TW: Panic attack, vomiting
The following morning, the Madam set a task for them. It wouldn't have been notable, except in all the weeks they'd known each other, Mulder had never seen Dana leave the Gilded Hall. The stables were as far as she went.
He talked about showing her things, wonderful sights of sunset and mountain but also abandoned buildings with the hint of mystery he found so alluring. He wanted to share these things with her, but she always refused his requests, finding excuses to keep her occupied in the brothel and teasing him about his wandering ways and lack of work ethic.
This time, though, she didn't have much of a choice. One of the girls needed a particular salve from the physician, not one usually sought, and the Madam was away with Walt to her monthly meetings. It couldn't wait, and she didn't trust anyone else, not even the physician, to dispense the correct item and dosage.
Mulder waited in the dining room with a borrowed book, the late morning sun rising past the windows, as the day moved onwards to mid-afternoon. He assumed the task was urgent, but Dana was taking much longer than usual to get ready, not even venturing out to join him for lunch at the usual hour.
He took another long sip of his coffee and sighed, recalling her shy smile when she'd opened the door. Things would be okay. The worst part, confessing to her all of his terrible past, his worst decisions, now out of the way.
"Women!" Melvin shrugged, as he joined him at the table. "It's always too fuckin' early or too fuckin' late."
"She's not usually like this, I'm sure she has her reasons," Mulder said.
As soon as he said the words, he heard the familiar rhythm of her footsteps, quick and light, coming from her room. Rising from his chair and grabbing his hat from the table, he smiled as she approached.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said, out of breath. He hadn't seen this dress before; she usually wore muted colors. This one had bright green skirts, with dark brown sash around her waist and a high-necked white lace blouse, ruffled at the collar. A yellow-fringed shawl rested over her shoulders and a full straw bonnet hid her bright hair from view.
"Are we going to a dance I am unaware of?" Mulder said as he took her arm. He leaned down close to her ear. "You're beautiful."
She dipped her head and the brim of her hat hid her face from view, but he could imagine her cheeks reddening prettily. Squeezing her arm and gently nudging her with his hip, they left arm in arm out to the stables. Excitement tingled in his chest at the thought of leaving this place with her, even on a simple errand. Perhaps he could convince her to travel with him, since he'd heard recent rumors of strange lights at the old mill not ten miles from here.
The back entrance led directly to the stables. John had prepared everything, hitching Thunderhead, the old chestnut mare, to the Gilded Hall's small cart. They didn't need much, but it was better than travelling the dusty thoroughfare in the heat of the day.
He helped her into the front seat, then checked the harness and patted the dependable horse along her soft muzzle before sitting up next to Dana. Sitting placidly, she had her hands folded in her lap and her head bowed as if in prayer.
"All set?"
She nodded, looking away from him.
"I don't know how much of this town you've explored, not that there's much to see of course," Mulder rambled, filling the silence. The cart bobbed up and down over the ruts in the road. Dana fanned herself, and he felt warm just looking at her gloved hands and thick layers of skirts. "Outside of it, though, I've seen so many things that-"
"Mulder."
He glanced in her direction. The side of her face beaded with sweat, her chest rising rapidly.
"Yeah?"
"I'm not in the mood for conversation," she said, sounding tired.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. She must not be feeling well, he thought. Vowing to stop along the way and get her a cold drink, he kept to himself. His eyes strayed over to her on occasion, he couldn't help himself. There definitely was something strange about her. Her back was straight, hands fidgeting in her lap and over her fan as she cooled herself.
At the physician's office, they didn't linger. Dana walked with purpose: shoulders forward, face upturned slightly, as if anticipating her destination. He never saw her moving idly, always a goal in mind, a place to be and things to do, unconcerned with the other people around her. When he caught her eyes, there was a shadow of something else there that he didn't anticipate, made him feel as though he should stare down anyone whose gaze lingered too long upon her.
"Ah, Miss Shaeffer," Doc Harbison said, looking up from his filthy desk. He counted coins, while a patient groaned miserably from one of his back rooms. It smelled awful - more than the musty, dank smell of some place hardly cleaned. He knew death was no stranger here, new and old.
"That salve, doctor, and we'll be on our way."
Her no-nonsense voice soothed Mulder's rattled nerves, and he tuned out their conversation, eyes wandering along the jars on shelves lining the dimly-lit office, the varied clippings proclaiming one miracle cure or another. His eyes caught on a page, hiding partway underneath another, with a drawing on it. When he moved the page to look, his heart caught in his throat at the title.
"DISTURBED WOMAN ACTING AS PHYSICIAN, LOVING FAMILY BEGS FOR RETURN."
There was a portrait of Dana underneath, the drawing uncanny in its resemblance.
Coughing to hide the tearing of paper, he ripped it from the wall and returned to Dana's side. Her handkerchief was pressed to her nose with one hand, the other holding the item she came for, examining it critically. The doc snatched the coinpurse she'd traded for the item, and peered inside of it. He retrieved a coin and bit it.
"This is all you have?" she asked.
The doc rolled his eyes, not bothering to conceal his impatience. "A rare thing that; you sure you know what you're looking for, girl?"
Dana's shoulders straightened and she frowned. "See you again, doctor."
Mulder grasped her arm and pulled her towards the door.
"Hopefully not too soon." Doc Harbison grumbled, as they left into the relative fresh air of outside. Manure and mud a welcome replacement to whatever vile shit lined the surfaces and walls of the physician's hovel.
Dana grasped the vial, placing it into a pocket hidden in her skirts. She looked up at the sun, squinting her eyes and looking around. Smiling up at him, she seemed more like herself. "Perhaps we could stop for a lemonade?"
"We should go back."
She regarded him suspiciously. "Something is wrong."
Helping her up again, he just nodded, moving swiftly to his own seat and snapping the reins. He wished Thunderhead lived up to her name, as she plodded down the road.
"Tell me," she said, placing a hand on his arm. He nearly jumped at the contact. When he looked back at her, he saw her face had gone pale, her mouth a tight line.
"There was a notice in the doc's office. Your likeness," Mulder said, staring straight ahead. He wondered if he turned left, whether he could cut five minutes off their journey. Tightening his grip on the reins, he reassured himself that the page was hidden, the Doc didn't even seem to have known it was there. If he hadn't made the connection, who had the closest contact with her, then surely no one else could have. How the fuck did that notice get all the way here from New York?
The cart ran through a particularly large rut, and he reached a hand out to make sure Dana stayed upright. When she moaned and stiffened under his touch he looked at her once again. Her head was bowed and she was breathing heavily. One of her arms was pinned to her stomach, while the other held onto the side of the cart with a white-knucked grip.
"Dana?"
She didn't respond, just trembled in place beside him.
He cracked the reins again, keeping one eye on the road, one eye on Dana. His hand rested on the seat between them, not daring to touch her lest he alarm her again.
"You okay, Dana?"
She didn't answer at first, and the world outside the two of them vanished. Turning to face him slightly, her shaded profile and the slash of her mouth appeared below her bonnet.
"Just... get me home," she said, struggling to get the words out. Her voice, breathy and brittle, nearly caused him to jump from the cart and carry her back, thinking it would be quicker.
When Thunderhead lumbered into the stables, Mulder cursing her slowness, the cart barely stopped before he jumped out, moving over to Dana's side. From his perspective below her, he saw her face, drenched with sweat that could not be explained solely by the heat of the day. Her breathing was still alarmingly fast, and her hands clenched onto the wood as he reached for her.
Batting his hands away, she turned away from him, retching up her lunch in the seat he'd previously occupied.
He gave her some distance, but when she turned back to him with fear in her eyes, he reached out, beckoning her to him. Face crumpling, tears peeked out from below her eyelids and fell down her face. He caught her as she fell into his arms.
John appeared from around the corner and he spared no glance at the other man.
"Is everything-"
"Be quiet and take care of this," Mulder said, jerking his head towards the horse. He placed Dana on the ground, supporting her with both arms.
He didn't wait for a response, needing to get Dana to her room, half-carrying her rigid form there, and thankful for the relative privacy. The door to the stables and the hallway in the rear of the dining room sheltered them from prying eyes. The sound of laughter and the out-of-tune fiddle that Langly occasionally played reached his ears, but it didn't register. All he knew was getting her safe, helping with whatever sickness had suddenly befallen her.
Once he shut the door, she tore away from his embrace, retching once more into the basin on her vanity. Her arms cradled her belly as she sat down on her bed, bending over as much as her dress would allow, breaths coming quickly.
"Do you need a doctor?"
She shook her head, and a sob wrenched from her mouth. He moved beside her, his hand stroking her back as she cried out, trembling violently.
Having no earthly idea what to do, he covered her with a quilt, wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. He somehow managed to undo the ribbon under her chin and remove her hat, discarding it on the floor. He wished she'd look at him, but she refused, her face pointed downwards.
"I can't… breathe…" she gasped, through the deep gulps of air. Backing away, thinking she needed space, she scrambled at her dress, eyes panicked as she looked up at him. She was pleading with him, fear in her eyes. "Make… make it stop."
Suddenly things became clear, her sickness, her desperate fear, her fast breaths. He'd seen it before - his mother, a few of the girls he'd brought here.
He kneeled down in front of her, grasped her face in his hands and made her look at him. Her red face was a stranger - wild, unfocused eyes, red-rimmed from crying, her mouth twisted in an awful grimace.
"Breathe, Dana. It's okay."
Wrenching her face away from him, she shook her head. Her fingers tore at her dress, reaching back helplessly to undo the fastenings at her back.
"Help," she said, through wretched sobs. The dress, the corset. Damn women's clothes.
He turned her around, eyeing the back of her dress. While attempting to find and undo the mysterious clasps that held the material together, he became frustrated, desperate to help. The first button took too long, delicate bobble and slim hoop meant for more delicate hands. It would take ages at this rate, and he didn't have the time. She calmed when he started, but now she was gasping for air once more, tense and hiccuping in her distress.
So he ripped the back of her dress open, heedless of the damage. The lace of the corset was next, and as he finally pulled the edges of the garment apart, giving her the room she felt she needed, she leaned forward, arms hugging her stomach. As he ran a hand across her shoulder blades, the pale skin under his hand was cold and clammy.
"You're okay, sweetheart," he whispered. Never before had he seen her this emotional, this terrified, and it scared the shit out of him. He placed a kiss at the meeting of her neck and shoulder, noting a hidden freckle, focusing on it, willing his rising panic away. He wouldn't fail her, not now, not when she needed him.
It took what seemed forever, Dana shivering and sweating next to him, gasping for breath, pleading with him to help her. She heaved once more, but had nothing more to expel from her stomach, and it only served to make her cry harder. Her breathing sped up once more, and he held her close, her pulse quickening as he pressed his lips to her neck. He was worse than useless. Nothing he did helped, but he continued to speak to her, words flitting away into the room, not sure if they even reached her ears.
Finally, though, she relaxed against him. Her arm draped across his lap, breath hitching as the remnants of her tears dried upon her face, on his shirt. He kissed the top of her head, rocking her next to him.
"So tired," she said, her voice low and scratchy.
"Lay back, I'll get you some water." He drew his thumb across the tear tracks along her cheek, placing another kiss on her brow before rising.
"Some of the toothpaste, too, please."
He nodded, facing away from her as he busied himself. The pitcher was halfway empty from this morning, glasses placed neatly beside it. He told himself to clean up before he left, wanting her room to be just as it always was when she woke. Keeping his back turned, he listened to the rustling of material, as she divested herself of the rest of her clothing, the squeak of her mattress springs, as she slid into bed.
When it was quiet, he turned. The pillows behind her raised her up very little, she was nearly flat - one bare arm above her head and the other lying across the quilt, over her stomach. She faced the window as the warmth of the day turned to inky dusk.
Sitting near, he leaned over and held her head so she could sip the water. He offered her his cupped hand when she'd needed to spit out the paste she'd used to rinse her mouth. A soft smile appeared on her face, and he declared a small victory.
"Go to sleep," he said, wiping the hair that had stuck to her forehead.
She closed her eyes, turned on her side facing him, and he watched her as she finally stilled in slumber. The line of her arm down to her slim and elegant fingers, rising and falling softly with her even, slow breaths. The wrinkle between her brows smoothed. But he could not get the image of her terrified face from his mind, no matter how hard he stared at her now.
He ached for her, hated that she had to endure such a thing. He longed to reach out and touch her, but he could not make himself.
So he stayed, and watched. And wept.