TITLE: Objects, subjects – chapter 2 of 4

AUTHOR: KateKane

FANDOM: The X-files, House (crossover)

PAIRING: Dana Scully/Allison Cameron (femslash)

DISCLAIMER: I'm a poor student and neither own Scully nor Cameron, although, by God, I wish I did...

RATING: PG13... But will eventually reach NC17.

SPOILERS: None. (And for the record, I am pretending the disastrous seasons 6-9 of The X-files and subsequent movies never took place. The same thing goes for the ridiculous romantic storyline revolving around Cameron and what's-his-name British colleague.)

***

Hours, days, minutes pass – like I said, I have lost all sense of time – and suddenly Allison is back. This time without my medical records, with the sole purpose of speaking with me... Okay, this is a slight exaggeration born out of my wishful thinking: Her sole purpose is answering the question I asked her earlier, so technically she is here to talk to not with me. However, the way she looks directly at me from the moment she enters the room makes me feel that there is something mutual about our communication.

"I asked about your partner... Fox." She sits on the edge of my bed and is careful not to put weight on any parts of my body hidden by the linen. "He is indeed still at the hospital and doing fine, physically..."

I sense three invisible dots after her sentence and quickly repeat the last part of it as a question. "Physically?"

She hesitates. Blinks and avert her eyes for a moment as she considers her reply. Then she apparently decides to cut to the chase. "They have put him under psychiatric observation. Presumably, some of the shocking events you experienced have affected him."

"Affected him how exactly?"

Once again, she hesitates. "Well, it is actually confidential..."

"Paranoid psychosis?" I suggest, and her eyes widen – just half a millimetre, but it is enough of a give away. I know that I am spot on and triumphantly continue guessing. "Perhaps he claims that he was chasing aliens – aliens that kidnap human beings and use them as guinea pigs while attempting to create a hybrid race? That has nothing to do with any sudden psychosis. It really is what Mulder has dedicated his life and career to."

I can't figure out what shocks her more: the fact that my partner's paranoia is his normal mental state, or the fact that he has unjustly been admitted to the loony bin. Probably both, but she only voices the latter concern.

"If that's true, then I better contact the psychiatrists in charge immediately..."

"No, no, it's no rush," I quickly assure her, and she gives me a confused look. "Let him lie in the bed he made, just for a little while. I ended up here with a fractured skull because of his insane project, whereas he, as usual, didn't get a single scratch."

Much to my surprise, Allison slowly nods – perhaps because she has read my file and knows exactly how many scratches the years with Mulder have given me; or perhaps she herself has taken some blows because of a stubborn colleague. In either case she does not seem like the type who would routinely dismiss work ethics, but this time she chooses to. "Alright... I suppose I don't have to talk to his doctor until tomorrow." She returns my grin with a blinding smile that, ones again, gives me this feeling of being fully alive in spire of everything. "My shift did end more than an hour ago, so technically I'm not really here. That is, I am only here visiting a friend," she concludes and winks at me, and even though it is not entirely true, it makes me unexpectedly warm inside.

"See you," I say as she gets up, and fortunately she repeats my words before closing the door behind her.

***

Hours, days, minutes. Numerous nurses come and go with bedpans and washbowls and fresh units of salt water. Allison is briefly in and out a few times, apparently without any particular errand. Maybe she has noticed that I never get any visitors. Over the years of extreme working hours my social network has shrunk and eventually been reduced to a single brilliant lunatic, who is currently under psychiatric observation, but physically fit for fight. If they are giving him sedatives, I hope it's a rectal suppository. It's a vicious wish, but I am only slightly ashamed of it. Once again it is my body, not his, that has suffered the consequences of his ideas.

My back itches, but I am unable to do anything about it. It would require far too many procedures: First I would have to lift my torso free of the mattress or, alternatively, roll over to the side. Then I would have to twist one arm onto my back or, alternatively, find a scratching tool (also out of my reach), and finally I would have to scratch my back in continuous strokes. Someone else has got to do it, and besides I suspect that the itching is caused by the moist heat between me and sheets. I really need a proper bath – I am beginning to smell more like me than hospital soap, and as much as I despise the smell of hospitals, this is not exclusively elevating.

It occurs to me that fewer nurses than usually have passed by recently. In fact, I don't think any nurse have been by today at all. Or has it been more than a day? It seems likely, judging from my sharp body odour sticking to the sheets that stick to my back.

Allison stops by alone to check on my IV. I notice that she is not wearing a wedding ring – although obviously this can be due to hygienic rules.

"Don't the nurses usually deal with minor things like this?" I sleepily mumble as she is finding me a new band aid to keep the syringe in its place.

"The nurses are on a strike," she explains without looking up.

"Not that I want to complain about being in overqualified hands... But I assume you have plenty of other things to attend to?"

She shrugs. Her lips are a delicate pink, and when she smiles the way she does now, there's is just a hint of the full upper lip's Cupid's bow shape. She has already finished what she came to do, but does not seem in a hurry to get out and move on. "It's okay... This is sort of a legitimate break for me."

I tilt my head and teasingly ask if it is a common practice for doctors to use patient's rooms as hideouts?

"You have no idea! Our comatose patients are among the most popular ones..."

I giggle, then ask her more seriously about the level of stress at the hospital.

She stretches without leaving my bedside. No part of her touches me, but I can feel the warmth of her body streaming into my right hip, through the white linen, and I lie as still as I possibly can, afraid that she might move if I stir.

"I love my job. When I chose it, I was well aware that it didn't go hand in hand with nine-to-five working hours..." she hesitantly begins, and I finish the sentence for her.

"...but you haven't had a vacation or been home before sunset for three years."

"Something like that. But I can't imagine FBI is any better in that respect?"

I raise one eyebrow – the classical Scully expression according to Mulder. "You are looking at my 'vacations' right now... The room service is excellent, but I would prefer a beach, a piña colada and romantic company."

"Well, the location is going to be tricky, but I'll see what I can do about the rest..." She averts her eyes and prevents me from reading their expression. I guess she is refer referring to the cocktail, not the romantic company, but the way her fingers fumble with the edge my sheet makes me wonder about it. Forget it, Scully, your boredom and imagination are playing tricks on you...

"Well – is there anything else I can do for you?" she asks.

"You want me to think of something to prolong your break...?" I ask in an exaggerated teasing tone to conceal the fact that I really, truly wish she'll stay.

She laughs, and it almost makes me proud – I guess I am not completely useless then, even if I currently can't even scratch my own back. And speaking of which. "It's probably too much to ask," I hesitantly begin, "but I could really use a bath. Perhaps you could ask one of the nurses- I mean, when they come back..."

"I'm afraid that will take a while. The last thing I heard was that negotiations had been put on a temporary halt." She looks a bit tired for a second, then lights up. "But why don't I help you get cleaned up?"

I discreetly wince at the words 'get cleaned up' – yet another one of these unbearable passive phrases with me as the object of the sentence, not the subject. On the other hand it would make me Allison's object, would guarantee her presence for several minutes and being alone with myself in this timeless room is driving me nuts.

So I reply, as casually as I possibly can: "I would really appreciate that. But only if it's not too much trouble."

"Not all," she states, as she gets up and heads for the door. "I'll get a washbowl and some soap straight away – I'm afraid, for now, the bathtub will have to be an imagined one."

I smile in response and close my eyes, just for a moment, while I wait for her to return.