TITLE: Will to Power
AUTHOR: Birgit Mueller
EMAIL ADDRESS: aerynsun@cox.net
SPOILER WARNING: Pusher
RATING: PG
CONTENT WARNING: MSR
CLASSIFICATION: TRA
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully romance
SUMMARY: When Scully is stabbed by an unknown hiker during the investigation of a Rocky Mountain trail abduction site, buried feelings surface for both of them as Mulder must do all he can to keep her alive -- and protect her from Robert Patrick Modell.
DISCLAIMER: Standard disclaimers, whatever they are, certainly apply.
These characters aren't mine but belong to CC and 1013, yada yada yada.
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"Will to Power"
by Birgit Mueller
aerynsun@cox.net
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CHAPTER 1 OF 3
Despite her best efforts, Carrie Porter yawned. These double shifts were going to kill her. Forcing herself to concentrate, her eyes ranged one by one over the monitors at her station. She was relieved to see that everyone looked good, even that guy who'd just been transferred from the ICU, the one who'd just been taken off life support. She hated it when people died during her shift, no matter who they were. And this guy -- Modell, that was his name -- geez, he'd taken a bullet to the head by way of some FBI agent, right here in the hospital. On her floor, in fact. Spooky. But at least there weren't any guards getting in her way; a comatose criminal with a severe head injury wasn't likely to hop out of bed and walk away.
Satisfied that her patients were holding their own, she was about to let her gaze return to the chart she'd been updating when Modell's heart monitor blipped strangely. She saw it out of the corner of her eye, and her brow furrowed. She watched carefully as the green line moved in rapid peaks and valleys across the black monitor screen. His rhythm was strong and steady. Maybe she'd just imagined it...
No, wait, there it was again, two rapid, irregular beats. Glancing at the clock above her on the wall, she considered paging the doctor, but as she continued to watch the monitor, the irregularity seemed to be gone. She sat for a few more moments, until she was certain the incident had ended, and wondered whether or not it was worthy of noting in Modell's chart. Absently, she rose and started toward the kitchen for a cup of coffee...
Carrie awoke with a jangled start as the telephone beside her rang loudly.
Disoriented, she blinked. What had happened? Modell...she glanced at his
heart monitor. Strong and steady. She must've fallen asleep in her chair;
it must've been a dream. Her head ached badly. I need a vacation,
she thought, reaching over a stack of charts for the phone.
************************
Dana Scully stared at the snow on her boots and scowled, puffing steam into the crisp winter air as she walked. She had dreamed of Modell again, awoke feeling sick and anxious and out of sorts, and the feelings had stayed this time, refusing to be forgotten as the day wore on. She told herself this was expected -- it had only been a week -- but it made her feel out of control. It was not a sensation she liked, especially when she thought other people had noticed. And Mulder, tromping along beside her, had obviously noticed.
"Y'know," he murmured, "one day your face might freeze that way." Damned soft sarcasm, she thought. It was his way, but it was nothing she could talk about yet, and she knew he knew that. Still, she couldn't help but smile, just a little, as she tilted her head to regard him.
"Thanks for the tip," she mumbled, looking him over, for what was not the first time today. He looked so out of place, so far from suit and tie, and it amused her. They were high in the Rockies, miles from anything that could be called civilization and ankle-deep in snow, investigating a supposed alien abduction site that had piqued Mulder's interest. As usual, approval for the trip had been difficult, but as usual, he had gotten his way in the end. She suspected Skinner was well aware that Mulder would go where his instincts pointed him in any case.
Truth be told, she suspected Skinner was secretly glad for the momentary peace and quiet. She decided, chuckling faintly despite herself, that Mulder would probably someday be held financially liable for the AD's surely-impending aneurysm.
Her smile faded as her thoughts turned briefly inward. What about her? She had lost so much since she'd been with Mulder. But she wasn't sorry, she couldn't be sorry, even as Missy's face skimmed lightly across the canvas of her imagination. She couldn't bring herself to regret her fidelity. She shook off the abrupt pang of melancholy -- at least routine had become a distant memory. Here they were, hiking a seldom-used national trail together in February because Mulder felt some kind of visceral, unending investigative need. At least he was, for once, properly attired, wearing old, faded jeans, a white sweater, an actual winter coat, and hiking boots. He was even carrying a pack on his back. Still, she thought he looked lost, like an investment banker who'd stumbled into a biker bar after losing his car keys.
Mulder, noticing the appraisal, gave her a sidelong look and grinned. "What?" He glanced down. "Is my fly open?"
What should've been a grin turned wistful as, reminded again, unexpectedly, of Modell, she said too softly, "Made you look."
Mulder frowned, and they walked on in silence. He understood full well at least part of what was bothering her. He didn't want to consider it any more than she did, but the experience was too much to be put behind them so quickly. He recalled watching Modell after it was all over, remembered how Scully had reached out for his hand, remembered how she'd said they shouldn't let him waste any more of their time. It was her way of letting him know... You didn't hurt me. I trust you. It wasn't you. But the terror he felt when his finger tightened on the trigger was still alive with him, clinging like the remnants of a bad cold he couldn't shake. That, and the bright image of Scully with tears in her eyes. Tears for him; tears because of him. That one image had blazed like a fireball in his own nightmares, every night since.
Her voice pulled him back to the surface. She was staring at him now, eyebrows raised questioningly. "Hey, you were saying something about my -- "
A rustle in the trees ahead cut her off and made them both stop dead. Mulder eased the pack off his shoulders and reached instinctively for the handle of his gun. His eyes strained to see into the stand of firs, a tenacious green against the snowy landscape, and he unexpectedly found himself fighting off an abrupt sense of foreboding he couldn't explain. It's probably nothing, he told himself. Another deer. He felt the back of his neck bristle.
The grip on his firearm relaxed slightly as a lone hiker appeared and wound his way back onto the trail from between the trees. The man glanced up, suddenly noticing that he was not alone -- and that the man in front of him had his hand resting against the butt of a holstered gun.
"Hey, man," he said carefully, lifting his hands in a placating gesture. Mulder appraised him swiftly: in his mid-thirties, average-looking but scruffy, with old, worn clothes, long brown hair and a ragged beard. He isn't a threat, Mulder thought.
He isn't a threat. Still, his stomach would not uncoil, and rationality warred with his more primal instincts. He tried not to show the tension he could not shake and lifted his hand in a conciliatory gesture of his own, then dug in his breast pocket for his ID. Scully, seemingly unruffled, followed his lead, and they approached.
"FBI," Mulder explained, holding his badge up for the man to examine.
The hiker nodded slowly, still warily watching him. "Okay."
"You mind if we ask you a few questions?" Mulder began, stepping in closer. He immediately noted a familiar, pungent aroma hovering around the man, who looked uncomfortable but shook his head. "What were you doing in there?" Mulder asked, pointing into the fir trees.
The man shuffled nervously and said in a low voice, "Y'know, nature calls, man."
Mulder leaned in toward him and sniffed pointedly. The man promptly went from nervous to positively panicked. "Well, there's nature and then there's nature," Mulder murmured. Not a threat, he repeated to himself. He reached into his breast pocket again and tossed the man the package of mint lifesavers that he'd picked up in the last convenience store they'd visited. They were a poor substitute for sunflower seeds anyway. "Try these. They're a little easier on the lungs."
Relief played briefly over the man's features. Scully moved toward him a bit. Mulder relaxed a notch.
...in a semi-private room in fairfax mercy hospital, modell's adrenaline surged...
Mulder glanced up again and his hand instinctively moved to again clutch the butt of his gun. The man's expression had changed. Suddenly. Startlingly. And it wasn't just the fact that he was stoned.
The man smiled, but it was an expression devoid of warmth -- and rich with recognition. He glanced quickly from Mulder to Scully and back again. Reflexively, Scully backpedaled, reaching for her own gun, but it was too late. With unbelievable speed, the man reached into his boot and lunged toward her. Mulder swerved, yanking his gun free in one clean movement, but he was too close in to fire in time.
There was a brief flash of silver as the man's clenched fist came down with a sickening thump.
The impact knocked Scully into Mulder. Mulder shoved hard, sending the hiker reeling away, but he lunged forward again. This time, though, Mulder was ready, and he fired, more than once.
Still clutching the knife, the nameless hiker slumped to the ground. Mulder felt his heart slamming against his rib cage -- what the hell had just happened? He kept the gun trained on the man, who was straining against the ground, trying mightily to sit up. His eyes struggled purposefully upward until they found Mulder's, and then the man did something surprising. He smiled, even as blood trailed from one corner of his mouth.
Then he spoke. "I'll find you...again, Agent Mulder," he rasped. Mulder could only stare at him. "Gotta play by...the rules, G-man."
Then the man's eyes drooped, and he fell back against the snow and was still. A thick blanket of silence descended, punctuated only by Mulder's own heavy breathing. His own, and -- Scully.
Somehow, she had still been standing. What he would remember later was not the sharp realization as he turned on his heels and caught her as she began to fall, or the way he breathed her name over and over as if, somehow, it was a mantra that could take the moment back. All he remembered was the blood, her blood, sprayed in bright droplets over snowy ground; the blood and the abrupt sickening feeling that he was going to lose the only person who'd ever mattered, ever been able to break through and really touch him, a second and final time.
"Scully!" he whispered again, this time with a steady intensity that nonetheless belied what he was thinking. God, no. He felt her sink into him, her hands, wet with the same thick blood, gripping tight handfuls of his white sweater. Her upturned eyes registered a sheer surprise that was frozen in the instant the blade had come down. She gasped for breath. No. His blood ran cold. He held her, frantically ripped his winter coat from one shoulder, then the other, and threw it out over the snow. Gently, almost reverently, he eased her to the ground.
He felt dizzy. That was Modell. That was Modell! Somehow, somehow, that son of a bitch had tracked them down from his hospital bed. He'd been so quick to pick up on Mulder's weak spot, and he'd used it so well.
Do you work well together?
Mulder felt paralyzed, but a small, detached voice spoke in the back of his mind. Pressure. He needed to put pressure on the wound. She wouldn't let go of him, so he crouched on hands and knees, his face inches from hers as he fumbled, pushing her coat aside, until he found the jagged rip just above the right front pocket of her blue flannel shirt. He covered the hole with one palm and pushed down as hard as he dared. Blood continued to run beneath his hand, seeping between his fingers, soaking her chest and hair, puddling underneath her.
With the other hand, he rummaged urgently for his cell phone, finally yanking it from the pocket of his coat beneath her. He jabbed violently at the emergency button with his thumb. Please, he thought, please, but he knew they were high in the mountains, miles from anything. A vague static hiss was his only reward. He watched as realization crept into her eyes. Her grip on his sweater relaxed, and a sudden spike of fear hit him.
"Dammit!" he growled, flinging the phone away. "We're out of range." She nodded once, slowly; her face was growing so pale, her lips were turning blue, her eyelids falling, as shock sank in. Panicked, he felt her begin to slip away from him, her labored and unsteady breathing growing more and more shallow as she lost consciousness.
"Scully, don't you do this!" he hissed sharply. She was going limp, a heavy, life-sized rag-doll. Her hands released his sweater and fell. "Look at me!" She didn't respond. Please, no, he pleaded silently, I can't do this again. Not again. Sudden anger overtook him. "Goddammit, Scully," he barked sharply, "look at me!"
He was rewarded with movement, and her eyes fluttered open, but the gaze that she fixed on him seemed so far away that he wasn't sure she was seeing him. "Scully," he said again, loudly, "come on. You've been stabbed. You're a doctor. I need your help."
She licked her lips and squinted at him. She was having such a hard time getting her breath...was she drowning? No, not drowning. There was pain, but it didn't feel like it belonged to her. From a distance, she heard Mulder's voice. Stabbed. Suddenly the pain made sense. The drowning feeling -- a hole in her chest. A punctured lung. She could hear herself, her breath wet with a characteristic gurgling sound.
"Plastic," she whispered finally, speech and her body vying for precious air. "And tape."
His heart leapt when she spoke, but he didn't falter. "Hold on," he said. Their eyes locked, and he saw recognition in hers; it was as much a forlorn plea as a simple turn of phrase. He took her hands, put them where his had been, and pushed down hard. She nodded.
He pulled their backpack closer and tore through it, flinging things to the ground -- food, tent stakes, a painfully useless first-aid kit -- until he came up with a roll of grey tape and an empty Zip-loc bag. The tape was new, and his hands shook as he unraveled it. "Now what?" he asked unsteadily.
"Plastic," she breathed, "over the wound...tape it down." She moved her hands away.
He pulled her gently upward and pushed the coat away from her shoulders, then carefully eased her back down. Trembling threatened to overtake him entirely as he unbuttoned her shirt, and the part of his brain that just couldn't process the reality of this whispered to him that unbuttoning her shirt would have him shaking in any context. But when he pulled back the blood-soaked, checkered blue flannel, it was like ice-water down his spine.
"Oh," he murmured, despite himself, "oh, God, Scully." The wound was sizeable, about an inch and a half across, and obviously deep. Foaming blood bubbled from it as her chest rose and fell with each quick, erratic breath.
One look at her expression and he regretted his words. "Bad?" she mouthed barely, panic briefly visible in her clear blue eyes before it was squashed, quickly replaced with a look of detached medical concern.
Jesus, you jerk, he thought, but it was too late to lie to her now; he looked down and nodded slowly as he pushed the plastic down over the wound. "Yeah," he muttered, unsure of what else to say. He watched in amazement as the wound sucked the plastic in tight against her skin, and he was immediately relieved to hear her breathing steady and become less labored. Though still wheezing, she relaxed visibly, no longer desperately gulping air.
She felt his hand slide beneath her shirt to rest between her shoulder blades. He lifted her gently and pulled her right arm out of her sleeve, then carefully eased the satiny green of her bra strap down and moved her elbow through it carefully.
Green, that tiny, disbelieving part of his mind whispered.
He wound the heavy grey duct tape around her body, under her right arm and over her left shoulder, to assure that the plastic bag stayed in place. The blood made it hard to get the tape to stick, but he managed. It was slowing now, and the pressure of the makeshift bandage was helping -- the knife had missed the artery.
Scully was surprised at the way the pain felt, nebulous and distant. Blood loss and shock threatened to drag her into unconsciousness a second time. Desperate to keep herself awake, she focused on Mulder. He was handling her as if she were crystal, and with a sudden, amazed jolt she realized she didn't want to die now, not because she was afraid, but because she didn't want to leave him. Not yet. She reached up, weakly brushing his chin with her fingers, and held his unfathomable gaze.
Mulder froze at the touch of her fingers against his skin. The thought surfaced quietly, not unexpected (or even unwelcome? he wondered briefly). Mine for hers. It's a fair trade -- whaddaya say? He buried it quickly, shook off the way her eyes searched his face, and mustered an unsteady smile. "Would you believe," he murmured, suddenly uncomfortable, "that this was all a plot to get inside your shirt?"
She had to smile. "Mulder, you are...an ass," she managed.
"I've been called worse," he shot back, amused and relieved to hear any hint of life in her voice. She usually refused even to respond to his innuendo. Then again, he realized with a sudden, bleak shudder, she usually wasn't lying in the snow with a hole in her chest.
He was abruptly terrified that she was dying. (The quiet voice spoke again - How long would it take you to follow her?) Despite the X-Files, despite Samantha, it would be so easy to die for Scully. Too easy -- easier than living without her again. He had to get her out of there fast.
His mind raced. How many miles were they from a ranger station, a radio, anything? At least five -- yes, five. They'd passed a ranger station about five miles back on the trail. He looked up at the grey sky -- it was going to be dark in a few hours, and it was well below freezing now. Leaving her here was out of the question -- Modell wasn't through with either of them, that much was clear. And leaving her might mean leaving her to die, a thought that was more than he could bear. If she was going to die, she wasn't going to be alone when it happened. He was in shape, a good long-distance runner, and she was small (how she hated it when he pointed that out!). He could carry her five miles. He could.
He looked back down at her, straight into her eyes, and said with that particular brand of determination that was his alone, "I'm getting you back to that ranger's station we passed. Now." And before she could muster the strength to answer he cast around, fished his cell phone out of the snow and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans. He glanced down at the backpack; he'd have to leave that where it was. He grabbed the roll of grey tape, stuffed it into another pocket, then bent down for her.
Her eyes grew wide as he hefted her easily into his arms, cradling her, her head resting against his chest. He's really going to try to carry me, she thought, disbelieving. Still, his resolve comforted her, and despite the pain and the shock she was suddenly, irrationally certain she wasn't going to die here, on this mountain, as long as he stayed with her. She smiled weakly.
"Testost...erone-induced...delusion, macho man?" she mouthed, barely audible. "You can't...carry me...that far."
"Watch me," he grunted and, shifting her gently in his arms, began to
walk.
TO BE CONTINUED...