Death Will Be Our Darling by Deborah Goldstein 17/39
Lisa Reeves
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----------------------------------------------------------------
Folks, excuse this interruption in your reading pleasure. I just realized
that I had been putting 39 in the subject line. Overall, you'll get 39
pieces, but there are 29 sections in the story. Sorry!
Death Will Be Our Darling, part 15 (17/39)
Deborah Goldstein <d...@teleport.com>
Disclaimed in parts 01 and 10
Georgetown University Medical Center
Medical Annex
Dr. John Kennedy's office
4:45 p.m., December 26
"Do you want to go back in the hospital, Mulder?" It was the
third time Dr. Kennedy had asked him that question since he'd
walked in fifteen minutes ago. This time he answered it.
"Yes!" He reached the end of the room and started back again.
"No! Oh, I don't know any more!" He reached the other end of the
room, turned around, and put his back to the wall. He stared at
Dr. Kennedy for nearly a minute before he realized that he'd
ended up not directly across the room but in a corner, a more
defensible position, and that his fists were clenched tightly
enough at his sides to hurt. He made himself relax, then said
flatly, "The _only_ reason I took my medicines this morning was
that Margaret said you were able to fit me in this afternoon."
Dr. Kennedy nodded, but didn't directly acknowledge his
challenge. Instead he said, "Do you really need that externally
imposed control or do you want to go back just because it's
easier than staying in control yourself?" Then he leaned back in
his chair, watching him dispassionately, making no effort to help
him calm down. That attitude had infuriated him at times and had
been the only thing that let him keep his self-respect at other
times.
This was one of the times it infuriated him. He flung himself at
the desk, leaning over it to glare at the doctor. "I *am* in
control, God damn it! I'm here talking to you, aren't I, instead
of having locked myself in the bathroom and slit my throat. Is it
too much to ask that you at least *try* to find some way to take
the crystal-clear edges off that memory? Why won't you let me
have the Compazine? It worked the first time; let me take it
again and get rid of this nightmare before I really do go insane,
because I can't stand remembering, and I *don't* want to die, and
THERE'S NO OTHER CHOICE!" He was screaming and pounding on the
desk at the end, but he didn't care. He _had_ to make the doctor
understand.
Kennedy didn't answer. He waited silently until Mulder made
himself sit down and apologize for his behavior. Then he said,
"You know the reason. You tell me."
Defeated, he slumped in the chair and muttered, "The potential
for irreversible side effects is too high. With just the three
low doses of Compazine I took the first time, I already had
pseudo-Parkinson tremor. If I take any of the anti-psychotics
with a high potential for extrapyramidal symptoms, I risk
permanent problems." He couldn't look up at the psychiatrist.
Instead he stared at the wrinkles in his right pant-leg,
smoothing them over and over with his fingers. Finally, more than
ten minutes later, still without looking up, he asked, "Can we
_please_ try something other than just leaving me on the
Risperdal?"
Dr. Kennedy's voice was brisk this time, as if he was already
mentally three steps ahead and had to hurry to catch up. "You'll
need to go in the hospital--*not* the psych ward--for a few days.
Some people react very badly to Clozaril, even to the extremely
low starting dose. Also, there's mandatory weekly blood work to
make sure your white blood cells aren't being killed off."
Surprised at being told he didn't have to go back on the psych
ward, especially after his outburst, Mulder stared at his doctor.
Finally he was able to say, "Thank you. Like Margaret said last
night, if I don't accept the memories, I'll be living in fear of
being ambushed by them for the rest of my life. But accepting the
memories doesn't mean that I want them to be so sharp, so
perfect." At last he could let go of the fear that Dr. Kennedy
wouldn't help him and that he would have no choice but to kill
himself to gain the peace he so desperately needed.
There was a comfortable silence for a moment before Dr. Kennedy
said, "I'll call the hospital and tell them you're coming in now.
Then as soon as I close up here I'll come over. They can do the
preliminary blood work tonight and you can have the first dose
tomorrow morning. If there are no problems, you'll be out by
Tuesday at the latest."
FBI Headquarters
Assistant Director Walter Skinner's office
8:15 a.m., January 19
Skinner stood up, waving him to a seat. "It's good to have you
back, Agent Mulder. I understand you spent the holidays with
Agent Scully and her mother. Did you have a nice time?"
Mulder knew that wasn't what Skinner really wanted to know, so he
answered the implied questions. "I'm doing fine, sir. I've been
out of the hospital a month now, my 'keeper' is tolerable--he's a
neatnik, my apartment is cleaner than it's ever been,"--he
grinned because it was so funny: Mark had thrown up his hands in
mock despair, then "made" him clean the entire place, using
liberal applications of sarcasm and lots of his own elbow grease-
-"and I really did enjoy staying with Margaret again. I'm doing
well, sir. I'm glad to be back at work."
Skinner nodded, leaning back in his chair. Now that they'd
finished the mandatory small talk, he would get down to business.
"I've read your doctors' reports. Why don't you tell me about
them?"
Mulder shrugged. It was no big deal. "Dr. Carrington couldn't
find anything to account for the two incidents, and all my tests
were normal at my six-month checkup in December. I'll see her at
the one-year anniversary, but other than that, I'm discharged.
"Dr. Kennedy thinks they were stress related. I'm officially
forbidden to ever do another profile. I don't object to that in
the least, sir. I never liked doing them, I'm just incredibly
good at them.
"I can't have my gun back until I've been off all my medicines
and totally symptom-free for three months. I figure that'll be in
late June, at the rate Dr. Kennedy is willing to taper me off the
Zoloft--that's the anti-depressant." He didn't bother mentioning
the Clozaril, because he would be off it by the end of this
month. "He said if nothing happens, in a month or so we can talk
about my no longer needing to be supervised here and at home, and
getting my driver's license back. In any case, I'll be seeing him
for at least six months, maybe a year.
"For now, I can work anywhere I'm assigned--except, I suppose,
the X-Files. I doubt you'll let me have those back until I'm off
all medical restrictions. You already know how closely I need to
be supervised and the legal implications of Margaret Scully being
my Guardian."
Skinner was silent for several minutes before asking, "What does
Agent Scully think about this?"
Startled, Mulder stared at his boss. "Scu . . . Scully, sir? Why
are you asking me?"
"She's _your_ partner, Agent Mulder. What does she think about
going back to work with you? Does she think you'll be able to
handle the X-Files again?" Skinner was looking at him like a
student staring at a lab rat in a maze. Which way would he turn
at the intersection? Left and gain the reward? Or right and get
shocked by the electric grid under the cage?
"I . . . we . . . haven't talked about it, sir. I'm assuming
we'll pretty much pick up where we left off."
Skinner nodded, was quiet for a moment, then figuratively threw a
live grenade in his lap. "Agent Scully's work these past seven
months has been exemplary, especially considering the stress
she's been under, worrying about you and having to deal with her
own reactions to what's happened. She's been noticed, and at the
beginning of the year was offered a permanent position at
Quantico. That would take her out of the field, shift her back
into the teaching and research track. As you know, some agents
prefer this, others don't, and there is no stigma attached to
rejecting such a transfer. She has until January 31 to turn in
her decision. I expect you two to discuss this, Agent Mulder, and
I expect to have your plans for the future of the X-Files
Division by that same date.
"As for your next assignment--you're assigned to the X-Files, to
close out the paperwork on all outstanding cases, make
recommendations on all cases that were referred since you were
injured, including possible agents to investigate those cases,
and, in general, get the division in shape to be either re-opened
eventually or closed down now, depending on what you and Agent
Scully decide. You may request Agent Scully's assistance to help
you close out the existing cases, but whether she will be able to
help you will depend on her current case load.
"I don't think I need to remind you, Agent Mulder, that you are
restricted to this building--you may not go *anywhere* else on
any Bureau-related business without my express permission. That
restriction won't be lifted until you re-qualify at the Academy,
which you can't do until I have Dr. Kennedy's medical release.
"Dismissed."
His dismissal was so abrupt he sat there for at least fifteen
seconds before he could mentally catch up. Then he stood up and
left Skinner's office, walking numbly into the main hallways of
the building.
F.B.I. Headquarters
Underground Parking Garage
4:55 p.m., January 20
Mulder was dead tired, not really watching where he was going. It
was hard to believe that just doing paperwork could be so tiring,
but he hadn't thought about these X-Files in seven months, and
with his eidetic memory, remembering them became an exercise in
weeding out the important information from the unbelievable
number of ordinary little incidents that filled his days. Add to
that the fact that Dr. Kennedy had extended Dr. Carrington's
prohibition against caffeine and chocolate, and you had one
exhausted FBI Agent. So exhausted, in fact, that by Monday
afternoon when Scully had finally returned his call, he had
begged off on talking to her about re-opening the X-Files till
next Monday. He'd also, definitely not jokingly, asked if she had
the time to help him. But she was swamped, having been on
vacation since he got out of the hospital just before Christmas.
It was her first extended vacation in five years and he'd left
her alone once he moved home with Mark Stromberg. He'd be closing
out the ten open cases himself.
He was sure Skinner had thought that closing out these cases and
handling the thirty-one referred ones would take him a few days,
maybe a week, tops. Long enough for him to stamp "UNSOLVED"
across every one of them, because he couldn't close the old cases
and wouldn't want to turn any of the new ones over to other
agents, and long enough for Skinner to find someone who'd be
willing to take him for the five months until he could go back to
the X-Files. But at the rate he was working he figured Skinner
would have at least a couple of months to find that someone. He
smiled cynically to himself. Enough time to prove that he wasn't
crazy and he wasn't suicidal and he wasn't going to have another
of those "episodes". Because if frustration was the trigger,
before the week was out he was likely to be at least as
frustrated as he had been those two times.
If only real FBI work was as linear and straightforward as TV
shows made it out to be. One case at a time, solve it, take a day
or a week to do paperwork and catch up with the bureaucratic
nonsense that came across his and Scully's desks while they were
gone, then go on to the next case. Instead, there was the reality
of anywhere up to thirty cases going simultaneously, most of them
X-Files, some of them other agents' cases where he or Scully or
both of them had been asked to help. Thank God he hadn't been
scheduled to testify in court during the last seven months. In
any case, the six outside cases they'd been helping out on in
June had been taken care of by the assigned agents, and Scully
had, at some point while he was in the CCU, finished her notes on
their ten open X-Files. Once it became apparent that he would
recover, however, she hadn't been able to close their cases,
because they were officially his, as head of the department.
It would have been nice if he could have closed them in August,
when he first came back to work. But that had been out of the
question. He wasn't allowed to take the subway or the bus then
because of the danger of falling or bumping his head against
something--as well as his intolerance to glare at that time--and
the cost of a cab to and from Headquarters every day had been
vetoed by Workers' Comp. Initially they'd said he could car pool
to work with someone, forgetting the simple fact that he couldn't
work more than two or three hours in an eight-hour day. Then they
had just about freaked when they actually went to look at his
office. _Alone_? In the _ basement_? With all those sharp edges?!
What if he _fell_?! On top of that, the Academy had a fully-
equipped Infirmary, and Headquarters had nothing more than a few
strategically placed basic first-aid kits. So the cases had
simply waited, unsolved, unclosed, until now.
He didn't hear or see the approach of the two men who slammed him
backwards against one of the pillars. He felt them holding him
against that cold concrete and for one terrifying second he was
back on the psychiatric ward, being restrained till the nurse
could come with the Ativan. Then he was even more terrified,
because he knew he was in no condition to fight anyone off. A
month out of the hospital could not possibly make up for seven
weeks on the psych ward, which came after almost five months of
hospitalization and desk work--and no "contact sports" allowed.
A forearm was pressed across his throat, not enough to hurt or
cut off his air, but a definite threat. A whispered voice said,
"We know, and you know, you're in no shape to resist us. We can
discuss this like gentlemen or we can go somewhere and we'll beat
the shit out of you till you _have_ to listen. Which will it be?"
He made himself relax in their grip, swallowed, and said, "Talk.
But it better be short. If I don't meet Mark exactly on time, he
has orders to--"
"Yeah, we know about that, too. This'll be real short." The two
men shifted their holds, immobilizing him with a leg in front of
each of his shins to block him from kicking, their bodies pressed
against his, and their hands on his arms above and below his
elbows, keeping them flat against the pillar. They were as
competent at it as the people who worked at the hospital. He
wouldn't let himself think about the possibility that they were
two of those psychiatric aides.
A third man, wearing a ski mask and goggles, came from the left,
holding an aluminum baseball bat which he repeatedly slapped
against one glove-covered palm. "Remember me, Mulder? Or am I one
of the things you lost in the retrograde amnesia? Well, it
doesn't matter. What does matter is this--" the man stepped
forward and, very carefully, laid the bat against the right side
of his head, "--you didn't *really* think that was a random
carjacking, did you? Some punk comes along, slams you upside the
head, does it *again*, and you _live_? Come off it, Mulder. It
takes an artist to do that kind of work. *I* do that kind of
work. And the police report was wrong; you _didn't_ get your arm
up in time to protect yourself. I did that little piece of
misdirection last."
The bat tapped him lightly, much too lightly to actually hurt,
but he couldn't help himself. He flinched away, futilely trying
to get his arms up to protect his head. The hands holding his
arms tightened so quickly and so strongly he knew he'd have
twenty separate bruises from their fingers and thumbs. So he
stood still and closed his eyes in resignation. The man would do
whatever he wanted, and there was absolutely nothing he could do
about it.
The bat hit his forehead hard enough to bounce his head off the
pillar and make him see the stars everyone talked about.
"_LOOK_at_me_ when I talk to you."
His eyes flew open and he stared at the man. What difference did
it make? There was no way to identify him because of the ski mask
and goggles he wore. He couldn't even see any skin to know his
race. His height was about 5'6", his weight "slender", but more
accuracy than that was impossible because of the bulky parka he
wore. His voice was as generic as TV announcers' used to be, back
when the networks thought the viewers wouldn't trust anyone with
an identifiable accent. The man was as close to a non-entity as
he could be, given that he was an artist with his chosen weapon.
"The message is this: Go back to doing profiles. _Stay_ there,
no matter what your psychiatrist says. It's much healthier for
you than *anywhere* else in the Bureau, especially the X-Files.
What I did once, I can do again. Only I guarantee you won't walk
away undamaged this time. So think about it. And make the right
decision."
The three men were gone before he could even try to think of a
reply, leaving behind the bat, and him to slide down the pillar
because his legs refused to hold him up any longer.
He was still there, one leg under him and the other splayed out
in front, blood dripping onto the back of his coat collar from
the cut on his head, when one of the security teams found him.
They didn't touch him or talk to him--probably afraid the psycho
would go off like a rocket, he thought scornfully--just called in
the report and waited till Skinner and Mark Stromberg came
running over.
Mark knelt down next to him. "Mulder! What's wrong? Did you have
another--?"
He shook his head, very slightly, and groaned with the instant
headache that tiny movement brought. "N--" He cleared his throat,
tried again. "No." His voice was shaky, but he thought they would
be able to understand him. "Th--three men. One had that . . .
that . . ." it was almost too much for him to say, but he forced
the words out, "baseball bat. He said he . . . he would do it
again, if I didn't close down the X-Files." The last few words
came out in a rush, then he simply closed his eyes and let the
fear course through him, no longer making even a pretense of
trying to control his shaking.
End of part 15; continued in part 16
Debbie Goldstein
d...@teleport.com
Lisa Reeves @-->--->--- | ad...@detroit.freenet.org
GDFN Help Staff Co-Administrator | ree...@pilot.msu.edu
* Gossamer Australia *
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