Rational.
Glasgow, Kentucky.
May 20, 2010.
He was dreaming again, standing on the forested edge of a meadow. Everything came in shades of gray, from the flowers to the sky above, except the girl standing in the long grass. She was glowing, her eyes a sick pale blue color, her skin a beautiful shade of beige. She had a drum attached to her hips, a primitive design, and her hair was pinned with tiny pieces of bone. She was the one he had seen in the cavern, the spirit who had shared her pain with him.
"What can I do?" he asked, though he wasn't sure if his words made any sound. He couldn't hear himself. He tried to move toward her, but she took a few steps away. He held out his hand. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I want to help."
She shook her head, and suddenly the forest was full of eyes. Mulder stumbled away from it, sensing the malice growing. It was coming for him. It surged forward in a wave, knocking him off of his feet. He felt the cold blade digging into his back again, twisting against his spine. He lost all sense of time as he lay writhing in the grass, eyes locked onto a storm gray sky. Eventually the girl appeared over him, looking down sadly, regretfully, and then backing away.
"Don't… leave me here," he said, reaching out to her. He used his other hand to plug the wound in his back. "Please… please come back." He gathered up one shout, sitting up to let it ring out at full volume. "Come back!" With that said, he collapsed, and the life drained out of him.
He woke up right where he had fallen asleep. Scully was still folded safely against his chest, Gene was resting in a chair in the corner, and nurses were passing by the door. Hours had passed. He reached toward his back, expecting to find a sore spot again, but when he touched liquid he almost jumped out of his skin. He held his hand up, watching blood slide down his fingers.
"Scully! Scully, wake up!"
She shot into a sitting position, mumbling something about killer gnats, and then her eyes settled on his hand. She grabbed it, twisting it around. "What happened? Where did that come from?"
"I think I was stabbed," Mulder said, turning on his side. She swept around the bed, ripping the covers away. Her fingers prodded the wound and he recoiled. "Well don't poke it!"
"Sorry, sorry," she gasped, banging the button on the wall. She stepped toward the door. "We need a doctor in here! We need some help in here!" She came back to the bed, balling the blankets up and pressing them against his back. "Mulder, you're gushing blood. When did this happen?"
He flashed a look at Gene, who was staring at him, horrified, and then looked back at Scully. "In my dreams. I dreamt I was being stabbed."
"I'm being serious, Mulder."
"So am I! I'm the one who's gushing!"
He was starting to feel woozy. He let his head drop to the pillow as the room filled up with doctors. He recognized some of them – the ones who had held him down to put the restraints on – but their faces were all blurring together. He caught sight of Scully backing away, her hands covered in blood, looking baffled and afraid. His heart dropped for her. And for other reasons.
"Pulse is fluctuating, blood pressure dropping," someone announced.
Suddenly the bed was moving. He was being pushed down the hallway, pursued by a mob of doctors, the scientist who had brought him here, and Scully. She was alternating between bossing the others around and reminding him that she was still there.
When the bed stopped, they started sewing him up. Someone probed the wound with a gloved finger and, for one unbearable moment, the entire team had to hold him down. It felt like rubbing salt in a burn. Scully appeared near his head, wiping his blood onto a towel. She looked anxiously between his face and the other end of the table, where someone was running a needle into his naked back. He could feel someone giving him a shot, but the anesthetic had no effect.
"It looks superficial," one of the doctors said to Scully. He kept looking at Mulder, using a cloth to dab at the blood. "This wound is only skin deep. He shouldn't be bleeding so much."
"You need to do a CT scan of his entire body to make sure there aren't any more hidden wounds."
"It wasn't hidden," Mulder objected. His voice broke off into an unmanly squeak when the needle entered his flesh again. He clenched his jaw. "I told you where it came from."
"Shut up, Mulder."
"That's not nice to say to the dying guy."
"You're not dying," she snapped, her eyes jumping into his. She looked like she wanted to slap him. "You probably won't even lose consciousness. It's under control."
"Until I fall asleep again," he commented.
She twisted her lips, not bothering to respond to that. She spent the next half hour pretending to be the boss and hovering around him, and then she pursued him to the scanner, where he developed an intense migraine. She ignored anything he said about his dreams, avoiding the topic completely when the doctors asked her how the wound had come to be. She was starting to look genuinely suspicious, and, ironically, the cops were called.
Hours later she lay beside him, making gently circles on his stomach with her index finger. It eased the knots forming in his gut and helped take his mind off of the pain in his back.
He laughed suddenly around midnight. "Ma'am, we need to have a word with you in the hall."
She smiled. "If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't be so obvious about it."
"But did you see his fanny pack, Scully? I just need to know that you saw it."
"I saw it." She stretched out, sitting up on her elbow. "Are you sure you don't want to lie on your stomach? Your back must be sore."
"Yeah, and so is every other part of me."
She leaned over, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "Do you want more morphine?"
He made the decision as soon as she asked, lying effortlessly. "Actually I'm pretty hungry. Could you get me something from the cafeteria?"
She slid off the bed, pulling a twenty out of her wallet. "What are you hungry for?"
"Surprise me."
She shrugged, pausing in the doorway. One of the nurses was passing by. Scully got her attention and pointed to Mulder. "Can you please keep an eye on him? He might try to make a run for it."
He kept his nonchalant face, spinning his finger around. "I'm not making a run for it."
"I'll be back in a few minutes."
He watched her leave, gave it a dozen heartbeats for good measure, and then looked at the nurse hovering nearby. "Can you help me get to the bathroom? I'm not supposed to bend too much."
She bit her lip, smiling a little. "Nice try."
"Oh, come on, I have to pee. I'm not trying to escape. How am I going to escape from the bathroom? It's not even connected to the next room over." She gave him a weird look, and he frowned. "What? That used to be a thing. Can you just help me, please?"
Finally, she came over and put an arm under his shoulders, helping him sit up. Once he was standing, she directed him to the bathroom. It felt strange to be upright again. He had to take a break against the bathroom door, with the nurse hovering, expecting him to puke or pass out. He held up his hand to her, taking a few deep breaths to ease his stomach.
"Which one of these switches is the light?" he asked.
She leaned in to point it out, and he grabbed her, shoving her inside and slamming the door shut. He grabbed the nearest object – one of the flimsy wooden chairs – and shoved it under the door handle. She rattled the knob a few times and demanded to be let out.
"Sorry," he said, shedding his hospital gown in favor of the damp clothes he had been wearing when he was admitted. He ached all over, his back felt like it was leaking, and his head threatened to explode, but he was too focused to stop. He walked down the hallway, working hard to get the limp out of his step, and boarded the closest elevator.
He was in the lobby when he noticed the security guard looking at him funny. He was talking to someone on the phone. Mulder walked a little faster through the front doors, entering the dark parking lot. It was pouring rain, lightning whipped across the clouds, and thunder shook the ground, just like the night he had arrived in Kentucky. It was so windy that he had a hard time walking straight – he ended up stumbling into the road and almost getting nailed by a little old lady in a station wagon. He kept walking until he found the main road, and then he turned down the first alley, searching the storefronts for any business that was still open.
His eyes fell on the library, still several blocks away but clearly visible with its brightly lit sign. It was open all the time. It was probably warm inside.
By the time he got to the front doors, he was soaked to the bone. He felt nauseous, tired, and sad, still weighed down by the nightmares and the feelings the ghost had shared with him. He was desperate to help her, so desperate that he wondered, in the very back of his mind, if he was under its spell. He wasn't sure if he was behaving passionately, or insanely. Everything was hazy.
He took a beanie from the coatrack, pulling it over his bandaged head and shuffling to the back of the second floor. He got a few weird looks, but the place was mostly abandoned. He found a quiet desk to put his head down on, just to ease the throbbing for a moment.
"Excuse me?"
He stirred, turning to stare at the old woman who had spoken to him. She looked startled, like she hadn't expected him to be alive, and then she came to sit across from him.
"You look like you're having a bad night," she commented.
"You don't know the half of it, lady," he said softly, rubbing his temple. He felt like he was stuck in the middle of a pair of symbols.
She reached into her purse and produced a pill bottle, setting it in front of him. "If you have a headache, you should take some of these. They work miracles for my son."
"Oh, no thank you. I've already taken something for it."
She looked down briefly, and then she smiled. "Is there anything else I could do to help you?"
He wasn't sure if he should be creeped out or enchanted by this kindly old woman. She reminded him of his grandmother, but he was leery of strangers, and blatant kindness, in his world, was often a sign of guilt. He wasn't used to this kind of behavior.
"I'm sorry if I bothered you," she said before he had a chance to respond. She pulled a little business card from her pocket book and set it in front of him, giving him a meaningful look as she rose to leave. "You should take care of yourself. Get some help."
Once she was gone, he read over the card and laughed. She thought he was a drug addict. She had given him the number for an anonymous hotline to deal with cocaine addiction. He folded it into a lopsided bird and flicked it into the nearest trashcan. He took the time to watch it tumble between the folded pieces of paper, and then he left his quiet table to get to work.
He sat at one of the old computers, his hands hovering over the keys for the longest time before he figured out what he should type. He searched for a dozen things relating to his situation. Ghost trapped in location. Ghost can't pass on. How to make a ghost move on.
Over and over again he got results that were completely unrelated. He tried again, changing the topic. Paranormal experts. Clairvoyants.
Eventually he found a blocky webpage run by a woman who claimed to be an expert in 'misguided spirits.' He skimmed the information about helping ghosts move on – a dense ritual accompanied by diagrams and ingredients – and then skipped to a simpler section. It was sort of like an exorcism, but it involved burning the bones of the deceased.
But first he had to find out who was haunting that cave.
He flipped endlessly through the history of the region, from the Native American tribes to the French explorers, to the first colonists who ventured so far west. He found articles about Rousseau and his tragic 'drowning' death, and reports of tribe rituals involving the caves, but nothing concrete about a young woman perishing within those stone walls.
"Who are you?" he whispered to himself, picturing the girl, trying to grasp the image of her. It faded a little more every time he brought it up. He gave up on finding her identity this way, changing gears completely. He found the location of the nearest Native museum.
It was nearly three in the morning when he left the library. It was still sprinkling outside and thunder still rumbled far away, but the storm had mostly passed. He was looking up as he came down the steps, wishing he could see the stars for all the clouds, when he realized that he was not alone out here. Someone was waiting for him at the bottom.
He froze halfway down, staring at her, confounded that she had arrived at precisely this moment. How had she even found him?
She had her arms crossed over her chest, a disappointed and concerned look on her face. "I thought I told you to stay put."
"I don't have to stay in the hospital against my will."
"I wasn't going to hold you down, Mulder. You need rest. You're injured."
"I don't have time," he said, come down the rest of the steps and starting down the block. He was pursued by Scully, who looked wistfully at a taxi that was waiting for her. "And before you ask, no, I'm not going back to the hospital. I have to help that girl."
"Mulder, you're acting crazy. Can you see yourself right now?"
"I'm perfectly sane. I know exactly what I'm doing."
"Oh, yeah? Then where are you going?"
"Native Peoples Museum on Fourth Street."
"It's three in the morning."
He stopped, rethinking his brilliant plan. He looked back at her. "I'm still not going back to the hospital. I have to… I have to do something."
"If you're so hell-bent on doing this, I'll help you, Mulder, but not right now. We can do this in the morning. Just come back with me. We don't have to go to the hospital. We can get a hotel room. I just don't want you out here alone."
He saw the honesty in her eyes. She was afraid for him, afraid he was going to reject her idea. He didn't like that he was causing her fear. He was supposed to be the one who chased it away. He looked down the sidewalk, to the glowing green sign that indicated Fourth Street, and then turned back toward her and the taxi. She smiled very slightly, holding onto his arm and leading him toward it. Every step he took felt like a betrayal to the spirit who had asked him for help.
"You let this get into your head," Scully said as she closed the door behind them. She gave the driver a hotel name, and then went on. "You have to think rationally."
Mulder sat back, enjoying the heat blasting from the vents. He felt cold again. It seeped into his muscles and thrived under his skin. "I am thinking rationally."
"Trust me when I saw that you're not. You didn't have to flee the hospital. You didn't have to lock that poor nurse in the bathroom. You didn't have to come out here in the middle of the night – and probably catch pneumonia – to get answers."
"If you see her, tell her I'm sorry."
She grumbled something that he didn't catch. He was sure it was aggressive, but it didn't matter after she wrapped her hands around his and rested her head on his shoulder. She kept looking up at his face, as if waiting for him to say something, and even when he didn't she maintained a sweet expression. Under it, he knew there was at least a month's supply of guilt-trips.
"Scully…?"
She tilted her head, sighing. "What?"
"Do you still love me?"
"Yes, you stubborn jackass. I still love you."
He laughed a little. "I deserved that."
"You deserve more than that. I'm going easy on you."
"I'm not apologizing."
She sat back a little, gazing up at him with the most familiar look on her face. "I wouldn't expect you to. Not in a million years."
He smiled, glad for her kindness.
"But it would be nice every now and then."
He smirked. "I saw that coming. I knew you couldn't leave it there."
"You snuck out of the hospital, Mulder. You attacked a nurse, snuck out of a hospital, and hung out in a library for three hours. I had no idea where you were. Do you have any idea how scared I was? How would you feel if I did that?"
He only had to think of it for a moment. "Point taken. I'm sorry. I won't do that again."
Something occurred to him as he gazed at the passing streets. "Whatever happened with Iden and Deloris? Did she come back?"
Scully glanced at him, tilting her head in a peculiar way. "Yeah. She came back. It's fine."