From: susanf34@comcast.net   
      
   *NO ARCHIVE*   
      
      
      
   Title: Blue   
   Author: Susan   
   E-mail: susanf34@comcast.net   
   Classification: post-ep vignette   
   Keywords: disturbing images and BIG TIME angst   
   (translation: this story is not my usual fare   
   and isn't pretty)   
   Rating: PG   
   Spoiler: Orison, brief reference to Wetwired   
   Archive: After the Fact site.   
   Disclaimer: These characters belong to each other,   
   not me.   
      
   Author's notes: What if Mulder hadn't gotten to   
   Scully's apartment when he did at the end of   
   Orison? What if he'd arrived just a few minutes   
   later? Maybe this...   
      
   Additional author's notes at the end.   
      
   Summary: This time he was too late.   
   ********************************************************   
      
   Blue   
   by Susan   
   ~~~~   
      
   When he felt every hair on the back of his neck   
   rise in unison, he knew.   
      
   He had to get to her.   
      
   There had been other signs since he'd gotten home.   
   The odd grinding sound his clock was making. The   
   unusual taste of the toothpaste as he brushed his   
   teeth. The same song on his radio that she'd heard   
   earlier.   
      
   But it was the prickly hairs around the base of   
   his neck that prompted him to race down the stairs   
   instead of using the elevator, then drive off into   
   the night at breakneck speed.   
      
   He'd had other premonitions about his partner   
   recently. Other moments when his adrenaline went   
   into overdrive because she was in danger.   
      
   And thankfully, each of those times he had been   
   able to save her.   
      
   But would he be able to this time?   
      
   ~~~~   
      
   He pulled into the hospital parking lot at exactly   
   7:15 a.m., found a place to park, then shut off   
   the engine.   
      
   The cold rain was coming down hard now and though he   
   usually kept an umbrella in his glove compartment,   
   he suddenly remembered that he'd given it to Scully   
   to use two days ago.   
      
   Two days ago she'd gratefully taken it from him   
   during an unexpected downpour and given him a warm   
   smile he'd never seen before.   
      
   Just two days ago...   
      
   Getting out of the car, he slammed the door, pulled   
   the collar of his jacket up around his neck, and   
   walked towards the hospital.   
      
   Slowly.   
      
   ~~~~   
      
   When he got to her doorway, he didn't bother knocking   
   or even trying the key. He kicked the door open, gun   
   in hand, heart thrumming in triple time.   
      
   His eyes darting around the room, he quickly surveyed   
   the damage before him.   
      
   Broken lamps, scattered magazines, loose chair   
   cushions. Shattered glass everywhere and the faint   
   scent of cinnamon candles.   
      
   When Donnie Pfaster had held her hostage five years   
   ago, he'd seen the same things, but he'd also seen   
   Scully right in front of him, hands tied, a gag   
   loosely hanging around her neck.   
      
   This time he saw nothing.   
      
   And he knew.   
      
   This time he was too late.   
      
   ~~~~   
      
   The moment he walked through the main entrance, he   
   was struck by just how many people he saw.   
      
   Were there really that many patients here for them   
   to visit?   
      
   And of those patients, how many had been hurt in car   
   accidents? How many of them had gone through surgery   
   this morning? How many were dying of cancer or lung   
   disease?   
      
   There were probably hundreds of patients like that   
   scattered throughout the five floors of the hospital.   
      
   But how many of them had five of their fingers sliced   
   off by Donnie Pfaster last night?   
      
   Only one.   
      
   ~~~~   
      
   When he found her, she was lying on the floor next   
   to the bathtub, burning candles surrounding her.   
      
   And blood.   
      
   Not on her neck or head where he expected to find   
   it, but on her fingers.   
      
   The same fingers that had so carefully dissected   
   dozens of victims over the years. The same fingers   
   that she'd used to tuck her hair behind her ear.   
   The same fingers he'd held in his own hand.   
      
   The same fingers that had softly trickled down the   
   curve of his back just two nights ago.   
      
   Her fingers, once smooth and strong and perfectly   
   manicured, now desecrated beyond recognition.   
      
   He wanted to shoot, kill, destroy.   
      
   But he was too late.   
      
   Too goddamn late.   
      
   ~~~~   
      
   He stepped into the elevator, pressed the button   
   for the fourth floor, then leaned back against   
   the wall.   
      
   As the door shut, he closed his eyes and waited   
   for the familiar sensation of being lifted off   
   the ground.   
      
   And then he felt it, his body going up, up, up,   
   and he wished he could just keep going right up   
   through the top of the building and into the sky.   
      
   And he wished Scully was with him too, the two   
   of them flying through the clouds in their own   
   private elevator.   
      
   But then he felt it stop, saw the door open.   
      
   And the white clouds were gone, replaced by a   
   hallway of white walls.   
      
   ~~~~   
      
   He didn't know where Donnie was or why he'd left   
   without finishing the job.   
      
   All he knew was that she was still alive.   
      
   Her pulse was thready, her eyes dark and glassy,   
   her wrists red with rope burns.   
      
   But she was alive. She was alive...   
      
   "Scully, talk to me, Scully," he pleaded as he   
   pulled her limp body into his arms. "Please..."   
   he begged, lifting her face up closer to his,   
   looking for a sign of recognition, a flicker of   
   hope, anything...   
      
   But there was nothing in her eyes for him to see.   
      
   And nothing for him to hold onto.   
      
   ~~~~   
      
   Four years ago, he remembered walking down a long   
   white hallway like this.   
      
   He was called in to identify a body that had been   
   found along the side of a highway, then brought in   
   to the coroner's office.   
      
   At the time, he thought he was going to have to   
   see her body lying there, dead on the table.   
      
   It took everything he had to make himself walk down   
   that hallway.   
      
   And though this time he knew she'd be alive when   
   he got to her room, he felt the same way again.   
      
   Now if he could just make himself breathe...   
      
   ~~~~   
      
   Grabbing a towel from the rack, he carefully wrapped   
   it around both her hands, then reached inside his   
   pocket and pulled out his phone.   
      
   His hand trembling, his voice barely audible, he   
   pressed the buttons and called 911.   
      
   And he waited.   
      
   And he cried.   
      
   ~~~~   
      
   When he walked into her room, there was a nurse   
   standing by her bed, writing on a chart, the same   
   nurse who'd attended to her last night when she   
   was brought in.   
      
   "Has there been any change?" he asked hopefully.   
      
   "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder, there hasn't," she replied,   
   setting the chart down on the nightstand. "But she's   
   comfortable," she added, gently touching his arm as   
   she walked by.   
      
   "Thank you," he whispered, grateful for her kindness.   
      
   "I'll be back in a half hour to check on her again,"   
   she said, quietly leaving the room.   
      
   And for the first time since he'd found her on the   
   bathroom floor, they were alone.   
      
   He'd been alone with her before in a hospital room,   
   waiting for her to open her eyes and look over at   
   him, but this time was different.   
      
   This time her eyes were already open.   
      
   But they weren't looking at him.   
      
   They weren't looking at anything.   
      
   ~~~~   
      
   "She's an FBI agent...my partner," he said, trying   
   to keep his composure, but failing miserably.   
      
   The paramedics bent down beside him and lifted her   
   from his arms, the woman keeping the towel wrapped   
   around her hands, the man doing most of the lifting   
   onto the stretcher.   
      
   "Be careful with her," he whispered, his arms now   
   empty, the bottom of his shirt bloody.   
      
   "We'll get her to the hospital as fast as we can,   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)