From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>
Subject: [xfcreative] NEW:  Out of the Cold (05 of 25)
Date: Friday, April 30, 1999 1:09 PM

From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part five of twenty-five


He was back on the hill top, snow all around him.  The sled was
cold, even through his woolen mittens.  He sniffled, wiping his nose
on the back of his sleeve.

"Don't do it, Fox."  It sounded like she was standing right beside
him.  He looked around and found his little sister, shivering in the
cold.  She was wearing her heavy winter coat, her hair sticking out
from under her knit hat.  Her gloved hands were shoved in her
pockets for warmth.  "Don't, Fox.  It's too dangerous."

He looked at her and frowned.  "What are you talkin' about, Sam? 
It's a hill, I gotta slide down it," he said, scoffing at her concern. 
"You're just chicken.  You don't have to do it, just watch."

"I'm not chicken," the little girl protested, eyes narrowed.  "I don't
want you to get hurt!"

"I won't get hurt, Sam.  I promise," he vowed, setting the sled
down on the ground, running it back and forth to free up a path
through the powdered snow.  The minute the sled caught in the
snow and he began hurtling down the hill, he knew he wasn't going
to keep his promise.

*****

Portland Memorial Medical Center
February 5, 1991
5:03 pm

" . . . Saaaaam . . . Saaaaaammmm," he moaned over and over. 
Someone was touching his forehead, brushing the damp hair off his
face.

"Shhh, baby boy.  Shhhh.  I'm here, Fox.  I'm here."  He knew that
voice.  It meant comfort once.  He hadn't heard it used that way in
a very long time.  "Just sleep, baby boy.  Just sleep," the voice
murmured until he finally caught hold of it in his memory.

"Mom?" he rasped, coughing again, but this time something came
up from his lungs and filled his throat.  He was laying on his side
and a hand was patting firmly on his back.  The patting was hurting
the skin and the muscles underneath, but it was loosening the stuff
in his chest and made his lungs feel better.

"Yes, Sweetheart," his mother crooned close to his ear.  "I'm here,
Fox."  She continued to pat on his back until the coughing spasm
passed and he could spit something vile into the bowl she held to
his mouth.  He fell weakly back on the pillows.

" . . .how'd I . . . get . . . home," he managed to get out before
another couple of coughs left him gasping for breath.

"You aren't home, baby boy.  I'm here, in Oregon.  You're in the
hospital.  Remember?  You're sick, you have pneumonia."

" . . . is Dad . . . here?"  He had forced his eyes open and was
looking at the frown on his mother's face.  When she realized he
was staring at her, she plastered a fake smile on her lips.  

"He sends his love, Sweetheart.  He couldn't get away right now. 
But when you come home, you'll have to spend some time
recuperating.  I'm sure you can see him then."

His chest still ached with each breath and he couldn't imagine a
time when he would feel well enough to fly all the way home. 
"Doesn't . . . matter," he mumbled with disinterest.

"Would you like a little water?" his mother asked, searching for a
safer subject.  He nodded and she brought the straw up to his lips
so he could take a few swallows.  "Better?" she asked and smiled
when he nodded.

"You gave me quite a scare, young man," she scolded.  "I've
always wanted to get back to the Pacific Northwest, but I haven't
had much time this trip for sightseeing."

"Sorry," he said weakly, but he knew she was teasing him by the
twinkle in her eyes.

She picked up a cloth that was laying on the tray table and wiped
his forehead and cheeks.  "That's all right.  I'm getting to spend
time with you.  Wish you were feeling better, so we could both
enjoy this," she added with regret.

"Me too," he answered.  "Mom, I'm so cold."

"I know Sweetheart, but that's from the fever.  You have the chills. 
We have to get the fever down.  The medicine gets it down during
the day but once the sun sets, it spikes back up again.  I told your
doctor you've always done that.  They don't like to listen to
mothers, as a rule.  Medical schools can teach you a lot, but not as
much as taking care of your own sick children."

"How long . . . have you been here," he asked, fighting the fatigue
that dragged at his mind.

"Two days.  You were here the first night by yourself.  I got here
early yesterday morning.  Last night was pretty bad.  You spiked a
high fever and they had to use a cooling blanket to get it down. 
Today was a little better, you've slept for a long time.  It's evening
now and your fever is up again."

A thought brushed his mind and he tugged at it to bring it into
focus.  "The case?" he asked.  "Bill, has he been here?"

"Agent Patterson?  Yes, he's been by a couple of times.  And that
nice Agent LaMana.  They can't come in, only immediate family is
allowed on this ward.  But I stepped outside to speak with them. 
They've been very worried about you."

"Mom, did they say . . . about the case?" Mulder asked again and
had to force the last words out around a spasm of coughing.

"I don't want you to worry about that case, Fox," his mother said
sternly.  "From what the newspapers say, it's over.  That woman
killed that man and then killed herself.  I just thank God she didn't
turn that knife on you before she committed suicide.  As sick as you
were when they found you . . ."

" . . . she didn't commit suicide," he muttered sleepily, but his
words fell on deaf ears.

"She would have killed you before you could have called out. 
None of that matters, baby.  What matters is that you rest and let
the medicine work.  We'll talk about all of that when you're
better."

*****
February 7, 1991
12:02 am

Mulder could see the woman, Abigail Crown, just standing near the
crates and boxes on the dock.  She was tiny, even though he
expected her to be short, he never expected her to be so slight.  A
puff of wind would blow her into the water.  He halfway expected
to see that happen, since the rain and wind were coming down with
gale force, almost parallel to the ground.  He was struggling to
keep standing himself.  

The body of a man was on the ground, motionless, blood mixing
with the rain and streaming in pink trails down to the dock.  Mulder
looked to the woman, searching her hands for a weapon.  But there
was none.

Abigail started to scream.  Mulder started toward her but the wind
and the rain and now sleet were blinding him.  He wiped at his eyes
and she now seemed further away.  A shadow was engulfing her
and she was screaming again and again and finally she fell, landing
boneless on top of the body already laying on the dock.  He
fought the wind to reach her .

". . .not suicide . ." he cried out and lunged forward.

"Hold him!" a voice responded.  Mulder fought all the harder
against the hands holding him down.  "Get a bandage on that hand. 
Pulled the IV right out," a very disgruntled voice growled.  

"I didn't know what to do--I thought it was a seizure," another
voice complained.

"Probably was," the first voice said.  "Get the blanket again. 
Basal's 104.9.  He's nuclear."

"Doctor, Mrs. Mulder is very concerned.  She wants to know when
she can come back in?"  A third voice.  How many people were in
the room, Mulder wondered in a fog.

"When we get him settled," came the terse reply.  "Mr. Mulder,
please, no one is going to hurt you.  You are safe," the first voice
said, trying to sound reassuring and calm.  "You have to lie still so
we can reinsert the IV.  That's how we're giving you the medicine
to get you better.  Please, let us help you."

" . . . mommmmm," Mulder responded and started fighting again,
but more weakly now.  He was struggling for breath as much as he
was struggling against the hands and it was sapping his reserves.

"Get his mother in here, Susan.  Maybe that will calm him," said the
first voice firmly.

In seconds, he heard her.  "I'm here, baby.  I'm here," she
whispered, stroking his cheek.  "He's so hot," she said out loud.

"I know, Mrs. Mulder.  We're trying to get that down, believe me."

There was a rustling and he felt the blankets being pulled down,
leaving just the sheet.  Mulder shivered against the coolness and
then moaned aloud as something colder was placed on top of him.

"He hates that blanket," his mother said in disgust.  "Do you really
need to use it?"

"I'm afraid we do, Mrs. Mulder.  It's the only way to bring the
temp down," the second voice said sympathetically.

Mulder tried to fight the blanket, kicking his legs to dislodge it, but
it had been tucked at the edges of the bed and wouldn't budge.  He
sobbed in frustration.  " . . . moommmm, help . . . me," he cried out
again.

Mulder's eyes were closed and he couldn't see her face, but he
could hear the tears in her voice.  He'd spent his adolescence
listening to her tears.  "I can't, baby boy.  I can't.  You need to
keep it on.  I'm sorry."

"Mrs. Mulder, I think we need to sedate him," voice number one,
coming in just above a whisper.

"I'd rather not.  He hates to be sedated.  Please, if we can avoid
that . . ."

"Mrs. Mulder, he's fighting us.  It's only causing him to grow
weaker at this point.  His blood pressure is rising, there is the very
real danger of stroke.  We _need_ to sedate him," the first voice
said tersely.

"If you think it's necessary," his mother answered, reluctantly. 

"I think it is."

More cold filled his veins and he cried out again.  Then his mother
was there, caressing his cheek, placing kisses on his forehead. 
Murmuring how much she loved him and just wanted him to feel
better.  Wanted him to get well.  It was like a lullaby and drew him
into sleep.

*****

Portland Regional Office of the FBI
February 7, 1991
9:35 am

"Was that the hospital?" Jerry asked, handing Bill a cup of coffee.

"Yeah, well, it was his mother," Bill replied, taking a drink.

"How's he doing?" Jerry asked, hating the fact that they were still
banned from seeing Mulder.  He knew his partner was in Intensive
Care and that he was 'holding his own', but it had been three days
since they'd found him half frozen on the Portland docks, just a
dozen feet from two dead bodies.

Bill took another drink of coffee and scratched his head.  "He's still
critical.  His mother says he spikes a high fever every night.  Last
night he had some really bad fever dreams.  Kept yelling something
about the case."

"Yelling?" Jerry asked, not bothering to hide his worry.

"LaMana," Bill said patiently.  "His fever is spiking.  He went into
convulsions last night.  He's just dreaming about whatever is
there in his head.  Of course, he'd dream about the case, it was the
last thing he was working on when he got sick.  There's no big
mystery here."

"Why did Mrs. Mulder call, then?  Just to give us a progress
report?" Jerry prodded.

"No," Bill admitted.  "The doctor feels that if we came up to see
Mulder, just for a few minutes, it might bring some closure for him. 
To him, this case is still wide open.  He was practically comatose
when we found him.  If we convince him that the case is closed, the
bad person committed suicide, there have been no further deaths,
maybe he'll stop thinking of it and calm down."

Jerry was nodding.  "I see.  We just tell him that it's done and over
with, except for the paperwork.  Is that it?"

"That's the plan.  Maybe if they can get him calmed down, he can
begin to get better.  But Mrs. Mulder did say they were dealing
with a resistant form of pneumonia.  Apparently he caused himself a
lot of trouble by just taking a couple doses of the antibiotics.  It
might have been better for him not to take any at all."

"How so?" Jerry asked.

"When he took a couple, it killed off some of the germs, but not the
hardy ones.  They took over.  Now they can't get them killed off,
or at least that's the way she explained it."

"Bill, is Mulder going to get better?" Jerry asked point blank.

Bill shrugged.  "I don't know.  I hope so.  I'd sure hate to lose
him," Bill said.

end of part five
Vickie

Come visit my web page, brought to you by the fabulous Shirley Smiley!

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Now featuring 'Out of the Cold':

"Bill Patterson stood in the door way, looking to Mulder just like
one of God's avenging angels.  His thinning hair and dark rimmed
glasses lead to the confusing image that this man was a scholar, a
teacher.  Mulder alone knew the truth.  This man was the Marquis
de Sade, with a badge and gun."

Out of the Cold, part one, by Vickie Moseley



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