Title: Rotation
Author:  Vickie Moseley
Spoilers:  Brand X, and hints of 7th season
Rating:  PG-13
Category:  MT, SA, MA, RST (note that doesn't say MSR)
Disclaimer:  They made me do this one, Chris.  I was quite happy just
rewinding the tape and watching 'the big suck' over and over and over and
over, but they pounded on my e-mail door and begged to have the blanks
filled in.  What could I do?  OK, yeah, not infringing on your copyright is
a good place to start.  
Archives:  Yes
Finished (and basically started) April 20, 2000.  Thank God for Amtrak ;)
Author's Notes:  I apologize in advance for the smokers in the crowd.  I
have lost my mother, my father, my older brother and my mother-in-law to
cancer, they were all smokers, and I tend to have a strong opinion on the
subject.  But then, so did this episode.
Dedication:  to all of you who 'encouraged me' to write a fill in the blank
for Brand X.  And to Amtrak for placing electrical outlets in the dinette
car between Springfield and Chicago.

Rotation
By Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net

Now, don't get me wrong.  I understand the theory behind 'rotation' all too
well.  Before I decided to become a doctor, I used to be a nurse and before
that, a nurse's aide.  I can remember working around doctors who hadn't
really paid attention to anything but their specialty.  They tended to be
an egotistical lot, and often ended up with a second opinion tossing their
opinion out the door, and when I saw them in action, I swore I'd never be
that way.

That said, something about pulmonary rotation always made me want to crawl
back under my covers and not come out to meet the morning sunshine.

I think it was the self-inflicted abuse that got to me the most.  All those
old men and old women, yellow stained fingers straining against the covers
as they struggled to pull oxygen into their battered and shrunken lungs.
Drawn faced middle aged men and women hovering around them, hovering until
that craving became too strong and then they would abandon their loved one
to find the spot just outside the visitor's entrance to puff out their own
self abuse on white tubes filled with toxins.

Did I mention I'm not a smoker?

How the hell did I end up in the middle of frigging 'Tobacco Land, USA',
you ask?  And rightly so, because it wasn't my idea.  But when you start
medical school at the ripe old age of 30, you don't go asking a lot of
questions when a hospital says they can take you.  My grades were fair, but
I knew I wasn't getting into Harvard Med.  So I ended up in Ashville at the
Medical Center.  God is funny that way.

But getting back to the story, I hated pulmonary.  It's an evil pun to say
'Pulmonary sucks', but it does.  Plain and simple.  Not the actual
procedures to prolong or improve life.  Hell, if I could spend the whole
time helping asthma patients, I would consider it as a specialty.  But the
fact of the matter is, the asthma patients, except for the really chronic
cases, are now being successfully treated with new and improved drugs and
don't end up in the hospital as much as they once did.

Which leaves us back at the self-abusers.  Who end up in the Ashville
Medical Center in droves.  And I was stuck tending to them and their
equally self-abusing families for six long weeks.  Just as they often felt
they were 'dying for a cigarette', I felt I was 'dying' for a challenge.

There's God's sense of humor showing again.

I was working the late shift, 3 to midnight, but I came in a bit early.  I
had just walked on the floor when one of the nurses, Carrie, grabbed my arm.

"Oh, you are gonna love room 503," she purred.  Carrie and I had become
friends in my first four days.  One, because I'm not one of those doctors
who treat nurses like a sub-human species, and two, because she wants to
follow in my footsteps.  I'm an icon, what can I tell you.

"Do tell?" I said, pulling out my set of charts for the evening.

"FBI agent, came in about an hour ago to the ER.  Massive larval
infestation in his lungs."  She said the words with all the aplomb of a
horror movie announcer.

"Larval infestation?" I repeated, and heard my name being called.  I
turned, and saw Jerry Epsen, the head of pulmonary med, in scrubs, calling
to me again.

"Glad you made it, you're just in time for the party.  Go get scrubbed,
we're doing a deep suction."

I cover astonishment pretty well.  Just the day before, I bemoaned the fact
that I'd been in the ward four days and had yet to observe, much less
attend, a deep suction.  The procedure is incredible.  A narrow tube with
an attached scope is threaded down into the bronchial tube, and any
secretions can be removed with the aid of the computer screen guiding the
way.  No more thoracic surgery necessary for many patients.  And it's
adding years to the lives of kids with cystic fibrosis.   I hurried into
the scrub room and just about knocked the faucet lever through the wall in
my exuberance.

"Never done one, huh?" asked Janice, the nurse who always attends for Jerry.  

"Read about 'em.  Dreamed about 'em," I said with a wink.  The marriage of
medicine and the computer is one of the best marriages imaginable.  I'm
almost glad I couldn't figure out what I wanted to be in life so I can get
in on all the high tech training now, when it's happening.

Another woman entered the room and Janice let her eyes flick toward her.  I
sensed something was up, I didn't recognize her at all, and this is a
pretty small place, once you learn the lay out.

"Dr. Scully, if you need anything, just ask," Janice said, but there was an
air of futility to the sentence that I picked up on right away.

"No, um, thank you.  I'm fine."  Her voice was strained.  I wondered who
the hell she was.

She was still scrubbing when Janice and I entered the theatre.  "Who was
that?" I whispered.

"She's an FBI pathologist.  And his next of kin," Janice hissed out.  Her
head nod pointed square at the patient.  

"And they're letting her observe?" I asked, a bit amazed.  Nobody, but
nobody gets to just walk into Jerry Epsen's operating theatre unless
personally cleared by the man himself.  And from the little I've known him,
I don't think he'd let a next of kin in the room.  Hysterics are not
allowed or tolerated.  But then, Janice said the woman was a pathologist.

"It's not a matter of 'letting'," Janice continued in a voice so low I had
to strain to hear her.  "I don't think Epsen wants his taxes audited for
the last seven years."

Ah, threats.  But even so, that's a pretty tall threat and she's a good two
inches shorter than I am.

The patient was quickly prepped, he was already out.  It took no time to
get the tube in place.  I couldn't stop watching the woman, Scully, from
the corner of my eye.  While Jerry was fiddling with the computer, she
stepped over to the table and ran a glove finger against the patient's
cheek.  She whispered something close to his ear, but I couldn't hear it
and I was standing less than three feet away.  Her eyes glistened for a
moment, then she stepped back, into the shadows of the theatre, but in a
spot that allowed her to see both the patient and the computer screen clearly.

As I mentioned, the procedure is totally cool.  You can see the scope
entering the lungs, see the tissue, which should be a light pink color,
sometimes light tan or near white.  What you don't want to see is angry red
or worst of all, brown or black.  I've seen black in pictures and on video.
 It's gross.  But nothing prepared me for what suddenly appeared on the
screen.

Worms.  Dozens of them.  And since the screen was magnified by 10 times,
they were pretty good-sized little suckers at that.  

But in a lung?  I felt my stomach do a roll and had to remind myself that
this was a patient, I was here to discover, to learn.  Hopefully, to heal.
But God in Heaven, it was almost too much for me.

I cast a look over to the shadows, to see how the 'next of kin' was holding
up.  It's a dirty little secret of mine.  I've picked my specialty already.
 Med-psych.  I want to be a shrink when I grow up.  And besides, watching
her reaction was better than staring at the squirmy things crawling around
in this guy's lung.

She was staring at the screen, and I'm not really sure she was breathing.
I did hear a sigh, but her shoulders didn't move.  Then she flicked her
eyes toward me, giving me a look and I decided it was safer to watch the
monitor again.

Slowly, or at least too slowly for my liking, the worms were caught in the
suction and dragged up the tube.  They ended up in a bloody discharge that
was steadily filling the collection container.  By the time they sat there
a while, they quit wiggling.  I felt a shiver run all the way from the base
of my neck to the base of my spine.

"Want to take a try at this?"

I was so startled by Jerry's question that I jumped.  He was holding the
tube, but pointing it slightly toward me.  It was the invitation that any
other med student would have crawled over hot coals for.  And as I looked
over at our observer, I got the distinct impression she would have
arm-wrestled me for the privilege.  She was wound tighter than a two dollar
watch spring.

"Sure," I said, as casually as I could.  I took the tube in my hands,
turned so that I had a good look at the monitor, and it was just like using
my Hoover on my ugly yellow shag carpet.  A rather disgusting analogy, but
an accurate one.  I slurped up about 20 of the little devils before Jerry
decided to earn his fee again.

The whole procedure lasted about two hours.  When we'd hunted down every
one of the worms, some fat, some just little things, Jerry made a quick
look through to see what damage they'd wrought.  It was a fair amount, the
patient would need some post-op care and observation.  Then Jerry made the
comment that froze my heart.

"That's it for now.  We'll have to do another MRI later to see how many
more hatch."

"Hatch?" I croaked out.

"Yeah.  Dr. Scully figures they're microscopic and airborne initially, but
grow to this stage before becoming fully matured beetles.  Didn't you take
etymology, Ferguson?  Life cycle of the butterfly, maybe?"

"That is NOT a butterfly," I stated firmly.

"No, it's a tobacco beetle," said the voice behind me.  I remembered we
were being observed and wanted to kick the crap out of Jerry for showing
his considerable deficit of bedside manner.

"Those ugly brown things that get caught in my car's radiator grill?" asked
Janice.

"A mutation, but yes, the same animal, generally speaking," answered Dr.
Scully.  She suddenly left the theatre, and I saw her talking to some tall,
bald guy out in the hallway.  Both of them looked very worried.

"Shit," said Terry, the nurse-anesthetist.  I think he was speaking for all
of us in the room.  

Pulmonary has a couple of 'intermediate care' rooms and the patient, Mr.
Mulder as I discovered, was wheeled into one of them.  It was as they were
getting him settled that Jerry let me look over the man's medical chart.  I
went to the doctor's lounge to skim it, it read like War and Peace, but it
was toward the back that I found something truly scary.

I've had this guy as a patient before.

I was a nurse's aide at the UNC Medical Center in Raleigh.  It was years
ago, but the guy, and with a name like Fox to match his good looks, you'd
think I'd remember, came in with a bullet to the upper femur.  I remember
fighting him to take his meds.  He didn't want to take them for some reason.

As I looked up from my reading, I saw Dr. Scully enter the room.  It was
like I'd just been hit by a 2 X 4.  She was the reason he didn't want to
take the meds.  He was waiting for word from her.  She'd gone after the guy
who'd shot him and Fox, or Mulder as I now remember, wouldn't take the
morphine until he knew she was all right.

And now they turn up again, and she's still his next of kin.  Spooky.

I watched her as she picked up a Styrofoam cup, poured coffee and way too
much creamer into it, and stirred it slowly, staring off into space.  Then
she put the cup down and forgot it as she went over to stare out the window
and into the darkening evening sky.

I couldn't help myself.  She looked so lost, standing there.  So small and
drawn in on herself.  

"Dr. Scully?" I called her name.  She turned around quickly, and I felt
guilty that I didn't have something like news to offer her.  "I, um, we've
met before."

Her face grew puzzled and she seemed to be searching through file folders
in her mind, trying to find the one that held my face.

"About 6, 7 years ago.  Raleigh, North Carolina?  Mr. Mulder was on my
floor.  He'd been shot."  I almost kicked myself when I saw her flinch at
the word 'shot', but she recovered quickly.

"I don't remember a woman doctor treating Mulder back then," she said slowly.

I grinned.  "I wasn't a doctor at the time.  I was a nurse's aide.  I took
a while to figure out what I want to do when I grow up."

That brought a smile to her face.  "OK.  Well, this is a coincidence, then."

"Hey, it's going to be a long night and I'm about to get something to eat.
Why don't you join me?" I offered.

She looked like she was going to turn me down.  But I had a feeling in my
gut that she really wouldn't mind sitting down for a little while, doing
something mundane, like putting food in her mouth.  

"He'll be out for another hour or so.  Take the time now, when you can get
it."

That seemed to be the excuse she needed.  "All right."  She followed me out
of the lounge and down the hall.

As we were standing in line at the cafeteria, she cleared her throat.  "I'm
sorry.  I don't remember your name."

I laughed.  "I didn't remember either one of you until I caught a look at
his file," I answered.  "It's . . . extensive."

She smiled back.  "And that's the abbreviated version.  Anyway, I'm Dana
Scully."  She reached out to shake my hand.

"Dodie Ferguson.  Nice to meet you, again."

We got our food, she got yogurt and some granola, I decided on the grilled
chicken Caesar, and we sat down.

"So, how long have you two been married?" I asked and she cringed before my
very eyes.

"I'm sorry, was that the wrong thing to say?"  I didn't know what I'd said
that was so wrong, she acted like every other wife I've ever seen.

"We . . . we aren't married."  The way she said it, I could tell it wasn't
what she wanted to say.  

"Oh, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to presume."

"It's all right," she said hastily.  "It's a very common mistake.  People
see a man and a woman, next of kin for each other . . . it's what you'd
expect.  But we aren't married.  We're partners.  And Mulder . . ."  She
chewed on her lip and thought about what to say next.  "He doesn't have any
other family."

Hmm, my little Freud voice said in the back of my mind.  'Any other
family'.  But now wasn't the time for psychoanalysis.  I decided to turn to
safer subjects.

"I'm trying to get a handle on this infestation," I said.  She looked
relieved to be changing the subject, and considering the new topic, that
was saying a lot.

"I believe it's transferred by breathing in second hand smoke.  It appears
that the local tobacco company, Morley, has been doing some genetic
engineering of the tobacco plant."

I must have looked confused, because she continued.  "If you change the
genetic make up of a plant, you have the potential to change the genetic
make up of the animals who consume it.  That's why Europeans are hesitant
to import genetically engineered grains and vegetables from the US,
regardless of how often we tell them it's safe."

"So now we have a tobacco beetle that attacks humans," I said, trying to
catch up with the discussion.

She nodded.

"But then why aren't we full of people with those worms in their lungs?" I
asked.  

She stirred her yogurt, she had yet to take a bite of it.  "That's the
question."

"Could he have gotten the worms any other way?"

"No.  I'm sure that's how he was affected."  She sighed and pushed the cup
of yogurt aside.  "I think I'll go up, see if he's awake.  He shakes off
meds pretty quickly."

I nodded and tried not to smile too much.  "Yeah, I remember."

She didn't hear me.  She was already out the door.

I was just stepping on the floor when I heard the code.  Carrie had the
blue crash chart and was pushing it through the door of 503.  I ran to
catch up.

Dana was leaning over the patient, helping pull down his hospital gown to
make way for the paddles on the defib.  The monitors showed a heart out of
control, still beating but arrhythmic, wild.  His resps were off the chart.
 His lungs were pumping in air as erratically as his heart was beating.  I
was witnessing yet another example of how close the heart and lungs are
tied together.  

Two jolts and the heart settled into a steady rhythm.  Respiration was
still way too rapid and shallow, so a full mask was applied.  His O2 levels
slowly crawled into the low 90's, not perfect, but respectable given the
condition of his lungs.

I thought someone was going to have to catch her when it was over.

Jerry stepped in and amazed me.  Usually, he's pretty much of an ass, but
for some reason, this woman was bringing out the best in him.  He took her
arm, led her out of the room and into the hallway.  She was shaking, but
her face was a concrete mask.  If you took her picture, you'd swear there
was nothing wrong.  It was when you saw her hands trembling at her sides
that you realized how close she was to losing her composure.

I don't know what was said, but she seemed to be a little more relaxed when
she came back into the room.  I don't know if the patient had regained
consciousness, but he was out for the count again.  Still, she pulled a
chair up next to the bed, reached through the rail and took his hand in hers.

"Mulder, don't do this to me," she whispered.  I felt like I was
eavesdropping, but I was just making notes in the chart.  When I finished
writing, I thought about staying, seeing if she needed a friendly shoulder
to release some of that tension on.  In the end, I left her.  I had other
patients on the floor.

Two hours later, Jerry caught my sleeve as I was putting a chart back.
"I'm taking Mr. Mulder up for another scan.  Wanna watch?"

Poor Jerry.  He thinks since Pulmonary is his specialty, it should be
everyone's specialty.  But I appreciated the thought.  "Sure.  I'll be
right there."

Asheville isn't a tiny city; it's just in the backwater.  Even so, they
have state of the art equipment and the shiny new MRI was a perfect
example.  It was more open than the older model and the computer it was
hooked up to was more powerful.  OK, I admit it, I'm a techno geek.  But I
love watching the thing work.

I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming when I saw the first images.
Those little bastards were back!  There looked to be as many, if not more
of them than we'd sucked out just four hours before.  But more frightening
than that was what they had accomplished in their quiet time.  They were
clogging up the tissue around the arteries, blocking the flow of blood.  If
the flow of blood to the lungs was cut off, there was nothing in the world
we could do to save the patient.  It was just a matter of time.

"You might just see thoracic surgery yet tonight, Ferguson," Jerry said
grimly and took the film of the lungs with him when he left the room.  I
stayed there, in shock, I guess, as they put the patient on the gurney to
take back to his room.  

"That guy's a goner," said Steve, the med tech who runs the machine.  I was
afraid he was right.

I walked into a small battlefield when I got back to the ward.  Jerry and
Dana were standing outside 503 and neither of them looked happy.  Dana said
something and Jerry stormed off.  He didn't seem to be in the mood to talk,
but then, she didn't either.  Too bad.  I couldn't stay out of it if I tried.

"I saw the lungs.  They're back," I said and she nodded, more grim than
Jerry's earlier expression.

"His tissue is riddled with the eggs.  This was to be expected."

"So, what's next?  Surgery?"

Her head snapped up and she glared at me.  "In his condition?  No way!  I
won't lose him on the table!"

"But if we don't do something . . . I don't think deep suction will get
them all this time," I said quietly.  I didn't want to fight her, I just
wanted her to see the situation from a more objective viewpoint.  Jerry
gets pissed when someone doesn't agree with him.  I didn't have a vested
interest here, except maybe what was best for the patient.  I was just
tossing out what I thought were the relevant facts.

"Deep suction wouldn't get them all, and he's probably too weak for it,
too.  I have to give Skinner time.  He's trying to find the person who
infected Mulder.  I believe that person, like a Typhoid Mary, is immune to
this and carries that immunity.  If we can find that person . . ."

"That's pretty much of a long shot, isn't it?" I asked.  She had to realize
that, too.

"That's the only bets we ever make," she said firmly and retreated to her
chair by his bed.

I went back to work, checked on the patients on the ward.  Mrs. Campbell
passed away in her sleep, and that had to be dealt with.  Her daughter had
died of lung cancer just the spring before, her husband of emphysema the
year before that.  Her granddaughter was standing out in the hall, crying
softly as I walked out of the room.

"I'm very sorry," I told her and took her in my arms.  She cried on my
shoulder for a while, then pulled back.  

"I'm never going to smoke!" she declared with the kind of determination
only a sixteen year old can display.  "I don't care what the other kids
call me, I don't care if it's cool, I just don't care.  I've lost my Mom,
my Grandpap and now my Grandma.  There's no one left for me.  And it's all
because of those damned cancer sticks!"

I felt so low, I wanted to break into tears myself.  I just wished the
'self-abusers' could see the damage they left behind.

end of part one
Vickie

The minute he heard the phrase "vampire alligators" he 
should've known to pack more underwear. 

From LEAVE A MESSAGE by Amanda Finch and Tim Scott.  A MUST READ, find it
on Ephemeral :)

Come visit my website brought to you by the fabulous Shirley Smiley!

http://vickiemoseley.freeservers.com

From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>
Date: Fri, 21 Apr 2000 21:48:26 -0500
Subject: xfc: NEW: Rotation (2 of 2) Spoiler for Brand X
Source: xfc

It was nearing the end of my shift, and I decided to take a peek in on 503.
 The patient was there, O2 level sliding into the 70's.  He didn't have
very long.  But what surprised me was the chair next to the bed.  It was
empty.  

I couldn't imagine where she would have gone, not with him so close to the
end.  Maybe she was in the chapel, and I almost started down there when the
stairway door flew open and Dana came running out yelling at the top of her
lungs.

"Nicotine!  30 mg, IM, stat!  Now, Ferguson!  Move it!"

I stared at her for a split second and since I wasn't moving fast enough,
she grabbed my arm.  "Did you hear me?  I said stat!"  I looked around,
Jerry was nowhere to be found, but I heard him being paged over the PA.
OK, she seemed ready to break into the drug room and pull up the syringe
herself, so I decided I better take action.  But nicotine?

"Why nicotine?" I asked, as I ran to the desk and grabbed a pad to write
out the order.  Carrie was staring at us, looking a little afraid of Dana.
She kept glancing over at me, for reassurance.  I handed her the order and
she looked down at it, like it might bite her.

"Carrie, it can't hurt him.  He's dying.  Now, go.  It's the only hope we
have."  That seemed to shake her loose and she ran back to the pharmacy to
get the med.

"Now, why nicotine?" I demanded.

"Skinner found the bastard.  He was a four pack a day smoker," she said, as
if that explained everything.  When I still looked puzzled, she huffed out
a breath in exasperation.  "He had enough nicotine in his system to stain
both hands.  It was what kept the larvae out of his lungs.  He was smoking
the damned things in, but they didn't take.  And nicotine is an old
insecticide."

I still didn't buy it, I wasn't making the connection.  But Carrie was back
with the syringe and I took it from her to run to the room, hot on Dana's
heels.  She snatched the syringe out of my hands and was tossing covers to
get to a large muscle group in his hip.  I watched her inject him, noting
that the oxygen level in his lungs was hovering at 78 percent, not enough
to sustain life for very long.

"We should intubate him," I said, mostly to myself.

"Wouldn't do any good.  The worms would block the way.  We need to do
another deep suction."

This time, I really did have to object.  "Hey, you agreed not two hours ago
that deep suction wouldn't get them all!"

"It will if they're all dead," she said evenly.  "Go find that asshole
Epsen and tell him to scrub.  I have no idea how long this will take to
work and I might need more nicotine, but at least we're on the right track." 

Jerry was hitting the door to the room as I turned around.  "What the hell
do you think you're doing?" he shouted and I decided it was a good time to
hide in the corner.  I'm not very good with violence, and I was almost
positive the situation was going to revert to bloodshed.

"They found him.  The last test subject."  Dana was breathing fast and
holding Mulder's hand.  Suddenly, Mulder was breathing faster, too, and
that wasn't a good thing.

"So they found the carrier?" Jerry asked, trying to get up to speed.  It
was past midnight, I wasn't surprised he was a little slow on the uptake.

"Yes, and he was saturated with nicotine.  That's what saved him.  The
larvae are killed by the nicotine."

You could have knocked me over with a feather at Jerry's reaction.  He
seemed to calm almost immediately.  He took a look at the monitors, then
pulled on his stethoscope and listened to the patient's chest.  "Ferguson,
scrub up again.  We're doing another deep suction."

If I thought the first time was a stomach-churner, the second deep suction
was something right out of a Wes Craven movie.  Or one of those 'aliens
have taken over the teachers at my high school' movies that I refuse to pay
full price for and wait till they come out in video.

Jerry allowed Dana to do the honors; I guess she'd earned his respect.  I
stood in her former spot and watched the screen.  There was plenty of
damage, but the little squirmy things weren't squirming nearly as much.  If
anything, they were curled in little balls, like the pill bugs I used to
play with as a kid.  And they sucked up the tube much faster than last
time.  Little ones, big fat ones, all of them ended up in the collection
container.  She was quick with the tube, waving it like a magic wand.  In
an hour flat, we were cleaning up.

In the end, we did have to intubate.  He stopped breathing for a few
moments.  He was too weak to draw in air, it had to be forced into his
lungs.  And the nicotine was not without its negative reactions.  He got
the sweats, we had to suction salvia out of his mouth because the
accumulating liquid was threatening to choke him.  His blood pressure
dipped about four in the morning and his heart rate became erratic again.
But we didn't have to defib, a hit of epi got it back on track.  Besides,
it was all a reaction to the nicotine, and at least the lungs were clear
enough to push air again.

I crawled into the lounge about five and fell fast asleep on one of the cots.

When I woke up, it was after noon.  I showered, thought about going home
and decided it was a waste of time.  I didn't feel like another nap, and my
apartment was a mess, so I just went down to the cafeteria and got a big
lunch.  I was surprised to find Dana sitting there, talking to this really
nice looking bald guy.

"Dr. Ferguson," she called me over.  I picked up my tray and joined them.
I was happy to see the yogurt cup on her tray was empty.  "This is our
boss, Assistant Director Skinner."  He shook my hand over the table.

"I heard you've been helping with Agent Mulder's treatment.  I want to
personally thank you for all your good work," he said in a deep baritone
that definitely started my heart beating a little faster.

I decided I better find a topic of conversation before I crawled on his
lap.  "So, how is the patient this morning, er, afternoon?"

"Mulder's still exhibiting some negative side effects from the nicotine,
but generally speaking he's doing better.  Epsen thinks we can extubate
later this evening."

"Worms all gone?"

She smiled from ear to ear.  "Completely.  The unhatched eggs will be
absorbed into his tissue.  And we got all the mature larvae.  Of course,
he's not going to be feeling that great when he wakes up, but he'll get
over it."

"He should be getting used to it," Skinner commented dourly and I think he
must have missed Dana's flinch at his words.

"It's been a hard year," she agreed quietly.

They left me to finish my lunch and I didn't see her again until after the
dinner hour.  She was sitting by Mulder's bed, reading a medical journal
she probably pilfered from the doctor's lounge.  I recognized the mustard
stain on the back cover.

"Still intubated," I said, as I looked him over.  

"But his oxygen level looks good," she countered.  "I think Epsen can be
persuaded to take the tube out later tonight.  Mulder hates to wake up with
a tube down his throat."

I raised an eyebrow and almost asked if that happened a lot.  Then I
remembered the inch thick 'abbreviated' medical history.  It probably did. 

"I think you could convince Dr. Epsen to follow you off a cliff," I teased.
 "After what you did last night, he's ready to hand you over his position
as head of pulmonary medicine."

I heard her chuckle.  "I have a job, thanks," she said and went back to
reading the journal.

Midnight came and I decided to brave the clutter in my apartment.  Nothing
feels so good as your own bed after a couple of rough days.  I was asleep
before my head hit the pillow and woke up to the birds cackling outside my
window.  It was going to be a beautiful day.

I like working the late shift.  I woke up at 9, showered and dressed and
went for a long walk.  Then I tackled the apartment, and when I was
finished, it looked like a human inhabited it rather than a family of
wolves.  I was feeling rather accomplished when I made my way onto the
floor at a quarter of three.

My first stop was our star attraction, the back from the dead Agent Mulder.

Who was alone in his room, staring out the window.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Ferguson, an intern here.  I've been overseeing your care
along with Dr. Epsen."

He turned his head toward me and swallowed a couple of times.  It obviously
hurt like hell.  "Nice . . . to meet you."  His voice sounded like an emery
board rubbing across sandpaper.

"Your throat is sore from the breathing tube you had in.  And your chest is
going to be sore for a while.  Here, try some of this," I said as I offered
him some ice chips, which he accepted gratefully.  "So, how are you feeling?"

"Like . . . death . . . warmed over," he rasped, with a tired smile.

I smiled back. "I bet.  Well, you're due some meds in a minute.  There's an
order for liquid Tylenol with codeine.  It will help your throat and your
chest.  It's not the best tasting stuff . . ."

"I know," he interrupted.  "Had it earlier."  

His voice was all but gone by that time and I decided I'd gotten enough
information.  His heart rate was steady, the O2 level was in the mid 90's
and his blood pressure was a touch low, but forgivable.  I patted his leg
and he gave me a weak smile, then turned back toward the window and closed
his eyes.  I was sure he was asleep before I left the room.

"I see Dr. Scully's getting some much needed rest.  Was she here all night
last night again?" I asked at the desk.

"From what the notes say.  But he woke up about 10 this morning and she
left shortly after that.  No body's seen her since."

That struck me as slightly odd, but I shrugged it off.  "Sleeping in a
chair isn't the best rest you can get.  She's probably back at the motel,
sleeping."

"There is a number here," Carrie said with a nod.  "We'll probably see her
later, I'm sure she'll be up around the dinner hour."

Sure enough, she did show up right as the trays were being delivered.
Agent Mulder was on a soft, soft diet, which I could hear him complaining
about as I walked past.  She was shushing him and spooning jello into his
mouth.  I figured she was there for the evening.  But when I passed the
room an hour later, she was gone again.

About 8:30, their boss, Mr. Skinner arrived.  He sat with Mulder for a few
minutes, then stopped at the desk and asked for me.  I could have done
summersaults but I controlled my enthusiasm.

"I'll be heading back to Washington tomorrow.  I'm wondering how long Agent
Mulder will be required to stay in the hospital."

"Well, he's improving nicely, but I think Dr. Epsen wants to keep him at
least two or three more days, to make sure his lungs continue to heal and
to make sure we've avoided any complications."  Under the old rules, before
managed care, he would have been with us a week or better.  Now, we send
'em home with a lot of meds and a few prayers.  "I assume Agent Scully will
be staying.  He shouldn't be traveling alone when he's released."

Skinner nodded.  "She'll be staying on as long as he's here."  Then he
looked around, confusion evident on his face.  "I was expecting to find her
here tonight."

"She was here earlier," I informed him.  For some reason, I felt the need
to cover for her.  But why, I couldn't say.  She hadn't done anything
wrong, she just seemed to have disappeared.  But given the events of the
last three days, she probably needed some time to regroup.

"Well, I'll try to stop by tomorrow before my flight.  Anyway, it was a
pleasure meeting you, Dr. Ferguson."  

"You, too, Mr. Skinner."  Damn, all the way to Washington.  All the good
ones always seem so far away.

The rest of the evening was uneventful and I came home to a clean apartment
and a movie on HBO that I'd missed at the video store.  I got to bed around
3, slept in till noon and made it to work with a few minutes to spare.

Carrie greeted me with a frown.  "We've got trouble."

"I just got here, it's not my fault," I countered with a good-natured smile.

"503 didn't eat his lunch."

I stared at her, I know I did.  "Mulder?  Was Dana there?  She should have
managed to get him to eat.  She did yesterday."

Carrie nodded, and then motioned me closer.  "Annie said she was here about
9 this morning, but she hung around the desk or the lounge.  She was only
in his room when their boss was here.  Then she took off.  And she hasn't
been back.  If you ask me, there's trouble in paradise," she concluded with
a knowing look.

I played dumb.  "Meaning?"

"Oh, give me a break, Dodie!  It's obvious they're an item.  I guess she
must be pissed at him, for almost dying on her or something.  Whatever it
is, she's not around and he's not eating and we have to wake him up to take
his meds.  He's depressed, that much is as plain as the nose on your face.
And that's not conducive to a quick recovery.  Epsen was up earlier and
said he might have to keep him here through the weekend if he doesn't start
getting some calories in him."

"Has anybody called her?" I asked, slightly annoyed that the most
reasonable course of action had been ignored.

Carrie nodded with a smirk.  "She said she was cleaning up paperwork, and
that she'd be up during normal visiting hours this evening."

I felt my eyes go wide.  "You're kidding."

Carrie shook her head emphatically.

"You told her he wasn't eating and she wasn't up here in ten seconds flat?"

"She said to tell him he's to follow doctor's orders, or she'd deal with
him tonight.  But no, she made no move to come up.  See what I was saying?
There's something going on here, and somebody better take some action or
he'll still be here next week, on a respirator!"

I walked away, trying to figure out what to do.  Well, if the mountain
wasn't coming, maybe I could go get some info out of Mohammed.

He was sleeping, or pretending to be, when I walked into the room.  

"Agent Mulder, wake up, sleepy head.  You and I have to talk."

He moaned and rolled over on his back.  His eyes dragged open and he
squinted against the sunlight coming in through the windows.

"Hi, Dr. Ferguson," he said in a hoarse whisper.  I figured his voice was
going to be a mess for quite some time, maybe weeks.

"Hi," I said, remembering I was here to give a lecture.  "I hear you didn't
like our cuisine at lunch time."

"Green jello and I have a history and it's not pleasant," he rasped back at
me.

"Sorry it was a bad relationship.  If you'd mentioned that to the aide, she
would have found you a more 'appealing' color," I said, fists planted
firmly on my hips.

"I'm not hungry," he said, closing his eyes and attempting sleep again.
Stupid male.

"Wake up," I ordered.  "Look, what is going on here?  You have to eat.  And
for that matter, where's Agent Scully?"

"Like I would know?" he countered and turned over on his side.  "It has
nothing to do with my lungs, Dr. Ferguson.  Just drop it."

"Look, you are showing all the signs of depression.  And that makes it my
business."

That got his attention and he rolled back over with fire in his eyes.
"Why, is psych your next rotation?  Wait till you get there, Dr. You'll do
great."

This was a test.  I knew it.  God was throwing this at my feet and saying
'here, if you can pass this one, you can have your hearts desire'.  Well, I
never backed away from a challenge and God knows that, too.

I pulled up the chair that Dana had once occupied and sat down.  "Look, I'm
not here to judge, and I'm not even here to analyze.  I'm just here to
listen."

He blinked at me and chewed on the inside of his cheek.  "I remember you
now.  You were a good listener."

I smiled.  "I'm impressed.  But then I remember you had a pretty good
memory.  And as I remember, I didn't listen much.  I just sat there and
waited with you."

He smiled back.  "That was enough."  He sighed, and that hurt because he
winced and held it for a moment, then his face relaxed again.  "She thinks
she caused this," he said simply.

"This . . . what?  The reaction to the nicotine?  That was unavoidable, and
it saved your life!"

He was shaking his head before I got the whole sentence out.  "No, not the
nicotine.  The . . . the whole thing.  The worms, getting so sick.  She
thinks she caused it."

It was my turn to blink.  "That's crazy.  It was the guy, that Weaver guy
downstairs in the secure ward.  He's the one who infected you.  Agent
Scully doesn't even smoke."  I was totally confused and showing it.

Mulder sighed in exasperation and winced again when he remembered why he
shouldn't do that.  "She knows she didn't physically cause my illness.  She
thinks . . . she thinks she caused it . . . spiritually."

I thought about that for a moment.  Then, I started to laugh.  "The same
woman who fought Jerry Epsen to wait for the carrier to find your cure, the
woman who has backed up every decision with hard science, that woman thinks
she 'spiritually' caused you to become ill?  You're nuts!"

He smiled a little.  "So I've been told.  But the fact remains, that's the
problem."

"Explain it to me.  Slowly," I dared him.

He started to sigh, but stopped just in time.  He licked his lips instead.
"We've . . . we entered a new stage of our relationship."

OK, I don't need to be beaten over the head.  Besides, it made sense, and
only confirmed what I already figured out.  "A new stage.  Got it."

"Just since New Year's, mind you."

"OK, that's nice.  What's that got to do with worms in your lungs?"

He licked his lips again.  "Some bad things have been happening.  But
there's absolutely not correlation between us and the things that are
happening.  But for some reason, I can't convince her of that.  She just
won't listen to me."

"What bad things?"

He thought for a moment.  "I've been getting injured more lately."

I snorted and he gave me a sour look.  "Agent Mulder, I read your file.
You get injured enough for ten people."

He glowered for a moment.  "Yeah well, I've heard that before, too.  And by
more important people," he said with a superior tilt to his head.  "But the
fact remains that since New Year's Eve, I've been shot, fell through a
floor, attacked and bitten by numerous poisonous snakes, and . . . my
mother committed suicide."

I frowned at that.  "It's just April."

"I know," he said with a nod.

"And she thinks that it's because you two are 'more intimate'?" I asked,
trying to make the dots form a line.

He nodded.  

"She told you that?"

He shook his head and got this really disappointed look, like I was a star
student who just flunked my final exam.  "No, of course not.  She'd never
say that out loud.  She has a hard enough time admitting she has a
spiritual side to me.  But I've been with her for seven years and I know
how her mind works.  It's what she believes."

"What is she saying if she won't admit what you know to be true?" I
countered.  Maybe he was over reacting.

"She doesn't say anything.  She won't talk to me.  When she comes, she
stands at the window.  She talks about the case, about something Skinner
has told her, but she won't talk about us.  I press her and she takes off
out the door.  And when I woke up, . . ."  His voice trailed off, but it
wasn't because he was tired.  He was hesitant to go any further.

"What?  What happened when you woke up?"

"I expected her to kiss me," he said in a whisper.  He looked so sad it
broke my heart.  "I mean, we were all alone.  I woke up, and to tell the
truth, I wasn't sure if I was waking up in a hospital or in that waiting
room before they tell you that you're spending eternity breaking rocks in
the hot sun," he tried for a wry grin.  "But when I saw her face, I just
wanted to reach up and kiss her.  And all she did was squeeze my hand and
go out to call the nurse."

Well, that sucked, in my honest opinion.  "Maybe she just needs . . . some
time," I suggested.

He shook his head again.  "Time for what?  This is my third near fatal
experience in a little over 9 months time.  It's not like we haven't been
through this before."  He closed his eyes and burrowed back into the
pillow.  "I miss her," he said with a wisp of a sigh.

"Well, I really need you to try and eat something," I pushed.  He rolled
over on his side facing away from me.

"I'll call you if I get hungry," he mumbled and I knew I'd been dismissed.
I headed out to the desk and found Carrie.

"Give me that number for Dana Scully, please."

Maybe I was a little unclear on the phone.  Maybe the sadness in his voice
caused me to translate more anxiety than the situation warranted.  Whatever
the reason, Dr. Dana Scully came tearing off the elevator, ready to do
battle with whatever got in her way.  The woman was a lioness when it came
to her partner.  Too bad she didn't show him that side more often.  

"What's wrong?  It's the nicotine, isn't it?  He's having another adverse
reaction.  Is it his heart?  Convulsions?  I knew we were getting by too
easy.  He had an allergic reaction to the horse serum, too."  She ran out
of breath and that was my only opening.

"Actually, he's resting at the moment.  And no, it's not his heart, at
least not in a physiological sense."

She stared at me.  "What do you mean 'not in a physiological sense'?  What
other sense is there?"

"He's heart sick, for you."

She blanched and then fire came to her eyes.  "I don't know what you're
talking about," she intoned through clenched teeth.

"He said he misses you, is that clear enough?" I countered.

"That's idiotic!  I was here beside him for three solid days!  We were on a
case and I never left his side for a minute . . ."

"And if you remember, he was unconscious for most of that time.  The minute
he woke up, you took a powder.  No wonder he misses you," I said, heating
up to the subject now that I felt on firmer ground.

"This is crazy.  And I don't have time for it," she replied and turned to
leave.

"He's not eating," I told her.

"Stop feeding him green jello," she spat out over her shoulder as she
headed for the elevator.

"You came all the way up here and you're not even going to stop by his room?"

That stopped her dead in her tracks.  She was five feet from freedom, and
she just stood there.  Her head dropped and her hands hung loose at her
sides.  She was the picture of defeat.

"I don't know what to say to him."  It was a whisper and I probably wasn't
meant to hear it, but I answered her anyway.

"I love you, might be a start."

Her shoulders hunched a bit and I thought she was crying.  But when she
turned around, I could see a bitter laugh was crinkling her face.

"Why start now?" she said angrily.

"He almost died two days ago.  He tells me this isn't the first time this
year.  Seems to me it's getting a little late to keep hiding how you feel
about him."

Her blue eyes flashed red.  "He told you that?"

"We spoke," I said hoping the brevity of the answer would cover all the
sins of disclosure.

"Obviously," she said, nodding her head and looking like she'd like to
shoot me right on the spot.

"Look, I'm not trying to be a busybody.  Fact of the matter is, once you
leave this hospital, I don't give a damn what you two do or don't do," I
told her.  It was a lie, but I was trying to buy some time.  "But while
he's in this hospital, I'm going to give him every chance for a full
recovery.  And it looks to me like that's something you want, too."

I didn't expect the tear that streaked down her cheek.  It was the first
one I'd seen in the last few days and it shocked me.

"I want him better, too.  I'm just . . . I'm just not sure I'm the best
person to be around him for that."

My God, was the woman that dense?

"I think he needs you.  From what I've seen the past few days, you need
him.  I think you need to talk . . ."

"I don't want to wake him, if he's sleeping," she objected.  Too late, I
already had her by the arm and was propelling her toward the door to his room.

"He'll be happy to wake up for you," I assured her.  We entered the room
and found him pretty much as I'd left him, curled on his side away from the
door.  He looked like a kid, waiting to be picked up and tucked into bed,
even though he was already in bed.

She walked around to the other side of the bed and looked down at him,
hesitation in her eyes.  She looked up at me, unsure, frightened, hell, I
couldn't count the emotions I saw on her face.

"In the story books, a kiss always seemed to do the trick," I suggested.

She smiled at me and nodded.  Then, ever so gently, she leaned over and
kissed him tenderly on the lips.  He rolled over on his back and opened his
eyes, the most beautiful smile playing on his full lips.

"Hey," she said, smiling down at him and caressing his cheek with her hand.

"Hey," he answered and grabbed that hand to place a kiss on the palm.

"What's this I hear, that you're not eating?  Mulder, am I going to have to
spoon-feed you?" she teased, lowering the bed rail and perching on the edge
of the bed.

"It's a lousy job, but I can't think of a better person for it," he replied
with a contented sigh.

I took that as my cue to leave.

His dinner tray entered the room full, left the room empty.  She didn't
leave at all.  At ten o'clock, when visiting hours were officially over, I
risked a peek into the room.

He had shifted to the far left of the bed, the side nearest the door.  His
arm was curled around her as she slept peacefully on the right, hugging him
around the waist.  I smiled from the doorway.

"Everything all right in here?" I whispered from the doorway.

He nodded and lifted his free hand to stroke her cheek.  "Just dandy," he
answered.  

I smiled and turned to leave, but his voice pulled me back.

"Hey, Doc.  Think I could have real food in the morning?"

I couldn't wipe the smile off my face with steel wool.  "I think that can
be arranged."

The end.


Vickie

The minute he heard the phrase "vampire alligators" he 
should've known to pack more underwear. 

From LEAVE A MESSAGE by Amanda Finch and Tim Scott.  A MUST READ, find it
on Ephemeral :)

Come visit my website brought to you by the fabulous Shirley Smiley!

http://vickiemoseley.freeservers.com