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   TITLE:    Friends (2 of 3)   
   AUTHOR: Wylfcynne   
   E-MAIL ADDRESS: Wylfcynne@aol.com   
      
   See part 1 for Disclaimers and Author's Notes   
      
   *****   
      
   Saturday morning brought with it a rude awakening.  He had   
   accepted Scully's cosseting the evening before, including   
   letting her feed him his dinner, because he was feeling rather   
   fragile and because she made him feel as if there might be   
   someone on the planet who genuinely cared about him   
   without being paid to do so.   
      
   Morning started early here; orderlies and LPNs were bustling   
   down the halls with sponge baths and clean gowns and linen   
   for everyone, like it or not.  He tolerated it because the nurse   
   was male and reminded him of Jerry back at the hospital.   
   The orderly was not as big as Jerry or Paul, but they   
   managed.   
      
   Once the floor had settled down from that serial disturbance,   
   the breakfast carts arrived.  While the laundry detail had   
   started at Mulder's end of the corridor, the breakfast carts   
   started at the other.  He listened to them for a long time   
   before the cart stopped at his door.   
      
   A young woman brought in his tray, set it up on the tray table,   
   maneuvered it over his bed and opened the tray, all without a   
   word.  It was as if she could not --or would not-- see him.  He   
   turned his attention to the food and she vanished out the   
   door.   
      
   That was when Mulder came to a shocking realization.  His   
   hands were both in casts, and he was totally helpless.  He   
   had no use of his hands at all.  He could not feed himself.  He   
   could not do anything for himself.  He looked around for a call   
   button and found it lying on the bed by his left leg.   
      
   He reached for it with his left hand but misjudged the   
   movement, overcompensating for the weight of the cast.  The   
   edge of the plaster hit the control box, and before his fingers   
   could close on it, it had slid off the bed.   
      
   He heard the clatter of plastic hitting the floor and cursed   
   under his breath.  The box also had the bed controls on it;   
   now he could not elevate the bed, either.  He relaxed back   
   against the pillow for a moment, thinking about his choices,   
   trying to stay calm.   
      
   Alone, isolated, immobilized and helpless was a terrifying   
   combination.  For a moment he was swept up in memories   
   of his capture in Idaho, not all that long ago: he had   
   surrendered to overwhelming odds, been cuffed and   
   disarmed, taken into custody and driven into the very hanger   
   he had wanted to infiltrate.  Then someone had walked up to   
   him and sprayed him in the face with something from a small   
   aerosol can.   
      
   Whatever drug had been in the spray had cut his legs out   
   from under him at once.  Cuffed, he had been unable to   
   protect himself when he fell, and his skull had thumped on the   
   concrete floor rather hard, adding a massive headache to his   
   discomfort.  He had been aware but unable to move or   
   clearly see when the soldiers had lifted him and laid him on a   
   gurney. He had begun to gasp for air by then: the paralysis   
   was spreading.  He had been desperately relieved when   
   they fitted an oxygen mask over his face.  The air had tasted   
   odd and he had thought even then that it contained an   
   antidote for the sprayed drug.   
      
   He had struggled, trying to fight his way free, but he could not   
   move.  He could barely breathe or see.  He was strapped   
   down and helpless, being taken to men that he knew would   
   have no compunctions against killing him.   
      
   Mulder shuddered and forced his mind back to the present.   
   Idaho had been bad; he still did not remember it all.  He   
   strongly suspected that a part of him really did not want to   
   remember.  He had been sick for two days afterward and   
   had had claustrophobic dreams of torture and interrogation   
   for weeks afterward.   
      
   At least now he could move a little, he tried to console   
   himself. He could talk.  He swallowed a couple of times,   
   hoped he had regained enough control to trust his voice.   
      
   "Hey!" he called experimentally.  That did not sound too bad,   
   and his voice was not trembling.  He tried for a little more   
   volume.  "Hello!  Anybody there?  Hellooo...?" He fell silent,   
   straining to hear what was happening in the hallway.  His   
   door was ajar, but only a few inches.  The door moved.   
      
   "Hello?"   
      
   An older woman in a nurse's uniform stepped inside.   
   "What's all the shouting about?"   
      
   Mulder relaxed.  "I lost the call button."   
      
   She sighed and shook her head.  It took her only a moment   
   to locate it and use the velcro strap to fasten it to the bedrail   
   so he would not lose it again.  "You have to be more careful   
   of your toys."   
      
   He grinned wryly.  "Yes, Mom."   
      
   "Muriel, actually."   
      
   "Nice to meet you, Muriel."   
      
   "I really prefer Ellie."   
      
   "I totally understand," he nodded.  "I don't use my first name   
   at all.  Just call me Mulder."   
      
   She glanced at the chart in the pocket on the inside of his   
   door, and grinned.  "I totally understand."   
      
   "I thought you might.  Can you help me with breakfast?"  He   
   lifted his casted hands a bit to demonstrate his need.   
      
   Ellie nodded.  "I can do that."  Then a tone sounded from her   
   pocket.  "But not right this minute," she sighed.  She pulled   
   her pager out and glanced at it.  "I'll be back as soon as I   
   can, Mr Mulder.  We're running a little understaffed this   
   morning."   
      
   "I understand that.  Not a problem."   
      
   Before he could finish the thought she was gone.   
      
   He was both relieved and apprehensive; he had developed   
   another problem.  He needed to get to the washroom.  He   
   had hesitated, feeling a bit embarrassed about asking a   
   woman he didn't know, who was old enough to be his   
   mother, to help him with that.  Unfortunately, the matter was   
   going to become urgent rather soon.   
      
   He could see the toilet.  The problem was that it was at least   
   fifteen feet away: he had been installed, at his own request,   
   in the bed by the window, and the washroom was by the   
   door. Even if he had had his crutches, he doubted he could   
   make it that far.   
      
   He knew that if he tried and failed and re-injured himself,   
   Scully would harangue him without mercy, and she might, as   
   she had on occasion threatened in the past, recommend a   
   psychological evaluation based on his demonstrated   
   self-destructive behaviors.   
      
   He was busy resigning himself to wetting the bed for lack of   
   other choices when he heard familiar footsteps approaching.   
   In a moment, his partner was coming into his room.   
      
   "Good morning, Mulder!"  She seemed cheerful, despite the   
   heavy briefcase she was carrying.   
      
   "Scully, get me a couple of orderlies, will you?  I need to get   
   up and I can't do it alone!"   
      
   She understood at once.  "You aren't getting up, Mulder."   
      
   He was gritting his teeth, now.  "Whatever!  I still need help,   
   Scully; I can't use my hands!"   
      
   She went to the doorway and gestured imperatively to   
   someone he could not see.  "Did you ask anyone for help   
   before I got here?"   
      
   "I didn't have a chance," he answered her.  "Ellie got paged   
   and had to leave.  She promised to come back, but couldn't   
   say when."   
      
   "Y'all need some he'p in heah?"   
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)