From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>
Subject: [xfcreative] NEW:  Out of the Cold (07 of 25)
Date: Saturday, May 01, 1999 8:42 PM

From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>

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


Jerry stood at the edge of the bed, frowning.  He'd known Mulder
almost 3 years, they had gone through the Academy together. 
Never, in all that time, had he seen him less than the 'mega-star',
less than the best and the brightest.  Now, looking down on him as
he lay in the bed, Jerry saw something few people ever saw.  He
saw a kid, just in his twenties, younger than Jerry himself.  He saw
someone weak and vulnerable and just barely holding on.  Jerry
shuddered and fought to remain calm.  

Mulder was a good guy, they were basically friends, but Jerry knew
so little about him.  Oh, he knew that his folks lived somewhere
near Boston, that Mulder had grown up on Martha's Vineyard. 
That he'd gone to Oxford on a full ride and had been recruited by
Patterson for the Behavioral Sciences Unit before the ink was dry
on his degree.  He'd watched him graduate at the top of their class,
beating scores in both academics and in physical conditioning.  He
watched him rise to the top of the heap that was Behavioral
Sciences, and in record time.

But beyond that, Mulder was a locked door, a secret cabinet.  Jerry
knew little of his friend's life outside the office.  Didn't know if he
was seeing anyone.  Had only been to his apartment a handful of
times, and those were to go over a case or a file.  Jerry wished he
knew more, wished he knew enough to help his friend out of the
horrible place he was in.  To help him find his way back.

Jerry glanced at the clock and realized he didn't have much time. 
The doctor had agreed to this visit only if he kept it short, five
minutes, tops.  He'd already wasted 4 of those minutes standing
just in the doorway, staring.  He didn't want to waste anymore.

He walked on tiptoe over to the bed.  Gently, he reached over and
touched Mulder's hand.  He purposefully avoided touching the tape
from the IV, which meant he really only got brief contact with one
long finger.  "Mulder?" he spoke hesitantly, his voice above a
whisper.  "Mulder, it's Jer."

LaMana swallowed.  What did you say to a friend who seemed to
be slipping away?  He took a deep breath and started again.  "I, uh,
I just wanted to come by and let you know I'm leaving today." 
Why did it hurt so much to tell him this?  Jerry had been wanting
the Atlanta spot for as long as he could remember.  Mulder knew
that, he had encouraged him to go for it.  So why was it so hard to
tell Mulder that he was leaving?  Could it be that Jerry was afraid
he was saying goodbye for the last time?

"I got some good news," Jerry said in a rush.  "I got the Atlanta
position.  Yeah, I know, about time, huh?"  Now that he'd said that
much the rest was a little easier.  "I leave this morning, start
tomorrow.  I'll be living out of a suitcase for a week or two, then
I'll be back to Virginia and pack.  You'll probably be at your
Mom's by then.  Let her spoil you for a while," he said, letting a
chuckle escape.  

"I just wanted to tell you that, well, it's been an honor to work with
you, Mulder.  A real honor.  And we'll be working together again, I
just know it.  So you take care of yourself, huh?  And next time,
take the damned medicine, Mulder.  It'll save everybody a whole lot
of grief."

Jerry startled at the sound of tapping on glass behind him.  The
nurse was standing just on the other side of the window, motioning
to her watch.

"I gotta go, here, man, they're tossing me out.  But you get better
soon, OK?  And I'll call you, as soon as I can.  Just get better." 
Jerry stood there for a moment, then turned and walked out, feeling
lower then he'd ever felt in his life.

February 11, 1991
time unknown

Just on the edges of consciousness, he listened.  He couldn't move,
the _thing_ was still down his throat, but it had been there so long
it didn't irritate and gag him anymore.  He wondered idly if he'd
spend the rest of his life lying in a bed with a tube down his throat. 
Then he begged every deity he could think of not to let that happen.

He could sense someone in the room.  Not his mother.  There was
no soothing hand on his forehead or his arm.  Just the feeling that
someone was looking at him, watching him from a very short
distance.  He heard a throat being cleared and recognition came to
him slowly, like on the wisp of a cloud.  His father was there.

"Fox."  Mulder couldn't remember the last time his father had
called him by his first name.  It was usually 'son' and more than
often said with a sneer to the voice that cut like a knife.  But this
time, when his father said his name, it sounded like nothing he
could remember hearing before.  His father sounded sad.  Lonely,
almost.

"Fox, they say you might be able to hear us," his father said, the
sadness not leaving his voice.  "I hope you can, son.  I hope you
can."

A sigh.  Deep and filled with emotion.  Mulder was growing tired
waiting for the words he felt would come eventually.  The words of
anger, the words of demanding.  Telling him what he had to do,
what he'd done that had messed everything up once again.  

"Fox.  Please listen, son.  I want you to get well, son.  Please.  For
your mother.  She's so very, very worried, Fox.  She's sat here by
your side for over six days now.  She hasn't slept except for an
hour or two here and there.  I've had to force her down to the
cafeteria or she'd never eat.  She's there now."

Silence.  A scratching sound, a chair moving across a floor just
enough to mar the polished surface.  Then he felt it.  The rough
stubble of his father's day old bearded chin as the older man placed
a gentle kiss on his forehead.  

"Please.  Fox.  For your mother.  For me.  Please, come back to
us."

He wanted to.  More than anything he wanted to give his father
this.  But the darkness caught him in its web and dragged him
down again.

February 13, 1991
time unknown

"I don't care how you do it, William, I just want him _out_!"

Mulder had been hearing the voices around him for some time, but
none of them made sense to him until his mother's voice broke
through the fog that clouded his awareness.  She was angry, and
from the sounds of it, his father was the receiving party to her
wrath.

"I don't know what you expect me to do, T," his father's voice
replied, sounding tired and frustrated.

"You got him that job, get him another one!"  His mother's voice
again, righteous indignation tinting her words.

"I've told you, I only 'suggested' the Bureau look at him.  I didn't
'get him the job'," his father protested.  "He got it on his own and
he's kept it the same way.  He's damned good at what he does, T,
and if you can't see that  . . ."

"It's killing him," she sobbed.  "It's killing him," she repeated,
softer and softer until all Mulder could hear were her shuddering
breaths and deep intakes of air.  

"I still don't know what I can do," his father answered one last
time, this time his voice cracking with emotions no longer
controlled.

A long time later, more sounds came through the haze.

"His lungs are improving, Mrs. Mulder.  He's been doing well since
we removed the respirator.  All things considered, he should be
waking up soon."  It was a male's voice, not his father's.  Someone
in authority.  A doctor?

"Can't you give him something, something that will make him wake
up?" his mother's voice demanded.  If it was good news she was
hearing, she didn't seem willing to be grateful.

"No, Mrs. Mulder.  I'm sorry," the man replied.  He sounded tired,
like he'd given this answer before, several times too many.  

Mulder could hear his mother's sigh as the door squeaked open and
then clicked shut.  Feeling was returning with the awareness of
sound.  He could feel the sheets covering him, could feel the thin
plastic tube bringing oxygen to his nose.  He was dimly aware for
the first time that he could breathe.  His chest still hurt, but at least
he was taking in air and on his own.  No tube down his throat. 
That alone was time for rejoicing.

His body was cool, except for one place.  His arm.  A small area of
his arm felt warm.  Not just warm, it felt safe, too.  After some
concentration, he realized his mother was holding his arm.  It gave
him the courage to try and open his eyes.

She wasn't looking at him when he opened his eyes.  He got the
luxury and pain of seeing her clearly.  His mother looked so much
older than he remembered her.  Not the beautiful woman who stood
on the beach, watching with trepidation as his ten year old self went
farther into the surf.  Her hair had more than a little gray in it, but
she'd taken time, usually to ensure it was in place.  Now, it looked
like she hadn't come in close contact with a comb more than once
or twice in the last week.  And her face was drawn with wrinkles
he'd never seen before.  Whatever had happened, he'd put her
through hell.  His own mother.  

He remembered waking up in a hospital once before and finding her
crying next to his bed.  He's been a child at the time, but before that
day was over, he'd grown into a sullen young man.  He had grown
under the weight of responsibility and guilt.  His actions or lack of
them, had caused his family great pain.  He'd vowed never to do
that, never to let that happen.  Never to be the cause of his
mother's tears.  And now he had, once again.  The guilt almost
crushed him.

And then she turned her head just a fraction and her eyes caught his
face.  Suddenly, the lines erased as she broke into a smile. 
Instantly, twenty years were erased from her face by that smile.  It
was the smile she'd always given him when he'd done something
she approved of, something that pleased her, something that
touched her heart.  A smile that showed how much love she had for
him, no matter what he did.

"Sweetheart," she crooned.  "You're awake."

He couldn't answer, he had no voice.  The tube had left his throat
raw and aching.  All he could do was smile faintly, nod and accept
her embrace, her tears.

Office of Dr. James V. Sullivan
Head of Psychiatry, Portland Memorial Hospital
February 18, 1991
10:13 am

James Sullivan looked across the desk at the two people waiting for
him to begin.  The woman, concern lining her face, especially
around her eyes, held a hopeful expression, almost as if anything
Jim would tell her would bring her peace of mind.  The man sitting
next to her, however, seemed to display a sense of distrust and
disapproval.

"I've looked over your son's records, and I've spoken with him.  I
understand that there is some concern that his 'obsession' with his
work is impeding his recovery from this current bout of
pneumonia," Jim stated evenly, trying for that bedside manner that
always put his patients at ease.

"He got the pneumonia because he was obsessed with the case to
begin with.  So obsessed that he didn't see how sick he was
becoming," Mr. Mulder interrupted tersely.  His ex-wife shot him a
glare and he slunk back into his seat.

"His work is very important to him, that I will grant you.  But I
don't know that it's just an 'obsession' with his work that is driving
him at this point," Jim said diplomatically as he could.  "Your son
told me that he's undergone regression hypnosis, were you aware
of that?"

Two pair of surprised eyes greeted that statement.  Jim hastened to
continue.  "He told me I could reveal that information to you.  But
he wouldn't go into any details of what the sessions produced, if
any memories were recovered."  Jim settled back, a little
uncomfortable with the obvious lack of communication in this
'family'.  "I believe that your son is trying to deal with a great many
things right now:  his work, which is obviously very important to
him and some event in his childhood that he is seeking to
remember."

"Why can't he just leave it alone," Mr. Mulder growled.

That comment earned him another glare from his ex-wife.  "Like
you did?" she returned in kind.  "If any monsters are on the loose in
his head, William, I know who their creator is," she added angrily.

"Mr. and Mrs. Mulder," Jim interrupted.  "We're discussing your
son, and his treatment," he reminded them.  That got their
attention.  "I have discussed this with his medical doctor, Dr.
Hannig, and we feel that it would be safe to take Fox back east at
this time.  He is not well enough to return to DC by himself, or to
return to work.  He'll need several more weeks to regain his
strength, to rebuild his lung capacity.  It's going to be a frustrating
time for him.  And quite frankly, he needs to confront his, shall we
call them 'monsters'.  Someplace safe."

"He'll come home with me," his mother answered quickly.

"You were never that good at dealing with him when he was sick,
T.  Maybe he should come home with me."

"Dr. Sullivan just said he needed to be someplace 'safe', Bill," she
replied evenly.  "I don't see how your place fits that description."

"Maybe we should be looking at an intermediary placement, a
nursing facility of some sort," Jim interjected.  "Tension is the last
thing he needs right now."

Mrs. Mulder squared her shoulders.  "There won't be any tension. 
I want him home, where I can take care of him.  If he seems to be
having problems, we'll discuss an alternate placement at that time. 
Right now, I don't think he wants to go to another hospital, or
'nursing facility'.  I think he's had enough of these places for a long
time."

Jim Sullivan shrugged.  "That was pretty much his assessment, as
well."  He handed Mrs. Mulder a slip of paper.  "I took the liberty
of contacting an old med school friend of mine.  He has a
psychiatric practice in Boston, and he'd be happy to see Fox and
continue with the work we've started here.  And I'll be available by
phone, if the need arises."  

He stood and offered his hand, first to Mrs. Mulder and then to Mr.
Mulder.  "Your son is a brilliant young man.  I read the reports in
the paper.  He was instrumental in capturing a killer.  His work
saves lives.  You have a lot to be proud of."

The couple looked at each other grimly, and left the room without
another word.

end of part seven

Vickie

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

http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dimension/5821/index.html

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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