Recovery
By Shoshana

~~~~~~~~~~~
August 1999
~~~~~~~~~~~

It was just a routine house-to-house search. In a nice middle class
neighborhood, in the middle of safe, secure suburbia, for God sakes.
We had been cautious, cautious enough, stopping by each residence,
knocking on each door, asking permission to search the premises,
warning homeowners of the armed gunman in their midst.

The last house we came to was unlocked. We had knocked on the door,
waited two long minutes for a response and Mulder had impulsively
turned the doorknob and entered the home, guard down, inured to the
danger after two hours of routine searching.

It was the last house we searched because the bastard who had killed
five of his co-workers earlier that day, blew a hole into Mulder's
right chest. Without a thought, I shot him in the head and he died
instantly. I knew he was dead and even if he hadn't been, my
hippocratic oath would have been sorely compromised. I was
determined to save my partner's life and I was prepared to ignore
whatever agony the perp was in.

I did my best, I staunched the blood flow the best I could,
stripping his clothes off, using his shirt to compress the wound.
The ambulances were there within two minutes. Suburbs always seem to
have enough money for good rescue vehicles. If we had been in a
seedy part of D.C., I don't think Mulder would have made it. Time
had never been so critical. He'd never been shot in the chest before.

The bullet missed his lung by inches. The gunman was an amateur, a
very bad shot. Surgery lasted four hours and Mulder was on the
critical list for the first twenty-four hours. My mother had to drag
me away from his bedside in intensive care and force me to take a
shower in the doctors' locker room. And that was eighteen hours
after the shooting.

Skinner had realized that short of doing the deed himself, he needed
someone to shake some sense into me and get me cleaned up of all the
blood splattered and soaked onto me from the scene. So he called my
Mom, who appraised the situation with cool self-possession. Her
ability to keep her wits about her in stressful situations is a
strength I have often emulated. But all I could see that day was
Mulder's heavily bandaged chest, a multitude of tubes, IV's and other
medical devices attached to his upper body.

I didn't want to leave his side, although he was stable and doctors
were optimistic. I was still worried, I wanted to see more progress
before I even gave a thought to my own needs. I had washed off a
fraction of the blood in the lavatory when I was forced to use the
facilities. I ignored the gruesome appearance of my clothes, my
dishevelled hair and makeup, to sit by Mulder's side.

Mom clucked endearments at me after my shower, mildly annoyed by my
manic devotion. She gently scolded me for ignoring the medical staff
and Skinner, and suggested we go get some food and coffee if I wanted
to continue my vigil all day.

It was already noon, the day after the shooting, and I had slept
fitfully last night, chairside to Mulder. The hospital personnel had
apparently conceded to this, sensing my anguish, yes, but also
intimidated by my steely gaze when they asked if I'd like to take a
break. Mulder wouldn't have left me alone in Intensive Care, and
hell if I was going to do so until he was out of danger.

That night, he was taken off the critical list, and the next day he
was moved to a private room. It was all a blur to me now. My mother
stayed with me a lot, as much as she could endure. Skinner was there
before and after work hours, pleased that Mom Scully was there for
me.

In fact, things were looking pretty good. He was stable, his vital
signs were good, the wound was going to heal well. He just hadn't
woken up yet. It was forty-eight hours after the injury and he still
hadn't opened his eyes. The doctors were confounded by this, but
didn't want to draw any conclusions till another twenty-four hours
had elapsed.

Later that night, when it was relatively quiet and I felt myself
dozing off in my armchair, I heard scratchy, small noises from him,
his throat abused by intubation the last few days. He had been
breathing on his own since earlier that evening, yet continued to
receive oxygen through a nasal cannula to aid his recovery.

I threw off the hospital blanket and rushed to his side, leaning
close beside him.

"Hey, partner. Don't. Don't try to talk. You're still weak, your
throat's sore from all those damn tubes."

I knew I should go get the night nurse, but I wanted to make my own
brief medical evaluation before they started prodding and poking him
again.

He nodded in agreement and reached for my hand, squeezing it firmly,
a pretty good grip for a man who'd just survived such a traumatic
wound.

"The guy's dead, Mulder. I shot him right after you got hurt..."

"Good," he managed to squeak out.

"You're going to be fine. You just didn't wake up quite as soon as
we thought you would."

He smiled at this, trying to think of something witty to say, then
realized that his throat was limiting him to one or two word
responses.

So he just said, "How you?"

"Oh, Mulder... I'm fine. I'm more than fine now that you've woken
up. I have to get the nurse now, I'll be right back, O.K.?"

He nodded again, shifting uncomfortably, suddenly conscious of the
pain in his chest area. He looked over at me, wordlessly asking for
some relief.

"Hey, hold on, I'll get them to give your medication a little
earlier. Just hold on."

I released his hand and sought out the nurse.

It wasn't till much later, in fact, around nine a.m. the next day,
that we discovered that all was not well in Mulderland. He had slept
well, receiving his medication in the wee hours of the morning and
had woken briefly at around six a.m. He still had trouble scratching
out words, exhausted by his injury and the overall stress of being
hospitalized.

When he woke at nine, he seemed much more alert, and though still
raw, his conversational ability had improved immensely. He asked me
how my Mom and the guys were and if Skinner had been by. Then he
asked me something that shook me up, destroyed any hope that this was
going to be an easy convalescence.

"So when do we go over to the Office of Professional Responsibility
for our hearing?"

"Our what?!"

"Aren't we scheduled to report on our findings from Antarctica?"

"What?! What's the last thing you remember doing before you came to
this hospital, Mulder?"

"I don't remember being shot, but I assumed it was true, because you
told me so. I remember being at home, recuperating from our injuries
in Antarctica. Though, it does seem strange now, I'm completely
recovered from the minor frostbite and exposure problems. I've been
wondering about that when I could stay awake for more than five
minutes at a time. And I was waiting till I got my voice back so I
could ask you about it."

I had a sick feeling in my stomach. I knew amnesia was common if
you had a head injury, but it was usually selective amnesia. Not
remembering your accident, not remembering what you had for dinner
the day before, these were more common side effects of a head injury.

But Mulder had a chest injury, one that was healing quite well. I
found it hard to believe that the traumatic shock of the incident had
led to the loss of one year's memories. Was he kidding? Was this
one of his pranks?

"Hey, Scully. Aren't you going to answer me?"

I snapped out of it and looked him directly in the eye. "Mulder,
this better not be one of your well orchestrated jokes. What year do
you think this is?"

He scoffed, "It's 1998, what else would it be?"

My legs crumbled shakily beneath me and I eased myself into the
armchair next to the bed. I held my head in my hands, attempting to
recover some small degree of composure. Mulder was alarmed now,
recognizing my distress.

"Scully..."

I lifted my head, unable to disguise the sheer terror of the moment.
If he had forgotten the last year...

"Scully, tell me. Tell me what year it is. For that matter, tell
me what month it is too! I thought it was late August 1998. What is
it?"

He was losing patience, but I didn't know what to say. I was still
astonished by this turn of events. I rose, shakily, and walked over
to the bed. I took his hand in my own, distractedly stroking my
thumb across his knuckles. His eyes met mine and I could see his
fear, fear that would escalate with my next words.

"It's late August 1999, Mulder. We've been home a year. We've
already been to the OPR. The X-Files were reopened."

"Well, that was good, wasn't it?"

"No, Mulder. They were opened and Agents Spender and Fowley were
assigned to them. The committee didn't believe that we, *you'd*
found an alien ship in Antarctica. They chastised us for the
expenses. They refused our reassignment."

Mulder shook his head, grimacing at the thought of Spender on the X-
Files. "What irony, Scully. You can't remember seeing the
spacecraft. I can't remember what I've been up to for the entire
last year of my life."

"If it's any consolation, we were reassigned to the X-Files in
February," I said softly, smoothing the hair back from his forehead,
leaving my hand at the crown of his head.

He smiled up at me fondly and it occurred to me in a flash what his
most recent memory would be of such intimate behavior. Those few
moments in his hallway, however ephemeral, had occurred over a year
ago. In Mulder's consciousness, they had just happened, a scant few
weeks ago.

"So, you don't leave me, do you Scully?" he asked, a winsome smile
on his face.

"No, I don't, Mulder." I cast my eyes down at the floor,
embarrassed by his undivided attention.

He squeezed my hand softly and said, barely above a whisper, "Is
there anything else I oughta know about last year. Something I might
not want to forget?"

I blushed at this, well aware of the implication, understanding his
need to define our relationship. He didn't want to screw things up;
he needed to know what or who we were to one another for the past
year of our lives.

He had been as tactful as he could, considering the situation. The
way I'd been holding his hand since he'd awakened, the way I'd
stroked his hair away from his brow, I was obviously still devoted to
him as a friend and a partner. He had every reason to be confused;
for all he knew, we could be lovers by now.

"You taught me how to play baseball," I said, simply stating the
truth.

"Did I hit a home run?" he asked, mirth in his eyes.

"Not yet, Mulder. Not even close."

He gave me a pleasantly amused pout and gazed up at me affectionately.

I was probably beet red by this time, overwhelmed by emotions I'd
expertly repressed all year. Lovingly, I moved my hand to the nape of
his neck, caressing the fine hairs there lightly.

"That's good, Scully. Actually really good. I'd like to remember
when that happens, don't ya think?"

Staring directly into his now watery hazel eyes, I whispered, "Yeah,
I'd like to remember when that happens too, Mulder. Real well..."

fin

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