9:49 AM
Patterson was not happy. Granted he was rarely happy, as in jump-for-joy, clap your hands and sing songs about the goodness of the world happy. He didn't believe in the goodness of the world. Still, he usually managed to be less than infuriated.
Right now, he was infuriated.
But he composed his face into an expressionless mask and stared flatly at his rogue agent. Just long enough to make him uncomfortable—though of course Mulder was staring right back at him, hazel eyes wide with feigned innocence.
Patterson leaned forward and spoke softly. "Agent Mulder, you may have cost us this case."
Of course, Mulder refused to be cowed even in the face of his own blunder. His words came out with a desperate edge. "Actually, sir, not only did I catch the guy but I kicked his ass for good measure."
Desperate wasn't quite the word. Mulder sounded like he was on the edge of hysteria, masking it with forced calm and sarcasm. He probably would have fooled anyone else. Patterson shook his head and let a little sneer show on his face. "Your opinion is going to mean nothing in court since you've apparently gone insane and assaulted our suspect in the interview room. I won't be surprised if the case is thrown out altogether on account of your misconduct."
Mulder gritted his teeth—Patterson could see the muscles in his jaw contact. The young agent's voice began low and even but escalated as he spoke. "Bill, you know as well as I do that Ed Carrey's our man, and if the teams can't find the evidence to back that up then they should be the ones in this room, getting their asses reamed for not doing their jobs well enough. You'd have nothing on this case if it wasn't for me. So don't you try to make me feel guilty for ruining our case because I solved the damn thing. I'm on to you, Bill. I know what you're doing!"
"Oh, Mulder." Patterson smiled. Mulder made himself feel guilty just fine without any help. "You don't know that the other teams won't be in here after you. In fact, I'm quite disappointed in the crime scene unit for missing the prints on the door. Just because they were at the bottom of the handle." Really, there was no excuse. "But right now I am not concerned with them, as we are here to discuss your conduct at the station. So, are you going to try to offer me any excuse for your behavior? I'd like to get that out of the way."
Bill could see Mulder's shoulders tense, but to his credit the younger agent said nothing. Mulder also seemed to be guarding his right arm, he noticed, never letting it leave cover of his left hand, and filed the information away for later. Mulder'd probably bruised something during his assault on Carrey.
"Good," Bill went on after a slight pause. "Because your actions were inexcusable. You're aware that BSU needs you, but even you have to understand that the Bureau will not tolerate such blatant disregard for protocol. You are not too special for discipline, Agent Mulder. And I will see to it personally that you understand this."
Another subtle shift in Mulder's outwardly stony facial features, and the younger man might have been about to cry.
"So, Mulder, today you are going to visit the victims' families and apprise them of the current situation. This will be your punishment—you'll be glad to know that no part of this incident will be entered onto your permanent record. But if word reaches me that you have acted inappropriately while conducting these sessions I will not intervene in the Bureau's disciplinary action as I have done at this time."
A tiny nod and a swallow. "Yes, sir."
"You will call on the first family by noon today. You will deliver a prepared set of statements regarding the case."
Mulder nodded again, a bigger one this time, and winced. It only lasted for a moment, a flicker, but it was enough. "You have a headache," Patterson observed.
"I'm fine, sir," Mulder forced out. It was the tattered tone of someone just barely keeping it together. For a moment Patterson considered revising his punishment—if Mulder couldn't maintain his composure today, they'd both be in deep trouble. But he said nothing. Mulder would keep it together because he had to keep it together. Not for his own sake—Mulder didn't give a shit about himself—but for the grieving families. And if he had an emotional breakdown when he was finished, well, that would be neither a terrible thing nor unexpected. When that was over Mulder would be more focused, too angry at himself for losing his cool, especially around Lamana, who would accompany him, to let his composure slip for a while after that.
"Is there anything else?" Mulder asked.
"Yes," Bill said. "Take some aspirin. Get something to eat. Maybe take a nap. And try to finish a usable profile on Carrey before you leave today."
Mulder smirked through the pain. "Thanks, Mom."
At Patterson's nod of dismissal he left.
Of course, Mulder wouldn't take any of his advice, except to finish the profile today. If anything, he'd continue running himself to the ground in rebellion. But that was fine. That was how Mulder worked. That was how profiles were written and killers were caught. Hell, Mulder wouldn't know what to do with a good night's sleep if it bit him in the ass.
Scully went to the basement. It was shocking to see the walls of her office blank and the floor occupied by bulky '80s copiers rather than Mulder's cluttered desk. The filing cabinets that held her life's work were tucked away in a corner, dusty. Scully glanced over her shoulder before approaching them. She wasn't supposed to be here, and the good girl alarm that had kept her following rules for so many years was going off loudly in her head. They could kick her out for trespassing. What if someone came down to copy something and found her rooting through FBI files? Trainee or not, that was a bona fide federal crime.
She stoutly ignored her fears and started to sort through the files, looking for anything pertaining to time travel. She found herself wanting to both smile and cry as the files gave way beneath her fingers. Mulder would be proud. Breaking into the FBI basement—trespassing, anyway—looking for time travel files, assuming that the answer to her problems was in the X-files …if he were here he'd be making some joke about how she turned him on or how they should get married. And then she'd smile and shoot something right back at him, and everything would be right with the world, just for that moment.
She closed her eyes and sagged against the wall as she realized that she'd been toying with the same file for some time, one marked VIVISECTIONS, as her mind had taken her eleven years into the future. Vivisections. God. She stood straighter, put the file back and kept flipping through the packed cabinet. She couldn't afford to get emotional now. Nothing was in order, not even Mulder's usual haphazard order.
Maybe if she could gather some proof, this young and angry Mulder would listen to her. She'd been wrong to bring up his sister, she knew, and the memory of his pain made her feel acutely guilty. She had no excuse. She'd been terrified this morning, but so what? Mulder would never do that to her. She missed him more than she had thought possible after only a day. How the hell was she supposed to cope with a lifetime without him?
She set her jaw. It wasn't going to come to that, was how. Whatever she had to do, she would see that it didn't come to that.
March 2, 2000
9:02 AM
The X-Files Office
Scully hadn't shown up for work yet today. Mulder glanced at his watch again, then at the green and white Starbucks cup sitting untouched at one end of the desk, probably lukewarm by now. She could just be late. She'd been up late last night doing that autopsy for him, after all. He couldn't expect her to be in bright and early every day. He should call her. Or maybe he should try to get some of his own work done. He had at least fifty pages of witness reports to read this morning. But what if something was wrong? He could call her. But then he might wake her up, and she'd be annoyed, and he'd have no excuse but Scully, you were an hour late for work, and I'm too needy and pathetic to let you sleep in for once. Sleeping was hardly a sin. Hell, she wasn't even technically supposed to be here until nine, though for the last seven years they'd both arrived by eight, if not before. Even when she had cancer she'd been here bright and early. What could be worse than cancer, to keep her away from him? He should call her. He'd called at worse hours, insomniac Mulder hours, and she'd never held it against him. He should call because she should be up by now. She really should. And if she wasn't she'd probably appreciate being woken up. Maybe her alarm clock was broken. After all, it was…9:04.
Mulder pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open. Speed dial one. He chewed on his knuckle as it rang. Pick up, Scully, pick up, pick up pick up pick up.
"Hi, you've reached Dana Scully. Please leave a message after the tone."
Damn it! He closed his phone, wishing it would make a more dramatic noise than that little muffled clip.
This was ridiculous. She could be in the shower. She could be on her way here. Maybe she left her cell at home. Maybe she hadn't heard it ring. There were plenty of possibilities—or she could be unconscious and in need of help or even kidnapped and waiting for him to notice her absence. She never disappeared on him, never ditched him. She hated being late for work. He'd delayed long enough, violently flinging pencils into the ceiling and accidentally reading the same sentence of one witness report over and over again without taking it in.
He strode out of the basement without his coat and was parking in front of her apartment building before he'd really even considered another course of action. Time was still accelerated as he took the elevator to her floor and let himself into her apartment.
He went into her room and time stopped.
Scully was lying face up on her bed, limp and small, clad only in blue silk pajamas. She looked so vulnerable. Her eyes were open and staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. She was—oh God—she was still breathing, and her pulse was moving under his fingers. He could barely remember what vital signs to check. He fumbled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 9-1-1, trying to hold her as he spoke urgently into the phone. Her hair was splayed out on her pillow, fuzzy with static and mussed. How long had she been like this? Oh God. Mulder's stomach had been kicked out at some point in the last thirty seconds, only he couldn't remember when. She was still warm, at least. Still alive. Scully. He ran his fingers over her tranquil, smooth face, and pressed his lips against hers in a desperate, pathetic gesture. As if a kiss from the prince would wake up Sleeping Beauty. As if he was a prince. She remained catatonic, of course. How had he let this happen to her?
The EMTs arrived in a rush of sound and noise and bustle and Mulder followed the stretcher out to the street and into the ambulance where they attached tubes and wires to her and told him to get out of the way. He couldn't comply. He asked the EMTs what had happened and they said they weren't sure yet. The woman who answered sounded annoyed and a moment later asked him again to move out of her way.
His mind flipped desperately through the possibilities. How long would it take for them to figure out if the cancer was back? The virus she'd somehow contracted from that bee? Was this yet another side effect of her abduction five years ago? He'd kill those bastards if it was.
They told him that she was stabilized. As if that meant anything.
He followed her gurney through the hospital, alternately ignoring and flashing his badge at the doctors and nurses who tried to tear him away from her side. She came to rest at a bed in the ICU where a chubby young doctor told him that, as Scully's next of kin, he had paperwork to do. The doctor wouldn't take no for an answer. The doctor wouldn't even take Mulder's knocking his clipboard out of his hands and screaming at him to do something as an answer. So Mulder apologized, then picked up the clipboard and took the stack of papers and found a seat by the door to Scully's room.
He felt numb.
This could not be happening.
