JUST A FAN of FAN ART & FANFIC, XFiles

“Yes.”

The hurt of his answer lands before she has a chance to reason through it, and Scully rises to her feet as Mulder curls back into a ball, giving him the space he seems to need. She can’t think of a single time in their partnership when he wanted physical distance from her. Even during their most fraught conversations, they rarely put more than an arm’s length between them.     

She takes a steadying breath, reluctant to tell Diana what he just said. Doing so would be admitting that Diana might be at least partially right about his mysterious illness, and Scully is hesitant to believe a word the woman says.

Breathing through the knot of emotions in her chest, she speaks into the phone. “He said yes.”

“Dammit,” Diana curses, her tone tight with urgency.

Scully studies Mulder, trying to understand what combination of Diana’s influence and whatever unknown toxin is affecting him has convinced him that her presence is hurting him. She trusts Mulder, but she’s starting to suspect Diana may be using his illness to push them further apart.

“Is he in immediate danger?” she finally asks, refocusing herself. When Diana doesn’t immediately answer, Scully’s grip tightens on the phone. “Does he need an ambulance, Diana? Talk to me!”

“I’m not sure—I’m thinking—” Diana stutters with uncharacteristic clumsiness.

“What do you know?” Scully barks. “What were you and Mulder investigating? What could he have been given? Did he ingest a—a toxin of some sort? A street drug?”

She’s making a mental list of potential hallucinogens when a thought suddenly occurs to her. Dropping to her knees, she starts to unbutton Mulder’s shirt. If there’s an injection site anywhere on his skin, it could explain what was done to him.

“I don’t know more without seeing him,” Diana admits, her breathing quickened as if she’s running.

“Then who is Daniel Parsons?” Scully asks as she runs her eyes over Mulder’s bare arms and torso, finding nothing unusual. “Did he have this same condition?”

“Agent Scully, that’s something I can’t tell you—”

“I’m a medical doctor, dammit,” Scully curses as Mulder groans and shoves weakly at her hands. “If you would just tell me what you were investigating, I could start to treat him—”  

“I’ll explain when I get there—”

“And how long will that be?” Scully hisses. “Because he’s clearly in a great deal of pain and the longer you keep me in the dark, the longer he suffers. You seem hellbent on guarding your investigation, but if Mulder dies because of your secrets, I will personally wring your neck until your eyes pop out of your head!”

“Calm down, Dana!” Diana shouts, startling Scully. “You’re just making him worse!”

As if on cue, Mulder cries out, rising to his hands and knees right before retching all over the floor. Scully inhales sharply, moving to place a palm on his back and rubbing circles soothingly across his shoulders, even as her eyes continue to scan his body for potential wounds.

“I’m here,” she says into his ear, and he tips his forehead to her knees. “It’s me, I’m here.”

“What’s happening now?” Diana asks, and Scully hears a car door slam shut in the background.

“He’s getting worse.” Mulder rubs his head across her lap, his hands curling into fists. A moment later, he turns to the side and vomits again. “Diana, I swear to God, if you don’t tell me what I need to know to keep him alive and comfortable—”

“You need to leave,” Diana insists, her tone dark. “The best thing you can do for Agent Mulder right now is to get the hell out of his apartment.”

She scoffs. “Over my dead body.”

With care, she extracts Mulder from her lap and darts to the kitchen, ripping a paper towel from the dispenser and filling a glass of water. From the sink, she glances back at him. He’s gone slack against the floor, but worry gnaws at her. She can’t explain what’s happening to him, and she can’t properly treat him. When he starts to curl back into himself, she rushes back to his side, where she cleans his mouth and then holds the cup to his lips. He swallows once then collapses back into her. She presses one hand to his chest, keeping track of the erratic beats of his heart.  

Diana is speaking. “I acknowledge that you have been Agent Mulder’s partner for several years, and it may seem counterintuitive to leave him in distress,” she says, her tone clipped and oddly formal, “but I swear to you that it would be best if you left him for now. I’ll be able to handle his symptoms once I’m there. We’ve seen it before in the other victims—”

The word nearly stops her heart. “Victims, Diana? You’re telling me this is fatal?”

“Mulder and I think we have procured an antidote, and I’m retrieving it from my office as we speak,” Diana interrupts, her voice rising over Scully’s. “Agent Mulder will live. But while he’s in this state, he needs space from you. I beg you to give it to him.”

With hands trembling from outrage, Scully stabs the End Call button and returns her attention to Mulder, who is trying to wrestle out of her grip. His eyes crack open and her stomach lurches when she sees a small trickle of blood slide from his tear duct down the bridge of his nose.

“My God,” she whispers in horror, her palm cupping his cheek.

Mulder cringes away from her, rolling tighter into himself and gritting his teeth. “Do what she said,” he grinds out. “Leave, please,” he gasps. “I’ll explain . . . after she brings. . . the medicine . . . .”

She shakes her head resolutely and squeezes his wrist gently even as her heart races. “I’m not leaving you, Mulder, especially not to take an unknown substance without first ensuring it’s safe for you. You’re having some sort of medical emergency that I’ll be able to treat once I know more—”

“’S not medical,” he slurs, and more blood begins to seep from his eyes.

Panic flaring, Scully darts into his bathroom and wets a washcloth, which she uses to clean the blood from his cheeks and mouth. His eyes are shut tight and he’s starting to sweat, moisture pooling in the dip of his breastbone.

Every few minutes, she glances at the clock, wondering if Diana was lying or if she’s truly en route with this supposed antidote. When twenty minutes have passed, she debates calling the ambulance, but a sound at the door stills her fingers on the phone. Scully flies across the room to usher in Diana, something she never anticipated doing with such eagerness.

Diana glares at her darkly, fury in her eyes. “I told you to leave,” she hisses, and Mulder cries out in agony from the floor. The rage in Diana’s face instantly evaporates and she drops to her knees, fumbling in her bag.

“I’m here, Fox,” she says soothingly, but Mulder seems to be declining more rapidly now. Fresh blood drips from his nose and ears, a steady trickle now staining his skin. 

“Show me the medicine,” Scully demands, kneeling across from her. “Tell me what’s happening to him!”

Ignoring her, Diana extracts a plastic case from her bag and pops it open to reveal a set of syringes. Automatically, Scully reaches for one, determined to check the medicine and dosage for safety, but Diana smacks her hand away. Indignation flares in her gut.

“Do you even know what you’re about to inject him with? One incorrect calculation could be fatal. He could have a reaction that you haven’t anticipated, an allergy we haven’t noted—”

“He’s dying, Agent Scully, and it’s because you insist on remaining here,” Diana accuses sharply, deftly prepping one of the syringes. She meets Scully’s eye angrily. “You did this to him, and if his reaction is anything less than positive, you have only yourself to blame.”

Scully meets her glare. “If you would take one minute to explain what I’m looking at, I could help. I’m a doctor, and I—”

Mulder moans and his eyes roll back in his head, foam gathering at his mouth. Diana hisses as the seizure begins taking his consciousness, and she pushes Mulder onto his side, yanking down his pants to inject the syringe below his waist.

“Wait!” Scully cries, lunging for the needle. Her eyes fly over the packaging of the mysterious antidote, but the labeling is blank. Horrified, she stares up at Diana. “What did you give him?”

Mulder twitches violently. Dropping the syringe, Scully reaches out to steady him, shocked when he goes still, flopping onto his back. Terror thrumming through her veins, she presses her ear to his chest, assuring herself of the shallow rise and fall of his breathing, her fingers racing across his wrist for a pulse check.

“What is this?” she whispers in disbelief.

“It may take another dose,” Diana murmurs to herself.

Scully shakes her head. “Not until you tell me what’s in that syringe.”

Diana levels her with a coolly superior gaze. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

Scully studies Mulder, equal parts relieved and surprised to find that he seems to have settled.

“His condition is more . . . immediate than the other victims we’ve seen,” Diana continues as she begins to prep another dose. Scully considers the facts, weighing Mulder’s marked improvement against all that she knows about Diana.

“Stop saying victims,” Scully grits out. “He isn’t going to die.”

Diana meets her gaze, the syringe ready. “I care for him too, Dana.” Her voice is quiet, earnest enough to be believable.

Scully swipes her palm across Mulder’s forehead and realizes that the apartment has gone quiet for the first time in an hour. She presses her fingers to the pulse point at his neck, noting that his breathing has started to even out and his heartrate has returned to normal.

“Some improvement,” she notes quietly, mostly to herself.

Diana nods tensely. Scully glances up, eyeing the next dose warily. “So long as you decide to stick around,” Diana says, “he’s going to need this.”

“Explain to me what his condition has to do with my presence,” Scully demands. “If you expect me to take you at your word and abandon Mulder during a medical emergency without any rational explanation, you’re not as clever as I’ve been told you are.”

Diana’s eyes narrow. Without fanfare, she pushes the syringe into Mulder’s hip and Scully sucks in her cheeks, praying that Diana has made the right call.

After a few tense moments, though, it is clear that Mulder really is improving. His skin starts to take on a normal color and the blood dripping from his eyes and nose dries up. When his eyes start to open, Scully can see that his pupils are normal and reactive. His body seems to relax into the floor, no longer wound tight in pain. Without thinking, she reaches out and pushes a few strands of hair off his forehead, then runs her fingers down his sweaty jaw.

His eyes open fully and hold her gaze, but she can’t read his expression. She pulls her hand away and his eyes move to Diana.

“Never thought I’d thank someone for two pokes in the ass,” he croaks quietly, and though the joke isn’t directed at her, Scully is relieved to hear the return of his humor.

Diana flashes a watery smile, relief evident in her gaze, and leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. The possessiveness of the act turns Scully’s stomach. He’s mine, comes the unbidden thought, surprised at how terrible it feels to be the odd one out, the one who doesn’t know what’s going on and who wasn’t able to help him.

She uses the moment to step away for a glass of water, lingering at the sink as Diana helps Mulder sit up, leaning into him conspiratorially. They exchange words, too hushed for Scully to hear, and judging by the way Mulder’s expression sours, things get heated. Every few moments one of them glances her way, like witnesses coordinating a story.

To give her hands something to do, Scully sips at her water, trying to push past her emotions and let the investigator in her do the brutal work of uncovering the truth. She has her theories, of course, but none of them can account for every symptom she observed. The facts she knows are: Mulder was in Maryland and encountered a man named Daniel Parsons. He hailed a cab to return to his apartment, where he immediately exhibited symptoms of acute distress. He refused a hospital several times. He could barely stand to be in her presence, claiming that she made his suffering worse. An unknown medicine almost immediately stopped his symptoms.

None of it makes sense.

She takes a breath, knowing there’s at least one more hard, painful truth she’s managed to uncover.

Mulder begged her to leave him and asked for Diana instead.

It’s becoming clearer to her now that the two of them likely aren’t just sleeping together; they’re becoming partners in every sense of the word, and partners against her.

The pain of that cuts through her like a knife and she digs her nails into her palm, redirecting her grief. Mulder glances up at her, his profiler-sharp eyes pinging from her tight expression to the clench of her hand against the water glass. His color has returned, and only that brings her peace. But there’s still so much unexplained about his illness tonight, and despite his apparent growing connection with Diana, she isn’t going to lie back and pretend like he isn’t the single most important person in her life.  

Taking a shaky breath, she sets down her glass and crosses the room.

As she feared, Mulder’s apartment is dark when Scully enters. She does a thorough inspection of each room, taking note with her investigator’s eye of any oddities that catch her notice. Because it’s Mulder’s apartment, however, there are plenty of strange things that stand out to her, none of which point her towards any obvious conclusion as to his whereabouts.

After this, she calls him again, and again receives his voicemail, which irritates her so badly she considers leaving. But then she sees his poor fish circling the top of their tank, hungry and abandoned, and feels a stirring of pity. Sprinkling a dash of food into the tank, she watches dejectedly as they fight over the crumbs.

A call to the Lone Gunmen proves fruitless, as none of the men have heard from Mulder in weeks. Frohike offers to join her in keeping vigil over Mulder’s apartment, but she politely declines. After hanging up, she thumbs the phone for a few seconds, wondering whether she ought to call Diana for an update. But when she dials the other woman’s number, there is no answer.

And so she waits, collapsing onto Mulder’s familiar leather couch and listlessly flipping through his T.V. channels. After an hour, she digs out a stale sleeve of crackers from his pantry and attempts to eat, but she has no appetite and ends up tossing them in the trash. Another hour sees her pacing the length of his apartment, redialing his cell number every few minutes. When midnight strikes, she settles back onto the couch, jacket and shoes discarded, and eventually falls asleep to the drone of a documentary on the history channel.

**

Scully jolts awake in the darkness, her skin crawling with the certainty that someone is watching her. She’s reaching for her weapon when she spies the door, which is open, spilling hallway light across the floor. A stranger’s silhouette looms in the doorway, straining under the weight of a second person. She turns her gun on the intruder, who yelps.

“Sorry, sorry! I’m just a driver.” The cabbie’s voice is high and quick. “He—he paid me to bring him up, wouldn’t let me call anybody! Please don’t shoot me!”

Mulder. She’d know him before she knew anything else on this earth. His arm is hooked over the cabbie’s neck and his head rises unsteadily to find her eyes. He tries taking a step forward, tugging the driver with him, and Scully lunges forward, gripping his coat right as his knees buckle. Grunting, she struggles to lower him to the floor as the cabbie backs slowly towards the door.

“I swear I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” he says apologetically, raising his hands in surrender, his eyes trained anxiously on her weapon.

“Where did you pick him up?” Scully demands, even as her fingers search for Mulder’s pulse point. “Thready,” she mutters to herself.

“I got him in Maryland, ma’am, I swear I don’t know anything more!”

“Did he say anything to you on the ride here? Was he with anyone?” She moves her hand to Mulder’s eyelids, which have drooped shut, and checks his pupils.

“Nothing, ma’am, nothing but this address. And no one with him.”

Before she can ask anything else, he retreats fully into the hallway and the door clicks shut behind him.

“Dammit, Mulder,” Scully curses, surveying her partner.

His eyes open slightly, flitting uneasily between hers, before he pulls his legs into his chest as if he’s in pain. Her hand moves to his forehead, feeling for fever. Finding none, she continues her examination, confusion rising when nothing flags as physiologically alarming.

Sitting back on her heels, she studies him, curled in on himself, radiating misery. Instinctively, she reaches for his hand, noticing that his fingers are trembling.

“What happened?” she asks, squeezing his hand. When he doesn’t reply, she frowns. “Can you talk? If you can talk, Mulder, you need to tell me where you’re hurt.”

Mulder’s eyes are still doing their uneasy dance, and she levels him with a serious look. “Can you sit up?”

He nods unevenly and she watches him warily as he strains to pull himself to sitting, draping his arms across his bent knees and tipping his forehead into his hands. 

“My god,” he whispers with uncharacteristic anguish, and she ducks her head closer to him.

“Are you hurt?” she repeats more urgently, a hand settling on his knee.

With great effort, he turns his head towards her and grimaces. “It feels . . . my chest,” he moans. “So much pain.”

Alarmed, Scully forces Mulder’s eyes up with a firm hand to his chin, and a full body shudder ripples through him. Sweat breaks out on his forehead.

“Mulder?” she asks, her palm pressing against his chest. His heart beats erratically and he shoves her hand off him.

“Mulder, you have to tell me where you’re hurt,” she demands, leaning closer. “If you’re injured, we need to get you to a hospital immediately—”  

“Nowhere, no hospital,” he grits out, even as his head tips to his chest and his body folds into a protective ball. “My heart.”

Automatically, she reaches for her phone to call an ambulance but seeing her movement, Mulder shakes his head furiously.

His eyes meet hers and there’s so much pain in them that she drops her mobile phone, which skitters across the room. Her heart lurches in her chest and Mulder flinches violently, his face draining of color. Scully grabs for his wrist to feel for his pulse again, cursing when it flutters rapidly against her fingertips.

“I need you to tell me what happened to you,” she commands as calmly as possible, even as her own heartrate picks up. Almost as if in response, Mulder’s pulse ratchets up.

He shakes his head futilely, moaning incoherently.

She bites her lip, weighing her options. Giving Mulder one last look, she rises to standing and grabs his landline, punching 9-1-1. Just as she’s about to put the call through, Mulder raises his head.

“Not the ambulance,” he croaks in what can only be called agony. “I need Diana.”

Outrage, hot and slick, sluices down her spine at the suggestion, but her fury cools the moment Mulder falls to the hardwood with a roar of anguish.

“Mulder!” she gasps, falling to her knees and grabbing his arms.

“Stop it, stop it,” he protests weakly. “Stop being scared,” he gasps, his eyebrows creasing in desperation. “Call Diana! Please! Please.” The last word comes out feebly, as if he’s used all his remaining energy.

His eyes meet hers with a fervor she only knows to trust. Swallowing tightly against her own reservations, she nods. She doesn’t know that she’s ever seen Mulder in this much pain and if he thinks Diana is what he needs, then she’ll get him Diana, despite her own misgivings.

Fumbling in his coat pocket, she pulls out his mobile phone, hopeful that Diana will be responsive if the call comes directly from his cell.

She’s right. Agent Fowley answers on the second ring.

“Fox?” the other woman asks breathlessly.

“It’s me,” Scully interjects, hopefully shattering Diana’s illusions of a frisky reunion with Mulder. “It’s Scully. A cab driver just returned Agent Mulder to his apartment. I’m here with him and he’s asked me to call you.”

“What does he need?”

“Something’s very wrong. He’s afebrile but his pulse is erratic, and he seems as if he’s in an enormous amount of pain.” Scully pauses, glancing at Mulder, who’s rubbing his face with his hands. “His condition suggests to me a possible cardiac event, or some sort of psychotic episode. I’ve also considered the possibility that he’s encountered or ingested a—a substance of some sort. I’d like to get him to a hospital for a tox screen and an EKG. I’ve—I’ve never seen this before—”  

Diana’s voice cuts sharply through Scully’s words. “Ask him if he contacted Daniel Parsons.”

Who? she thinks, wracking her brain for that name and coming up empty. Although the request confuses her, Scully relays it to Mulder, who shuts his eyes tightly before nodding once.

“He said yes.”

“Dammit,” Diana mutters with such vitriol that Scully briefly moves the phone from her ear. She hears the noise of car keys clanging against a countertop. “Ask him if the pain is worse with you in the room.”

“Ask him what?” Scully asks incredulously.

“Just ask him, Agent Scully.”

Scully glances over at Mulder, considering this possibility. He squints at her through distressed eyes and suddenly, despite everything he’s put her through over the past few weeks, she has an intense longing to go to him and hold him, comfort him.

As she watches him, Mulder’s face briefly seems to relax, his hands uncurling from fists and limbs loosening. His eyes fall closed and Scully kneels beside him to study the sudden change in his demeanor. Although she can’t conjure any known medical condition that would connect his behavior to her proximity, she considers Diana’s words.

Does Mulder truly seem affected by her closeness? For a moment, Scully considers whether Diana is simply trying to stir up trouble by digging into an open wound, exploiting the obvious tension that’s emerged between her and Mulder.

Mulder moans beside her, bringing her back to the present. The open pain on his face reinvigorates her, and she reminds herself that she isn’t a pawn in Diana’s game, but a trained investigator and she’ll approach this problem as such. She shakes her head, ridding herself of any ridiculous notions that her presence alone could be causing him pain. As a medical doctor, she must trust herself and her judgment when it comes to Mulder’s health and safety. If she can put her faith in anything, it’s hard evidence.

And Mulder.

“Mulder,” she says gently but insistently, carding a hand through his hair, which is soaked with sweat. “Agent Fowley wants to know if your pain is worse around me.” She hesitates briefly, her words catching on the absurd suggestion. “Am I causing you pain?”

Mulder’s eyes open, his body going rigid again. His jaw works, and she watches him try to form an answer. He turns pleading eyes up at her, an apology written in his expression. Her stomach drops as she realizes what’s coming. Mulder winces, as if struck.