Impossible Choices 2
Ally112038@aol.com 

Georgetown Memorial Hospital 4:01a.m.

I'm a little surprised when I realise that Daley isn't actually heading in the direction of the ICU. I guess I had been expecting Mulder to be in pretty bad shape. Certainly needing a level of care that could only be found in that most specialised part of the hospital, but I find myself following him along one of the many standard corridors that house the many patients in need of basic nursing.

"I'm sorry Doctor Daley...."

He stops dead at the sound of my voice. The uncertainty is evident even to me as I hear myself questioning him.

"I thought.....I mean, I was told that my partner was unconscious when he was brought in.....I just assumed he would be in the ICU...."

I can clearly see that it's on the tip of his tongue to remind me that this man *might* not be Mulder, but he swallows the words and instead tells me what I need to hear.

"Yes that's right. He was indeed unconscious when discovered. But pulse, respiration and temperature were all normal. The ECG came back clear although it's too early to ascertain if there are any anomalies in his blood work. His condition hasn't changed since then. We saw no reason to subject him to the rigours of the ICU unless his condition should worsen. We're monitoring him carefully and so far it hasn't."

His explanation should soothe my fears, but inexplicably just hearing it causes my heart to begin hammering painfully in my chest. I have a terrible feeling about all this. It's a feeling that has been building from the minute I replaced the receiver in my apartment. Maybe it's a combination of the numbing fatigue I have been feeling lately and the fact that I so badly need all this to work out *right*. Whatever it is, I am scared. So scared right now that I am tempted to spin around and head right back to where I have left my mother. I had wanted, had *needed* to do this alone and she had remained, ensconced in a small, comfortable room specially put aside to house worried relatives. Now though, I wish more than ever that she was here by my side.

But I don't. I simply nod slightly and drop my eyes from Daley's. My action prompts him to continue walking and I try to keep pace as best I can. He is a fairly tall man. Not as tall as Mulder, but even so, his strides are worth two of mine.

Finally, he comes to a halt outside a plain, hardwood door. No different from any other door we have passed during this journey. But of course it *is* different. Because behind this door lays an answer that has the ability to lift me skywards with joy or to plunge me back in to the depths of despair. I've been waiting so long for this moment and now it's finally here, I am almost afraid to discover which one it will be.

There have been so many disappointments. So many journeys like this one. A roller coaster ride of anticipation and disappointment. But this time is different. Something deep within me senses it. If pressed, I couldn't explain it. Couldn't explain how I just *know*.

<Mulder>

Daley reaches for the door knob, but before he can close his fingers around it I reach out and tug at his arm slightly. He freezes at my touch, but his eyes when they turn to me are clouded with concern.

"Agent Scully?"

"I'm sorry. But I need to do this alone."

He hesitates for just a beat before dropping his hand back to his side. He understands I think. Maybe it's because of our previous connection. Or maybe he sees the yearning that I am sure is shining in my eyes right now. By allowing me to enter the room of what might be a stranger to me he is breaking Hospital protocol. It's a fact that hasn't escaped me. But equally he seems to understand in some small way what I have been through and it prompts him to nod his head slowly, stepping back to allow me access.

I grasp the door knob, the metal cold in my palm but before I turn it I briefly close my eyes. The final step. The final few seconds of waiting. It's both exquisite and excruciating. But the moment passes quickly and I open the door, stepping over the threshold as I simultaneously open my eyes.

The room itself is shrouded in half light. Dark enough to allow the patient within to remain undisturbed. Bright enough to allow the medical personnel to go about their business. Certainly bright enough for me to see him. The figure on the bed is tall. Eyes closed he appears for all the world as though he is simply sleeping. His breathing is evenly spaced, serene even, his lips slightly parted. Relaxed. But the man on the bed is thin. So painfully thin that I have to look twice to be sure. But then I see it. A glint of gold in the darkness that catches my eye.

The waiting is over. One way or another my desperate search is over. Because it really is him. No more disappointment. He's been returned to me. In what condition remains to be seen. But he is back and right now I can't think beyond that.

The image before me blurs and for the first time I am aware of the tears that are streaming down my face. Whether they are of joy or sadness I can't be sure. Because as I get closer to him I can see what all this has cost him. His dark hair, the same hair I had enjoyed running my fingers through after we made love is now tinged with a smattering of grey. There is evidence of bruising on his face, bruises that, even in the half light, lend an unhealthy tinge to his skin. And he is *thin*. So damn thin. I can see the deep hollows in his cheeks, the way his skin seems to be stretched too tightly across his face. But it doesn't matter. Because he is there before me. And to me he will always be beautiful.

"Mulder."

I don't know why I speak his name. I don't expect him to respond. But something deep inside me needs to hear it. If only to reassure myself that he is really here. I reach him finally, standing above him, watching my tears fall on to his pale skin until I kneel awkwardly, curling my hand around his as I lower my head to his chest. I hear his heartbeat in my head. Strong and regular it blocks out the sound of my gasping sobs. Until finally, something within me is set free. Something that has held my heart in it's iron grip for so many long months and I am able to finally cry the tears I have suppressed for so long.

Because he is *here*. Finally I have found him. Finally it's over.

*************

Georgetown Memorial Hospital 9:18a.m.

"Agent Scully?"

The familiar voice pulls me from the arms of sleep and I am immediately aware of a piercing pain that slices across my back when I try to straighten up.

Skinner hovers above me, his face twisted with anxiety as he recognises my discomfort. It's an expression I have come to both recognise and appreciate in the months since Mulder was taken. Blaming himself needlessly for Mulder's abduction, he has remained by my side, supporting me throughout this time. He has become far more than simply my superior agent. Much more than that he has become a trusted friend. I remember vividly the night he came to my apartment. A little over a week after Mulder disappeared, he had returned from making his report to the OPR revue committee that had been hastily assembled in response to happenings in Oregon. Questions had been asked of Skinner. Demands made that he should explain his actions that night. Veiled threats that he would be held solely responsible.

In response to their questioning, Skinner had calmly recounted the details as he saw them. With no regard for his future position within the Bureau he had placed an official stamp on the work of the X-Files department. He had spoken of things that, only weeks ago he would have dismissed as being fantastic, events that would hold him up for ridicule for the remainder of his career. He had laughed bitterly when he had told me that part. I think we both knew that, whatever the outcome of the revue, his career was now effectively over.

They hadn't believed him of course. This assembled group of respected senior agents had dismissed all but the very basic details of his report. Accused him, as they had accused me in the past, of becoming enchanted with Mulder's passionate beliefs, of becoming drawn in to a web of misplaced loyalty and an almost comical paranoia that *they* were indeed out there.

Mulder was officially listed as missing, presumed dead by unknown method. No more to add. No more to say. Skinner had come to me that night a broken man after being forced to retract his statement in order to keep his position within the bureau. Weighed down by an all consuming guilt that he had failed us once again. For the second time in the space of a week, I had seen him weep and the bond between us had strengthened never to be broken as I had held him in my arms, whispering assurances that he hadn't failed. That I understood his reasons. That, more importantly, Mulder would understand his reasons.

He retained his position as Assistant Director if not his reputation, and in doing so, ensured that I kept my own place within the X-Files. He had hand picked me a new partner who I tolerated out of a sense of loyalty towards this man who had risked everything for Mulder and I. He had allowed me to retain my position even when, officially, I should have been on mandatory maternity leave. Perhaps more importantly, he remained the one person who truly understood what I have been through these past long months since Mulder was taken.

So, to look at him as he stands here now seeing the concern for me radiating from him does not surprise me.

In answer to his unspoken question I attempt a smile which I am pretty sure doesn't quite come off and finally straighten the kinks out of my back sufficiently to sit up. I notice that my hand still covers Mulder's. That even in sleep I was unwilling to let him go.

"I'm fine." I assure him. "I don't think final trimester pregnancy and bedside vigils really compliment each other. I've been getting a lot of back pain recently that's all. It's normal at this stage of pregnancy."

I feel Skinner's hand rest gently against the back of my neck, beneath my hair that has grown longer, softer, over the last few months. It's now almost the same length it was when I first met Mulder. Longer than I have worn it in years. Like a child who relies on silly superstition, I made a decision not to get it cut until Mulder was returned. Stupid really. Even I don't understand it. I close my eyes against the pressure of his palm on my skin. This simple gesture of concern and protection that causes my breath to catch in my throat. He has slipped effortlessly in to the role of Father figure. Determined not to fail me as he perceives he failed Mulder, he has hovered on the fringes of my life to ensure my constant well being.

"You shouldn't be here Scully."

I nod. I know he's right. I am in no shape to be doing this. Maybe six months ago I could have handled the physical and mental strain of watching over my partner as he lays before me on the bed, but now, with less than two weeks to go until my due date I should be resting. I should be concentrating all my energies on preparing for the birth of my baby. Of Mulder's son. Of bringing him safely in to this world. But the advice that the pragmatic, sensible medical doctor part of my brain gives me is currently far out weighed by a much greater need inside of me. It's a need that comes straight from my heart and one that I refuse to ignore.

"I know" I answer simply, flicking my gaze back to Mulder for a second before I continue. "But I can't leave him. Not now."

The pressure against the back of my neck increases slightly and without even looking around, I sense he understands. My belief is only compounded when he immediately switches his attention to Mulder, choosing not to get in to a discussion he knows he won't win.

"How is he?"

Now there's a question if ever there was one. I've been asking myself that very same question all night and in the cold light of day I am none the wiser. I have endlessly questioned the medical personnel who have drifted in and out of the room during the hours I have been here. Read the charts that hang from the end of the bed so many times I almost know them by heart.

Temperature normal. Pulse normal. Respiration normal. Blood work normal. Brain patterns normal.

Everything about him is so *normal* I could scream with frustration. If there were a reason for this I could accept it. But there is nothing to go on, no where to turn. He is slightly dehydrated. Malnourished. But those things are slowly being rectified with the insertion of canulars in his arm that are feeding him a steady dose of high dosage glucose. I'm not sure if it's my imagination, whether desperate hope is clouding my medical judgement, but it seems to me that just the tiniest hint of color has returned to his skin. But still he sleeps. On and on. Unmoving. His pupils react to light stimulant. His reflexes are alert and active. He flinches slightly when subjected to localised pain. But that is where it ends. I have talked constantly to him throughout the night. I believe he can hear me, can recognise the sound of my voice, and I have told him of our son, my voice breaking as I implore him not to give up. That he has so much to live for now. Maybe he hears me. Maybe he doesn't. It doesn't matter. Because I have to believe that he does. But still he continues to sleep.

So I find myself unable to answer Skinner's question. How can I explain this to him when I can't explain it to myself. So I just shake my head numbly.

"I don't know. There is no medical explanation for why he should be like this. All we can do is wait."

A cloud passes across Skinner's face and my eyes narrow slightly at the sight. It's a look I have come to recognise well over the years. It's the same look he used to unsuccessfully try to hide when confronted with a dilemma in the way he managed Mulder and I. A look that suggested he was wrestling with his conscience over giving us information that might spell disaster for all of us and the sight of it causes a cold shudder to work it's way down my spine. I feel like someone has dumped ice water in to my bones.

"What is it?"

He works his mouth slightly, pulling at his lower lip with his teeth as he regards me in front of him. The silence stretches between us, the atmosphere in the room becoming charged, crackling almost as if laden with electricity. I feel the tiny hairs on my arms prickling as gooseflesh chases away my warmth. And I am suddenly scared. So scared of what he is about to say to me. Even more so as his eyes involuntarily drop to settle on my belly. Almost unconsciously my free hand goes there. Fingers spreading as though in an attempt to protect the child within.

"Sir?"

Until finally, he speaks.

"I received a call. About Mulder. About *you*. They.....they want to make a deal."

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