From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>
Subject: [xfcreative] NEW:  Out of the Cold (08 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 eight of twenty-five

JFK International Airport
New York
February 20, 1991
3:00 pm

He was exhausted, but he didn't want his mother to see that.  It was
everything he could do to remain upright at the curb of the airport
terminal.  Mulder tried to stand up straight, but his shoulders
wanted to hunch over, curling in on his rib cage.  It still hurt to
breathe, still hurt to cough.  

The coughs were more or less confined to the mornings now, or
whenever he did something strenuous.  Like walking off an airplane
and waiting for his mother to bring the car around.  He fought
valiantly to stifle the coughs that were tickling his throat.  If he let
one through, the rest would follow on its heels and his mother
would drive him straight to the nearest hospital instead of to her
house.

Mulder wasn't thrilled about the final destination of this trip, either. 
It wasn't that he didn't want to see his mother's new house in
Greenwich, CT.  He couldn't have cared less where she lived.  It
was that he really didn't want to spend two weeks or better being
hovered over by his mother.  

He had pleaded his case fairly effectively, he thought.  He pointed
out that he was a grown man, had been on his own for almost ten
years.  He had a small apartment, he could get anywhere in it in less
than 20 steps.  And it was _his_, he was comfortable there.  He
hadn't stepped foot in his mother's new home since she'd moved
there six months before.  He'd feel awkward, like a stranger.

All arguments had fallen on deaf ears.  Even his doctors in
Washington, upon reading his hospital file, had conspired against
him to make sure Mulder ended up in his mother's care.  He
couldn't be left alone, his medication needed to be monitored and
his breathing exercises were essential if he was to regain his full
lung capacity.  

In essence, no one trusted him to take care of himself, and everyone
concerned made it clear that the source of that mistrust was his own
attitude while he was hospitalized.  His mother had even used the
dreaded 'you made your bed, now lie in it' statement that he could
remember from a vicious bout with mono in high school.  In the
end, he hadn't even been allowed to make his own travel
arrangements, and the FBI made it quite clear that until all his
doctors signed off on his return to duty, he wasn't to set foot in the
building.

No longer just tired, he was becoming disheartened.  It was more
than he could handle, being sick _and_ staying with his mother.  It
wasn't that long ago that he was the caretaker, the one to make
sure she took her medicine, ate three meals a day, even helped her
wash and dress herself in the mornings.  To have her return those
favors now to him only served to embarrass him.  He'd gotten beyond
needing her long before he left for Oxford.  But everyone was
telling him he needed her now.

He was getting dizzy again.  Breathe, he ordered his lungs, and
reluctantly they complied, but not before the black spots marred
his vision.  Just as he was starting to sway, his mother drove up to
the curb, and hurried around to open his door.  A maternal gesture,
she guided his elbow as he sat down.  "I'm not an invalid, Mom,"
he reminded her dryly.

"I didn't say you were, dear," she shot back.  "But it would have
been more embarrassing for you to fall flat on your backside there
on the sidewalk, now, wouldn't it?"  She drove off toward the
interstate.  He was surprised when she didn't mention his dizziness. 
"I went through some of the boxes I brought from the other house. 
I'm pretty sure some of your old clothes should still fit.  At least
until we can go shopping," she commented, attempting to make
small talk.

He stared glumly out the window.

"And I can move the little TV into your room.  I was thinking
about getting a VCR for that one, in case I wanted to record a
show while I was watching a movie or something.  Would you like
that?"

He tore his gaze away from the passing snowy landscape to give
her a pained look.  "Mom, when can I go home?" he asked,
desperately trying to keep the whine out of his voice.

"You're going home right now, sweetheart," she answered with a
bright smile.

"No, Mom.  _My_ home.  DC.  When do I get to go home and go
back to work?"

"When the doctor feels you can be alone, sweetheart," she replied
cheerfully.  She shook her head at him, giving him an affectionate
pat on the arm.  "It won't be that bad.  I promise not to hover too
much.  I just have to agree with the doctors on this, Fox.  You need
to recuperate, and you would never follow their orders if left on
your own.  Remember how you got to this position in the first
place," she pointed out evenly.

He closed his eyes with a sigh.  "Wake me in three to four weeks,"
he muttered, and with little effort, fell asleep for the rest of the ride.

She woke him with a gentle shake of his shoulders.  "I'll get your
bags, sweetheart.  Please go unlock the door for me," she requested
and handed him the key.  He wanted more than anything to protest,
to get his own damned bags and have her hold the door, but his
body wasn't in the mood to agree.  He was stiff and sore and more
tired than he could ever remember being and not being asleep. 
Reluctantly, he shuffled up the sidewalk and unlocked the door to
the little bungalow.

It was dark inside the house, the sun almost gone behind the
horizon and the leafless trees.  He fumbled on the wall for a light
switch and found it just as his mother entered with their bags on her
shoulders.  "Go on in the living room, dear and put your feet up,"
she directed.  "I'm going to put these away and then I'll start some
dinner.  I have some beef stew in the cabinet I can heat up.  Would
you like that?"

She'd never been much of a cook, even when he was little, and he
had to smile at her definition of 'home cooked meal', stew from a
can.  But he was just hungry enough for it to sound good to him. 
"That's great, Mom.  I'll see what's on the news."  After settling
into a comfortable position on the couch, he clicked on the TV and
closed his eyes briefly through the few commercials.

Mulder couldn't see at first, it was dark in the room.  A smell
permeated the air, the smell of mildew.  A light flashed across the
wall--headlights from a passing car outside the window.  The
brightness burned itself on his retinas, but allowed him to get a
better look at the room around him.

It was an old flat--long abandoned.  The single window was
curtainless and the panes of glass streaked with years of dirt and
grime.  He could see piles of rags in the corners, probably left there
by the apartment's most recent inhabitants--a family of rats. 
Mulder shuddered at the thought, and felt the bile rise in the back of
his throat.  There were parts to his job that he still had trouble
dealing with.

A scraping sound pulled his attention away from the rat's nest. 
Something was being dragged across the floor in the room next to
the one he was standing in.  He moved carefully toward the door
that separated the two rooms, feeling his hip for his gun, hefting the
weight of it in his hand before going too close to the opening.  His
eyes had finally adjusted to the dimness provided by the distant
street lamps outside.  He could make out shapes, shadows.  Mostly
shadows.

Another flash of a headlight beam and he could make out the body. 
Lying on the floor, a dark puddle spreading from both hands.  He
could see the shadow hovering over the body, it seemed
malevolent, sinister, evil.  He recoiled from the shadow, but
couldn't pull his eyes from it.  

As he watched, riveted to his position not five feet from the door,
the body on the floor gasped its last breath.  The shadow engulfed
it, seemed to draw strength from it.  It took on an intelligence that
Mulder could sense, could feel.  And without any warning, it turned
on Mulder and moved rapidly toward him . . .

"Fox!  Fox, wake up!  It's a dream, sweetheart.  Just a dream!"  His
mother was practically holding him in her lap, shaking him
vigorously, both arms surrounding his shoulders.  He tried
unsuccessfully to draw in a breath, but no air would enter his lungs. 
He panicked and flailed out of her arms, still gasping for oxygen.

"I'm calling the hospital," his mother announced, her own voice
carrying a panicky edge.  "You need an ambulance."

At her words, the dam broke and fresh sweet air flooded his lungs. 
His ribs expanded painfully as he sucked in great gulps of it, with
each breath his dizziness faded.  Finally, he was able to grab his
mother's arm.

"Don't," he gasped out, still concentrating more on bringing
oxygen into his body than on getting words out.  

She hesitated, still holding the receiver of the phone.  "I want to call
the doctor, then.  At the very least.  You couldn't breathe, Fox." 
She stated the obvious to him as if she were providing new insight
into his condition.

"Nightmare," he replied, struggling to calm down and take in
normal breaths.  Now that the dizziness had passed, he was afraid
he might bring it back with a bout of hyperventilation.  "I'm OK,
Mom.  Really," he assured her.

She sat down beside him, he leaned back, dropping his head to the
back of couch.  She reached over and brushed damp locks from his
forehead.  "I was only in the kitchen a few minutes."

"Sorry," he answered.

"Fox, you barely had time to fall asleep.  That was too fast for a
nightmare," she told him grimly.

"I fall asleep at the drop of a hat, Mom.  It doesn't take me long to
get to REM sleep," he shrugged, still not looking at her.  "I think
the medicine has something to do with it."

"Then we'll see the doctor in the morning and have him change the
medicine," she said firmly.  "We can't have more of these kinds of
episodes," she added with a fierce glare, as if her will alone could
prevent them.

"I'll go see him tomorrow, Mom, I promise," he vowed.  He'd play
along, go see the doctor, take all the shit they handed him whether
pills, inhalers or shots, and grin through it all.  At some point,
everyone would get tired of bossing him around and they'd leave
him be to go back to his own world.  It happened when he was a
kid, it would surely happen again.  

His mother's interest in him had never had a long shelf life.  He
figured she was good for about another two weeks, tops.  At the
end of that time, she'd help him pack his stuff, kiss him on the
forehead and tell him to call her when he got back to his place. 
And that's the last he'd hear from her  until his birthday, or next
major Hallmark Holiday.  Two weeks was a relatively small price to
pay, all things considered.

Mulder Residence
Greenwich, CT
February 21, 1991
12:03 pm

It was noon the next day by the time they had finished with the
doctor and gone to the pharmacy.  Mulder was so tired he didn't
think he could walk all the way from the driveway to the front door
and into his bedroom.  His bedroom, the spare room that his
mother had decorated straight out of _Better Homes and Gardens_. 
It didn't even have his books from college.  They had been stored
away in crates in the attic.  The only memento left over from his
childhood room was a framed picture of himself and Sam, and even
the frame was new to match the new decor.  But it was a place to
sleep, and that was what he seemed to be doing constantly.

He woke up about three, hungry and cranky.  He had only been at
his mother's house for a day and already he was bored out of his
mind.  The rules his doctor had laid out were particularly annoying. 
Twice a day, he had to practice taking deep breaths which was an
exercise in futility since it only produced a fit of coughing.  His
mother was supposed to 'help' by pounding on his back, which
succeeded in bringing up some foul substance from his lungs.  

If he lived through that ordeal, he was then ordered to take two
puffs from his inhaler and then could do no more than sit in a chair
because it made him dizzy.  If he hadn't fallen asleep again, he
could eat, try to read until the words swam on the pages or watch
some mindless drivel on television.

His mother had decided they needed some more food in the house
and left him to watch a movie she had rented for him.  The minute
she was out the door, his hand was on the phone.  Not wanting to
worry her, or cause her to incur a large phone bill, he used his own
calling card to place a call to Washington DC.

Reggie Purdue answered his own phone, an attribute that Mulder
had always admired.  He smiled at the terse greeting.  "Purdue. 
Make it short, I'm busy."

"I doubt that, Reggie.  The new Baseball Digest isn't out for two
weeks," Mulder replied with a chuckle.

"My god, Mulder!  Is that you?  I was just passing the hat for your
funeral bouquet," Reggie shot back over the phone lines.

"The reports of my recent demise are greatly exaggerated," Mulder
pined back.

"How are you, really?" Reggie asked, concern in his tone. 
"Patterson was saying that you might not come back from this."

"Patterson should be so lucky," Mulder retorted.  "I'm doing much
better, thanks.  As a matter of fact, I was sitting here doing some
thinking."

"Why does that statement strike terror in my heart?"

"Reggie, give me a break," Mulder moaned pathetically.  "I was
curious what happened with that last case I was on."

"So call Patterson.  I'm sure Bill would love to answer any and all
questions," Reggie said evenly.

"We both know better, Reg.  Bill and I never saw eye to eye on a
lot of stuff, but on this one, I think we're definitely at odds."

"Mulder, that case was closed in Portland.  Why are you interested
in it now?"

"Reggie, c'mon.  I'm not going off the deep end here, I'm just
curious."

"Mulder, you haven't answered my question.  Why do you care?" 
That was the bad thing about his relationship with Reggie Purdue. 
From the time Mulder had stepped foot in the ASAC's office,
Purdue had been able to read him like a book.  One of the only
people Mulder had even known who could, or even cared to try.

Mulder was quiet for several seconds.  He could hear his friend
frowning over the line.  "I've had dreams, Reggie," he admitted
softly.

"Dreams," Reggie repeated.

"Yeah.  Something happened on that dock, Reg.  I don't think that
Abigail Crown was the killer.  I think she was another victim.  And
I'm pretty sure that the killer is still out there, or somewhere, and
that they are going to strike again."

It was Reggie's turn to be quiet.  "All this on the basis of a dream?"
he finally asked.

"Well, more than one."

"And how high was your fever when you experienced these
dreams?"

"I wasn't hallucinating, Reggie.  I was thinking about the case and
it came to me.  It's happened before, you know that," Mulder said
testily.

"And sometimes, those 'dreams' panned out and sometimes they
_didn't_," Reggie responded with a sigh.  "Mulder, you're still on
medical leave.  You shouldn't be worrying about this case.  You
should be resting."

"Ever tried 'resting' for two weeks, Reggie," Mulder growled.

"Yeah, it was the first definition of hell in my adult life, but I
survived, and so will you.  Mulder, go find a good movie on the
tube, put your feet up and get better.  You can look into all this
when you're back to work."

"Reggie, please.  This won't take long.  I just want to know if there
were any suspicious deaths reported in Reno, Nevada about four
days after I was found on the docks.  How hard can that be?"

"Suspicious as in how?  Get specific, Mulder.  And you're gonna
owe me big time for this," Reggie answered gruffly.

"Suicides.  Specifically a suicide that happened in an abandoned
apartment building.  Probably a six flat or something like that. 
C'mon, Reggie, how hard could it be to answer that?"

"Well, if it's so damned easy, why aren't you calling the Reno
Police and asking them directly?" Reggie sneered.  "Ah, hell, I'll do
it.  But on one condition," he said firmly.

"Name your price.  Orioles Season opener, sky box at JFK for a
Skins game . . ."

"You humble me with your connections, Mulder.  No, it's much
simpler than that.  Well, maybe not for you.  I want you to
R-E-S-T!  Got that.  I want you to go lie down and sleep and get
better so you can get back here and do your own damned leg work. 
And that's an order."

"Message received, loud and clear.  I'm going down for my nap
right now, Unc'a Reggie," Mulder said lightly.  The day was
looking up, if Reggie had agreed to help him.

"You do that.  I'll call you tomorrow, let you know what I found
out."

"Thanks, Reg.  I won't forget this one, really."

"Don't worry, Mulder.  I won't let you forget," Reggie assured him
and disconnected that line.

Mulder yawned, the fatigue settling over him again like a blanket. 
He dragged himself into his room and fell into bed.  He was still
sleeping when his mother returned and started dinner.

end of part eight
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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