TITLE: "FOCUS" (Sequel to "PhaHks")- Part 2/4.
AUTHOR: GeeLady (GenieVB)
RATING: NC-17. MT/ScSkR/MScR/MOR/MAJOR ANGST!, language,
violence, sexually explicit scenes, Slash-violent rape, adult situations.
SPOILERS: "PhaHks" by GeeLady (GenieVB). Various X-Files
episodes.
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Someone was talking. If it was to him, it wasn't loud enough
for him to hear through the demons so it was ignored.
They'd bandaged his hand today (the scissors had turned traitor
and jabbed back at him) and would force solids down his gullet
later, but because he was dead to them, they could not know
that it hurt to eat.
He looked alive.
Very well.
But upon his wakening, that day at the roadside where the
moon had hung in the sky and the breeze blew, had come his
second death.
Had he known that it had been a false moon, painted stars
and cardboard trees...
He'd come to death and walked like a deadman; no where in
particular but, where ever that was, yet un-alive.
Presently: bars, drugs, straps.
The lake of fire had burned in her eyes at his pronounced
state.
He was made of sand, his insides molten, is heart stretched
as tight and thin as a fiber of glass.
She was scared of him. She had every right. He'd seen his
reflection in her fear that morning. The bath water had rinsed
his skin but a man was more on the inside than the outside and if
soap and a scrub brush were instruments of faith or healing, they
had failed him. He had not been cleansed.
The taint was simply easier to see now.
Her mirror had exposed him; unreceptive.
She tried to save him the next day again, with food and soft
cushions. She'd even laundered his clothing. He knew it had been
a hopeless attempt but he wanted to please her at least and had
eaten the food and answered the questions.
And the next ones and the next. Salvation through saliva.
Finally gotten angry and tired. Sick of all of it when they
decided that doctors could help him, change what happened, cure
the rot, flight him with wings to a resurrection.
Virgins could not know what it was like to have a demon eat
your soul in teeny bits.
They would never know what it is to be released only to find
that you ought to have stayed in Hell because at least there
you fit in.
He'd walked on home soil, smelled the air, saw her beauty
and unmarred heart. Unobtainable things now. Things to be
admired but never reached for. Perfections with which he had
no connection. To understand that had freed him.
With that truth his soul had shrunk to the size of a molecule,
exited his flesh and taken up residence elsewhere.
If still they wanted to believe he was undead and was not
decomposing before them...
...So be it.
But speak? Even to fool himself or them into believing that he
was alive and clean enough to touch? That was out of the question.
A person could make a study of crazy and not be destroyed
as long as you were on the right side of the mirror. But step
out and look back and you might see what they saw...
Talk about being driven insane.
Liberating in a way, being dead. At least expectations were
minimal.
Hands touched him. Gently. A tease. It was torture to be
reminded of nice things and feelings but he was too weak
to slap it away or even get mad.
It hurt to be tempted to swing that way and allow the
maybe in again. He'd given up on maybe.
Dead people don't hope for anything.
The hand kept it's touching and the voice kept up it's
noises to drive him mad. If both became tainted with him,
he couldn't help it.
Don't they know I can drain life?
"You're wasting your time." He wanted to tell Nice Voice.
His lips moved but he wasn't sure if any words escaped.
Nice Voice spoke through the years of other deafening
screams: "What? What, Fox?"
But Fox wanted to sleep and forget there was such as
thing as a world where worthy words could be found or any
truth other than what the Thorazine daily preached.
The next day, Fox was up and walking around the ward with
some of the other patients.
This was where he, they all, came to pass the time in between
meals (where it was announced over the loudspeaker for
those enough in the here and now to comprehend and obey. Those
who were not were escorted), meds (where one waited in line
at the dispensing window), washroom privileges (at specific times
and only three patients allowed at a time with two escorts), and
to just wait out the day until bedtime and glorious unconsciousness.
Fox didn't mind the waiting times so much. None of the patients
bothered him and he didn't bother them.
"Cards?" Joseph (suicidal schizophrenic) was asking him, the
grape-juice toss from two days previous forgotten. Joseph loved
card playing. Thin, gray haired, he'd been in one institution
after another since he was thirty. He also hated everyone but
was a crackerjack card player as long as you didn't point out
that he was cheating. Fox didn't mind and it helped pass the
day as well as anything else.
Bradley (delusional psychotic "with violent acting out"), on the
other hand, like to disrupt the peace and harmony as often as
possible. He took great pleasure in producing shock effect by
masturbating in the corridors, especially when there were visiting
doctors or, better yet, new nurses.
Martin (manic depressive), a motor mouth who bitched and moaned
like a politician when he was on a "high", about his hemorrhoids
in particular, and who sat in the corner and sulked a lot when
he was on a "low".
Not everyone moved about with free will. Thomas had been in a
terrible MVA, and had left a respectable portion of his brain on
the shoulder of Highway 23. How he had survived was anyone's guess
and now he had a plate in his head, was blind in one eye and
tended to ignore everything that went on to his left. He talked
but only in gibberish and needed help with everything, from
defecating to eating. He spent the majority of his days wandering
around the ward, making right turns.
Fox (whom few of the staff liked and who didn't like them, who
spent much of his day sleeping or sitting and staring through the
bars of the huge ward windows, who fought and screamed at meal
and med times, whom the staff liked nothing on him better than
restraints, needles and feeding tubes) sat and played cards with
Joseph while Martin complained in a normal voice - not yelling yet,
it was too soon after his morning pills - about his unique physical
state.
"Goddamn cold floors are bad for my health. Don't you know this
floor is poison.?!" He snarled to a passing nurse who sped up his pace,
the sooner to get out of earshot. "The linoleum. I know, I've been
in lotsa places before this, there's deadly chemicals in the wax. Makes
my hemorrhoids bleed. They're like sausages now, god dammit." He shook
his fist after the retreating representation of good health.
The place suffered from things common to public institutions, it was
overcrowded, understaffed and the heating went out on a regular basis.
In the enclosed environment, germs happily multiplied and mutated.
Nearing the end of the week two orderlies, three nurses and four
patients were all down with influenza.
"They moved Mulder to the infirmary." Janice informed Ian as soon as
he arrived for his Thursday afternoon shift.
"Flu'?" Ian asked. Fox had been unusually docile. Nothing like an
illness to sap the fight from a person.
"Yeah. He's got it really bad though. Woke up this morning, took a
couple of steps and puked up all that Ensure they'd pumped into him
the night before."
Nothing unusual. "That makes five sick."
"Sick-ER." She said, teasing. Ian smiled for her because she was
his best source of information on what happened in the place and
especially things regarding Fox, but it wasn't funny really.
He looked in on Fox later when all but one nurse went for lunch.
Fox looked like absolute shit. Ian touched his forehead, he was as
hot as a stove element, flushed from fever and the oxygen mask on
his face told the rest of the tale.
"Pneumonia huh? How did you manage that so fast?"
Later, Ian heard that his doctor friend, Scully, had phoned for
for her tri-weekly update on Fox's therapy and general state of
health. When she heard he was down with pneumonia and flu, she'd
told Munroe she was flying out though it was not yet Saturday. Ian
had smiled at the grumpy face Munroe wore after that phone
conversation. The Doc' didn't like questions, especially interfering
questions from another doctor and even less when that other doctor
was a woman.
"Bitch." Janice had heard the Doctor's expletive and like a good
little snitch told Ian all she knew about it.
Ian was liking this doctor Scully more and more. Anyone who
managed to get under Munroe's thick skin was someone he wanted
to meet and made a point of finding out when this Scully would arrive.
The place was as crowded and dingy as she remembered.
The fellas weren't. Langley had chopped his hair to a
brush cut and wore clothing that was actually passable.
Byers was married, had a five year old son and had cut
his dinner with the family short to come and meet with
them. Frohike had suffered a massive coronary three years
previously and was attending the meeting via his comfy
retirement condo across town.
"Could something like this have been manufactured?"
Scully corrected herself. "That sounds crazy." "Assembled?
I understand they've completed the genetic code for a
salamander and certain species of fish." She'd come seeking
their input on the impossible condition of Mulder's genetic
invader.
By habit, Byers answered first. "My work with the Justice
Department allows me discreet access to all current medical
advancements. But we know there has been and still is work
being done that is kept from the common people. The salamander
is common knowledge. They've also had limited success with
warm blooded creatures, mice, bats..."
Langley shook his head. "But what they've accomplished
is nothing but fitting Flange A into Slot A, square peg in the
square hole. Genetic cross-word puzzling."
"SCULLY'S TALKING ABOUT THE BUILDING OF DNA. MANU-
FACTURING IT. WE'RE TALKING ABOUT A PROCESS OF
CREATION. IF IT'S BEING DONE, NO ONE I KNOW KNOWS
ABOUT IT." Frohike's voice over the computer voice line.
"Nobody but the CIA." Langly corrected.
"The creation of DNA," Byers added, "would elevate humans
to gods."
"I'm not sure humanity's ready for that, look what they've done
with television." Scully said. "If they've done it, if that's what this is,
I can only think of one reason for "Them", she underlined the word,
"to have done this to Mulder."
""THEM"?" Frohike asked.
"The same." She said.
"Control. That's why they've done this. That's always why."
Byers said. There was no need to remind the group that Scully
still carried her own physical evidence of "Them" and their
control. The chip was still nestled in place. The knowledge of
how her own DNA having been invaded, her immune system
ravaged and then her body left to compost the "garbage" had not
been forgotten by the room's occupants.
"IF they've done it and, anyway, it doesn't explain the
scars." Langley reminded them.
Scully cleared her throat. "The problem is I can see no reason
why they would feel the need to control Mulder or harm him the
way he's been harmed. I was hoping you might have heard something
that would explain the spurious code we're seeing."
Langley looked at Byers who looked back at her. Both shook
their heads. Frohike muttered a far away "sorry" and was silent.
"How is Mulder?" Byers asked.
Scully gathered up her coat. "I haven't seen him for two
weeks. The last time, he was...there was no visible change. I'm
flying out tomorrow and staying until the weekend."
"IF THERE'S ANYTHING MORE WE CAN DO..." Frohike said, "CALL
US ANYTIME, DAY OR NIGHT."
Scully smiled. "Thanks, Frohike. Thanks guys. I'll say hello from
you."
For all the good it'll do, she thought.
Dana Scully had finished arguing with the admitting nurse and
was now having a polite if strained conversation with Munroe. Bryant
was at a conference and not available to "discuss Mulder with her".
Kurtzman was not a ward doctor and though was responsible for
prescribing medication to Mulder and had access to Bryant's notes
on Mulder, he had no direct authority in the Infirmary.
"How are you treating the pneumonia?"
Munroe stiffly laded out for her the standard treatments being
administered and now she was in the infirmary, seeing for herself.
Mulder looked horrible. As far as she was concerned as bad as that
first day. Worse, even. No thinner (thank god!), but still flesh less
and pasty and he couldn't or wouldn't look at her over his oxygen
mask. There were other patients almost as bad off but they didn't
have masks or I.V. drips.
Scully wanted to touch Mulder but had no idea how he would react
to it. Sitting on her hands, she simply watched him. Occasionally,
watery, droopy eyes would open but not look her way.
Munroe told her what he knew about Mulder's therapy, emphasizing
he was not the attending psychiatrist. But as for progress, there
was none. Mulder had attended four of Bryant's group sessions during
his lucid hours when he would actually emerge from himself and speak.
Those times being arbitrary and rare, he usually just turned violent.
The first two sessions he had refused to speak. The third time, when
he did, he made his opinion clear about what the hospital and doctors
could do with their Group Discussions:
"Do you have something to say, Mister Mulder?"
"Yeah, can we stop all this genuflecting please. I have a
weak stomach."
"If you have something to add, we'd like to hear it."
""We"? I didn't hear anyone else say Aye."
"This group which includes you collectively agreed to hear each
other out and then discuss things. Nothing is hidden here."
"You believe that?"
"Say what you want to say, Mister Mulder, we always encourage each
other to get in touch-"
""Yes, I've heard: Get In Touch With My Feelings." I get "in touch"
with myself every night for five minutes before I go to sleep. You're
right, Doc', it helps."
"Communication is encouraged but we'd appreciate it if you would
refrain from the profanity-."
"Jesus! "Communicate" this!"
"-and crude gesturing as well. If you have nothing to add to our
group discussion, you can leave."
"I HAVE something to add - this is a crock! - half of these
slobs are so stoned on cocktail they don't know if its their tongue or
their dick hanging out. The only reason they're here at all is because
you wanted the job and their families wanted hope and the fucking
pathetic thing is, they're not going to get even that! Jesus Christ, you
ask me to share my feelings and you think you're exploring something
profound?? Have you even looked at these people?? They're drugged
until they're zombies, kept under lock and key, spoon-fed pablum, look
at them! - they're sitting here in the middle of a working day in fucking
pajamas! - And then they send YOU in, to try and infuse them with
"human dignity" and "self-worth"! Holy shit, don't you see how fucking
ridiculous this is!!"
The last time he had "participated", he'd smashed the window with a
chair and tried to push, first himself and the then orderly called
to subdue him, through it, bars and all.
"Hey." Scully said, expecting no response and getting none. But he
looked right at her, however, and even that tiny acknowledgment made
her heart sing. "You will get better, you know."
Wanting so badly to touch him, she hoped her words might. "I know
that's hard to believe, Mulder, but I think there's still some fight left in
you, and I think you want to get well. I just wish you would talk to me."
No answer. He continued staring at her though. Was there recognition
there? Gladness, even?
Her cell phone rang. "Scully."
"Scully?" It was Skinner.
"Sir?" She hadn't told him she was coming to Boston. He wasn't
her direct superior after all and there was no need to keep him informed
of her movements. Except for that she knew he cared and would want
to know.
"How's Mulder?" Skinner asked from D.C..
She stood and moved to the window. Heard Mulder's nasally breathing
in the background, slow and steady. "Okay I guess. Sick though. Flu'.
Pneumonia complications." She heard Skinner sigh.
"Anything I can do?"
Scully smiled. A tiny one. "No, not really. He's getting all the anti-
biotics he needs. I recommended a few new ones." They both knew why. The
"fingerprint." They still didn't know what it was and they could hardly
just arbitrarily announce that the man had "somehow" been exposed
to "unidentifiable genetic matter" without there being everything from
scoffing to outright alarm in the halls of medicine. "But thanks, Walter..."
She still wasn't used to calling him that despite their almost physical
rendezvous..."Thank you for calling."
"I'm concerned about you both."
She knew he was still waiting for a decision. But, in truth she
hadn't allowed herself to think about a relationship with Walter
Skinner. She hadn't even explored her own feelings for Mulder lately,
being too tired from work and worrying about him and dodging her
mothers inquiries. She just didn't feel like justifying herself
to mom or anyone. No time or room enough.
"Listen, I've got a flight out in a few hours. Do you want to meet
and discuss the latest?" She was referring to the continuing research
the Lone Gunmen had been doing for her about Mulder's second seemingly
dormant genetic string. Scully was convinced it was a lurking monster
that sooner or later would rear it's grotesque head to devour them.
"Good idea. When?"
Scully checked her watch. "Umm, nine P.M.? Usual place?"
"See you then." Skinner hung up. Scully turned back to
Mulder. He had his eyes closed. Sleeping.
She had to go. Took a risk and kissed his forehead very softly
before quietly leaving the room.