfortable silence, listening to the mix she'd made
me, contemplating all that we'd been through together and all that lay
ahead. It was good and when the song came on, she lay her head against my
chest. 

So sing it Rod: 

"You're in my heart
 You're in my soul
 You'll be my breath
 Should I grow old
 You are my lover
 You're my best friend
 You're in my soul." 


*************** 900 W Georgia Street Later, that evening

He was tired. Nothing seemed to go right anymore. And he felt old. His
hand moved to the telephone. He would call her, his dark-haired beauty.
But then he paused, not knowing if it was really sex that he wanted right
now. He knew she used him to further h er own agenda, that she really
didn't love him. She wasn't capable of love, he knew that. She'd used
Mulder, too. That knowledge gave him a chuckle, but it turned into a
cough. It always did, now -- just like his mother... No! He was too tired
to go there . 



He reached in his coat for his ever-present Morleys. It was empty. He
groped in the dim, flickering light for the cigarettes he always kept
beside his chair and found them, waiting for him. Sticking a finger in the
half-open pack, he dug around for the la st one and was surprised by a
painful prick. 

He quickly flicked on the lamp and his stomach sank. Looking at his
finger, he saw the blood well up --a tiny drop, there on the tip. He felt
the dizziness come and prayed that the reaction Mulder had to the potion
had been passed on from MOTHER to son. 

<><><><><><> The End <><><><><><>