Title:  Only the Righteous

Author:  Vickie Moseley

Spoilers:  Signs and Wonders (big ones)

Summary:  Fill in the blank.  Can you guess which one I chose?

Rating:  PG

Category:  MT, SA

Disclaimer:  You really need to spend more time in the South, Chris.  It

might improve that nasty case of stereotyping you seem to have developed.

But in the meantime, I did like the snake bites.  Here's my homage to the

effort.  I'm not infringing, just fleshing out some areas left lacking.

Archives:  Shucks, yeah.

Thanks to the following 'naggers' <G>  Laurie (first in line), Susan (a

real close second), Kat (another precinct heard from), Ten (you haven't

even seen it yet and you're nagging!), Sally (a gentle nudge kind of nag),

Donna, you were there in spirit . . . If I missed anybody, I apologize.  I

love you all.  Now, I assume you're all planning on doing one of these

stories yourselves . . . Hmmmmm? <G>

My only defense is my compulsion.  Without it, I'm nothing :)

Only the Righteous

By Vickie Moseley

vmoseley@fgi.net

I hate snakes.

I hate them now even more than I did when I was seven.

I close my eyes and they're all I see.

Snakes.

I blink my eyes open and the view is no less frightening.  Mulder is losing

consciousness, even as I assess the number of snake bites on his body.

Vaguely, as if from a great distance, I hear Enoch O'Connor assuring me

that God will decide.

Decide if my partner will live or die.

But I can't leave this up to God.  God helps those who help themselves.

I've already called the ambulance.  I know that help is on the way.  But I

also know that help will be several minutes in getting here and I've

counted over thirty snake bites on Mulder's upper body.  I haven't even

gotten to his legs.

Mulder twitches, and I jump.  His hand flails and grasps at the air, and I

know, just as surely as I can feel it in my heart, he's reaching.  Reaching

for me.  

Such times as these, I really wish I'd never gone to medical school.  I

know that sounds ridiculous, but there is nothing I can do for him.  His

breathing is labored, but not to the point where CPR would be effective.

His biggest problem at the moment is pain.  Excruciating pain.  And that's

why I hate my knowledge of his condition.  I know exactly how much pain

he's in, times the more than thirty bites that have punctured his skin,

invaded his body.

The swelling has started.  The bite on his neck is now a bump the size of a

quarter, the skin turning a blue-black in the wake of the pit viper's

digestive enzymes now systematically destroying the tissue.  I check my

watch, and see that it's only been seven minutes since I burst through the

door.

Somewhere in my mind, something snaps.  Or maybe it just clicks in place.

I remember what I should have been doing all this time.  Carefully, I take

out my pen and as gently as possible, I mark a faint but visible circle

around the swelling on Mulder's neck.  I do the same for about a third of

the bitemarks on his upper body.  It will serve as a baseline, something

for the doctors at the hospital to compare when we arrive.  I mark the time

on his shirt collar, somewhere that can easily be found.

"Scully?"

I thought he'd passed out, or at least I had hoped that was the case.  But

Mulder's never that lucky.

"I'm right here, partner.  Just take it easy.  The ambulance is on the way."

"Mackey?"

"Don't worry about Mackey right now.  He won't get far," I tell him.  It's

a lie, of course, and we both know it.  In theory, I should be chasing

after Mackey.  

I still don't understand it all, but I figured it out when I arrived.

Mackey was the killer, all along.  Not Enoch.  Gracie was right.  Her

father was trying to save her.  

I should be going after him.  But not when Mulder is suffering like this.

I'm not going anywhere.

A tremor runs through him, under my hand.  His hand flails again, and this

time I catch it in mid-air.  He clenches his fingers tightly around my own,

holding on as if it will stop the pain.  I wish I could take his pain,

right now.  

He screws up his face, which is already swelling along his jaw.  I brush

the hair away from his forehead.

"I know, Mulder," I tell him.  "I know it hurts.  But the ambulance will be

here soon and they know to expect snake bites."

"Not just hurts," he says, his face a grimace and he looks like he's just

tasted two-week-old milk.  "Tastes bad."

I was just reading up on this last night, I should remember.  An entire web

page devoted to snake bites and their treatment.  Frantically, I search my

mind and it comes to me.  "Like metal?" I ask him.

He nods and winces again.

"That's part of it, Mulder.  It's caused by the venom.  Do you feel sick?

Do you need to throw up?"

He shakes his head and closes his eyes.  "Hard . . . to breathe."

"They'll start you on oxygen, first thing," I promise.  He nods again and

then seems to drift off.  I notice that the small ring of ink around one of

the bites is now a good quarter inch inside the circle of swelling.  This

is not good.  Where the hell is that ambulance?

"Is he God-fearing?"

The voice startles me and I turn to see O'Connor, sitting up against the

wall, blood-soaked towel still clamped to his shoulder.

"What?" I ask, even though I heard the question.

"Is he a God-fearing man?  Does he believe?"

"He's a good man.  That's all that matters," I reply, not wanting to be

baited into an argument of 'Saved vs. Unsaved'.

"Then God will attend him," O'Connor says almost casually.  

Mulder is still grasping my hand, so I know he's not completely

unconscious.  His chest is rising in hitches now, it's getting harder and

harder for him to draw air into his lungs.  My own panic is a solid mass,

just where I swallow.  There are at least two separate bite marks on his

throat, the swelling could close off his airway if help doesn't arrive

soon.  I strain my ears for the sound of the siren.

There is nothing left in the realm of science for me to do.  I turn to the

only thing I have left.

I pray.

"The Lord is my Shepherd," O'Connor starts out quiet, almost a whisper,

mimicking my own thoughts.

"There is nothing I shall want," I whisper to myself.  

The ambulance arrives just as the three of us walk in the Shadow of the

Valley of Death.  I fully intend to follow Mulder wherever he might go.

The attendants are professionals, even in this small, rural county.  In

minutes, they have Mulder on the stretcher, oxygen mask running full open,

a large bore IV needle in each arm.  They are talking to the hospital on

their radio, I can see by their faces that they're concerned.  One of them

notes the scribbles on Mulder's collar and looks up at me, questioning.

"I'm a doctor.  I marked that about seven minutes after the attack."

He smiles at me, gives me a wink.  "Good work.  It might save his life."

I swallow down my urge to break into sobs.  I just nod.

 

I should be used to ambulance rides with Mulder, but some things just never

settle in.  This time I'm not in the back, I'm trailing behind.  O'Connor

needs medical attention as much as Mulder, although the bleeding from his

shoulder wound has stopped.  Two's company, three's over the weight limit.

As they were loading them both into the ambulance, I could still see

Enoch's mouth moving, saying words that I couldn't hear.  I know he's still

praying.  I wonder if he's praying for Mulder's soul.  I wanted to ask that

of him, but one of the EMTs closed the door before I had a chance.

I can just make out the ambulance ahead of me, the cloud of dust from the

road obscuring my vision.  It's been a dry fall and winter.  I wonder what

that means to snakes.

We hit the paved road and I feel like pushing the pedal to the floor, feel

like passing the ambulance just so that I'm not trailing it any longer.

Like getting there will somehow make the journey end that much faster.  Put

an end to the agony of waiting.

I'm going crazy trying not to think of what is happening in the back of the

ambulance.  By now, I'm sure they've started O'Connor on an IV, replacing

the blood lost with Ringer's or straight saline.  He'll be stable, that I'm

sure of.  But it's Mulder's condition that has me terrified.

I read about snake bites, more than I really ever wanted to know.  I know

how old Iris died.  Twenty-seven bites, mostly from pit vipers and

copperheads.  Twenty-seven injection sites for venom so deadly it caused

massive coronary and respiratory failure.  Iris was dead before the EMTs

could load her on the stretcher.  

Iris had fewer bites than Mulder.

But Iris was an old woman, frail of health, if her medical chart is to be

believed.  Not at all like Mulder, who is younger, in good condition.  Who

has experienced hypothermic shock on more than one occasion, who just three

months ago was lying catatonic and near comatose in a neurology ward.  Who

almost died while I was tearing around, trying to find the answers to

questions first posed in my Baltimore Catechism, some 30 years ago.  'Who

made me?  God made me.  God made me to love him, honor him and serve him in

this world.'  Not aliens from space, Mulder.  God.  God made the heavens

and the Earth.

Sometimes, it hurts when he says the things he does.  The way he so

callously brushes aside the tenents of my faith.  There is a hell of a lot

of difference between handling snakes and transubstantiation, but to

Mulder, they are one in the same.  The opiate of the masses, forever cast

in doubt by the stars above us.

I know that my own skepticism has caused him equal pain, but I try very

hard not to make it personal.  I try to separate my disdain for the belief

system from the man.  I may not believe in aliens, but I believe in Fox

Mulder.  

I believe him even when he tells me he won't leave me.

We're on the outskirts of town now.  Only a few blocks to the hospital.

Same hospital where I performed Iris' autopsy, got to see the damage caused

by the twenty or more snakes up close and personal.

The ambulance skids to a stop in the parking bay and becomes the center of

a hurricane of activity.  I'm directed to a parking lot on the other side

of the two story building.

By the time I find the Emergency Department, I'm accosted by the desk

nurse, directing me to Admissions.  I pull out Mulder's insurance card, the

copy I finally had Benefits send down to me, and reluctantly take a seat in

front of one of the tiny cubicles resplendent with a three year old PC and

a gum-chomping 'service representative'.  It takes a good fifteen minutes

to go through the various hoops and hurtles, assuring the Board of

Directors of Blessing General Hospital that the federal government, through

it's most recent contract with our insurance carrier, will pay in full all

of the charges resulting in Agent Mulder's latest line of duty injury.

Or I will know why.

This time, there is no wiggle room.  This time, it was by the book.  Mulder

was in the process of apprehending a suspect, caught the subject in the

midst of commiting a capital offense, disarmed said subject, only to be

attacked, with malice, by the intended victim.  This report almost writes

itself.  Right up to the part where the attacker's weapon turned out to be

50 or so assorted poisonous snakes.

I'll worry about the report later.  Much later.

I wander through the rabbit burrow that is a small hospital grown a little

bigger, and find where Mulder was.  He's not there any more, I'm informed

by the perky nurse that Agent Mulder has been taken down to X Ray and

should be back shortly.

I sit down in the vacant curtained cubicle.  It know it's Mulder's because

his clothes are lying on the counter, dried blood dotting the white shirt,

my own frantic ink scratchings marring the collar.  I pick them up, idly

folding the pants so the crease stays, making sure his wallet is in the

back pocket.  His gun, the ankle holster, isn't there, but neither is his

ID.  I'll have to remember to ask the nurse for them, since I'm sure they

are now secured in the small safe under the desk.

There is nothing to do but wait.  I could sit and try to figure out how to

get the bloodstains out of Mulder's good pants, but that's pretty futile.

He'll more than likely tell me to toss them.  The man has to spend a small

fortune on clothes.  Not that my wardrobe doesn't go through a regular

replacement, and not just when the seasons change.  Still, I can't help but

think Mulder must be hiding a secret trust fund somewhere.  Or an Uncle who

happens to be a New York tailor.

I hate this part.  He's being cared for, he's being supervised, and yet I'm

itching all over, the pain of separation is that tangible.  I should be

using this time to my advantage, calling Skinner and the Benefits

department.  Making sure the 'out of network' providers are accounted for

and his own physician, who has only seen him for follow-up visits, is

getting started on the necessary referrals.

But I do none of that very important scut work.

I could be putting my thoughts together, organizing what happened today in

some logical manner so that I can dutifully regurgitate it onto the word

processor of my laptop, whenever the hell I get back to the motel.  If the

hospital is policy minded, that will be later this evening.  If they really

are 'small-town friendly' like their bill board on the way into town

announces, they might let me stay the night in the inevitable easy chair I

always manage to find in the intensive care units of every hospital Mulder

has every patronized.

I don't mind putting off this case.  Not for the obvious reasons.  I hate

cases where Christianity plays a role.  I used to hate the abduction cases,

then it was anything with EBE overtones.  But lately, those don't bother me

half as much as when Mulder looks me in the eye and spits on my religion.

Why does it bother me so?  He regularly spits on science and I blithefully

turn the other cheek.  Why is it when the Faith of My Fathers comes under

attack that I invariably want to run and hide.  Or slug him in the jaw.

Maybe it's because I still feel a little unsure.  Not in my faith, I've

made my peace with what I saw or didn't see in Africa.  But with my

balance.  How I manage to walk the line between faith and science and throw

Mulder on top for good measure.  He becomes the focus point for my

insecurities and in no small way, when I get angry at his insensitivity,

I'm really angry at myself for letting it get to me.  It's a vicious

circle.  A snake, devouring itself.  

Boy, what a really rotten time for that image to flash in my mind.

Fortunately, my horizontal partner draws my attention away from my own

failings and back onto him, where it belongs.  The gurney is pushed noisily

back in the cubicle, with no less than two nurses and a doctor in tow.  IV

bags are hung from poles and a blood pressure cuff is connected to the

machine I just noticed sitting against the far curtained wall, a full

oxygen mask is hiding his face from the world.  But his breathing seems

better.

"Are you Sally?" Asks the tall gentleman with a lab coat and a stethoscope

hanging haphazardly from his neck.

It takes me a moment to process the question.  I'm too busy checking all

the monitors now hooked up and recording my partner's inner workings.  And

not so inner workings.

"I'm sorry.  What did you say?" I reply stupidly.  I hate to sound so

dazed, but the question definitely wasn't one I was expecting.

"He keeps asking for Sally.  His wife, maybe?" The man offers, before

turning to accept a clipboard of lab results from a third nurse.  The

cubicle is getting a bit crowded now.

"No, there's no one named 'Sally'," I assure him.  "My name is Dana Scully.

 I'm his partner.  And his next of kin," I add, just to show the validity

of my presence in the cubicle.  If any body is going to be leaving, I just

want to make sure it's not me.

One of the nurses smiles and elbows the doctor in the ribs.  "See, I told

you he wasn't saying 'Sally'," she teases, then gives me a wink.

"How's he doing?"  I suspect he's stable, their actions are professional,

but not hurried or frantic.

"Well, the good news is, he escapes surgery.  No fangs imbedded in the

derma, no necrosis that I can see at the moment.  Of course, it's still

only a little over one and a half hours since onset.  But we'll watch him

closely.  We're becoming pretty proficient at treating envenomation."

He checks a few of the monitors and realizes that I'm not satisfied with

the report.  "We started him on Antivenin, he seems to be tolerating it

well.  We also have him on Benedryl IV, but so far, he isn't exhibiting an

allergic reaction to the Antivenin.  We're really lucking out in that

regard.  And we're starting him on Ceftriaxone, an antibiotic, which should

head off any problems . . ."

"How about the pain?" I blurt out.  I know all the rest of the information

is important, and later, I'll want to know the dosages of each and every

medication he's on, but for now, I just see the tight lines around his

closed eyes and the way his fists are still clenched at his sides.

"Duramoph, IV."

He waits, I guess expecting me to interrupt him again, but this time, I

hold my tongue.  He's doing his job, he's actually doing a very good job,

and I don't need to start second guessing him.

"We'll move him up to ICU in a few minutes.  I'm holding off on a

transfusion for now, but that might change before the night's over."

"In case he starts bleeding," I murmur.

"You seem rather well-informed, for an Fed," the doctor says behind a

smile.  "I heard a rumor that you're a doctor."

"I'm a forensic pathologist," I answer.

"I don't think he'll be needing one of those," the doctor says with a wink.

 "Why don't you go get some lunch, it's almost 2 now.  We'll get him

settled in a room and then you can read the chart for yourself."

I didn't think I was that transparent.

end of part one

Vickie

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

http://vickiemoseley.freeservers.com

From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>

Only the Righteous (2 of 2)

By Vickie Moseley

Vmoseley@fgi.net

Disclaimed in part one

Several hours later, I'm sitting in the easy chair next to Mulder's bed,

reading his chart for the thousandth time.  I've done my duty, made all the

appropriate calls to DC and the locals.  

Skinner was in a meeting, until Kim told him it was me and why I was

calling.  I'm still a little confused by his concern, alternating with

total disregard, sometimes in the same day, but I'm learning to take it in

stride.  Today, it was all concern.  'Take as much time as you need.

Regular reports on his condition.'  In short, I can stay as long as Mulder

needs to stay.  For all his faults, I have to appreciate the fact that when

one of is sick or injured, he doesn't hassle us about time.

I regard my partner for the one billionth time.  The oxygen mask has been

replaced by a nasal cannula, not that Mulder will appreciate the

difference. He hates them both.  And he will not be any happier to find IVs

in both arms, right at his wrist.  Mulder talks with his hands, but if he

tries that now, he'll be macrame.  If I'm really lucky, the morphine will

keep him foggy enough so he won't remember the catheter or the heart

monitor, both of which are banes to his existence.  In short, I hope he

keeps sleeping.

Of course, my hope isn't doing much today.  He moves in his sleep and I

look over to his face.  His head turns from side to side and he's waking

up.  He'll be groggy, he always is on heavy narcotics.  But I brace myself

for the questions.

"Scully?"  

It's slurred and I can understand where the 'Sally' mistake would have been

an easy one to make.  His hand reaches forward, even though his eyes are

still closed.  I lean toward the bed and catch his hand, giving it a light

squeeze.  For some odd reason, his right hand was unbitten.  His right

forearm is another matter.  There are defensive wounds all over his arms.

When our hands connect, he struggles to open his eyes.  They are blurry,

not focused, and it takes him a minute to find me in the room, even though

I'm less than two feet from his face.

"I'm right here, Mulder.  It's OK.  You're in the hospital."

"Again," he says dourly.

I have to smile at that.  At least he's cognizant enough to figure out this

is not his normal habitat.  Or it shouldn't be.

"Mackey?"

Again, Mackey.  I was on the phone to the local sheriff right after I

talked to Skinner.  Still no sign of the 'man of the cloth.'  He seems to

have disappeared without a trace.  I know better, but I refuse to get

involved in the manhunt.  I have other duties to perform.  Besides, I have

a sneaking suspicion Mackey won't be that easy to find.

"He's still missing, Mulder.  But you shouldn't be worrying about that

right now.  Just rest, let the medicine work."

"They won't find him," he says with more conviction that I thought he could

muster with that much morphine in his system.

"Don't worry about that," I chide him.

He moves his shoulders, hitting a sore spot almost immediately.  I glance

at the bag above his bed.  The duramorph should be knocking him out for the

count.  He's fighting it and I have to make him stop.

"Mulder, it's over.  Gracie is going to be fine.  They stopped the

bleeding.  And her father will be released in a day or two."

"What happened at the church . . . Signs and Wonders?" He rasps out the

words between deep breaths.  This whole conversation is too much for him,

but I know him.  He's relentless, especially when in ICU.

"The sheriff took O'Connor's statement.  He claims Gracie gave birth to

snakes, Mulder.  It's not possible, but he keeps repeating it.  I don't

know if we'll even find out the truth."

Mulder's quiet, and for a brief moment, his eyes blink shut and stay that

way.  I let my self hope that he's fallen back asleep.  Like that would

ever happen.

"I think he's right, Scully.  Snakes were there . . . in the church.

Snakes were . . ."   Eyes still closed, he drifts off and I'm not sure

whether he was talking about the snake trails we saw at the church in the

backwoods, or the ones he encountered at the church in Blessing.  Either

way, I know it's time to end this topic of discussion.

"How's the pain?"

He shrugs one shoulder upward and regrets it immediately.  "Bad."  If he's

admitting that to me, it's got to be very bad.

"Try to go back to sleep, Mulder.  Sleep is the best thing for you."

He nods his head once, and I'm surprised beyond belief when he takes my

advice.  In minutes, his hand is slack in mine.  I should let it drop to

the bed, let him rest.  But I don't.  I need this time, this quiet place

where he's asleep and safe, relatively speaking.

This was a simple case.  I didn't sense any danger on the flight down to

Tennessee.  I didn't get any bad dreams during our stay.  We should be

sitting in the airport, waiting for our return flight home.  I should be

ragging him for losing the rental agreement again.  He should be trying to

coerce me into inviting him over for pizza and a movie while we hammer out

our reports.

It seems like a lot of our cases have been ending this way lately.  With

Mulder in the care of medical professionals.   I would say that he's been

reckless, but it's not true.  In all honesty, most of the times he's been

injured lately, like falling through the floor of an old Chicago apartment

or getting winged by a bullet or attacked by dead cult members . . . Most

of those times he was going by the book.  I can't be next to him every

minute of the day and it seems that even when I _am_ next to him, he gets

hurt.

Maybe he hasn't been reckless.  Maybe his luck has just started to run out.

That thought alone makes me shudder.  Mulder's luck, though I would never

in a million years admit it to him, is a constant I rely on.  The luck that

I will get there in time, or more often than not that _he_ will get there

in time, and that both of us will be able to walk away.  Maybe a little

battered, banged and bruised, but still on our feet, still ready for the

fight.

It's ridiculous, but it all seems to have started last fall when he got

sick.  After he was returned . . . No.  I refuse to follow that line of

warped reasoning.  We're just had some bad breaks, it doesn't really mean

anything.  

Besides, he's just escaped a potentially fatal situation.  He's doing

rather well, considering what he went through.  I can relax.

The door to the room opens and one of the night nurses sticks her head in.

"Agent Scully, there's a bed in the back of the nurses lounge.  Why don't

you try to get some sleep."  She says it in that Southern Hospitality drawl

everyone seems to have here.

I hesitate, and she sees it.

"He's doing really well.  And I know you can use the sleep.  I promise,

I'll come get you if there is any change."

I usually don't leave him the first night, it's just something I don't do.

I'm not sure when it started, but I think it might have been when he was

shot way back years ago in North Carolina.  I had to sit outside the ICU,

they only let me in to see him for ten minutes every hour.  It was a long

night.  Since then, I whip out my ID and bully my way into staying with

him.  It almost always works.

But I have to admit, I'm exhausted.  This case has been long days and long

nights and I'm just too tired to think straight.  This chair is starting to

hurt my back.  A bed, even a lumpy-back-of-the-nurses-lounge cot sounds

like heaven.

"I'll take you up on that," I finally tell her and she beams like I just

told her she won the lottery.

The nurses lounge is at the other end of the hall, in the regular ward.

It's tucked away in a corner, was probably a patient room or even a ward at

one time.  There's a bathroom where I scrub my face, run my fingers through

my hair.  I'd kill for a toothbrush.  There's a knock on the door and my

nurse friend, who's name is Kristen, smiles at me and hands me a patient

pack, like everyone gets on admittance.

"Not much in there, but there's a fake toothbrush, some toothpaste and a

comb.  If you want to take a shower . . ."

"I don't think I could stand up that long," I offer and she laughs.

"Well, there are extra blankets in the cabinet.  You can hang your clothes

there, if you want.  There's some spare scrubs, too.  Just make yourself at

home."

"Thank you, Kristen.  You're the greatest."

Her smile turns up a couple hundred watts.  "I'll let you get to sleep.

Don't let the bed bugs bite."

I must have fallen asleep before my head hit the pillow.  But now my

shoulder is being shaken, and my name is sounding loud in my ear.

"Agent Scully.  Wake up.  You're needed in ICU."

For a good 60 seconds, I'm transported back to medical school and I'm

trying to remember what patients I had during my residency that had been

admitted to Intensive Care.  Then it all floods back to me.

"Mulder!"

It isn't Kristen, it's another nurse.  "Dr. Yates is with him.  They said

to get you."  Then, she's gone.

I look out the window, it's still pitch black.  I squint at my watch, I'd

never taken it off.  It's 3:45 am.

I run down the hall and plow through the double doors to ICU.  I can hear

the commotion, even this far away.  A heart monitor is screaming, along

with other assorted beeps and dings and bells and whistles.  Whatever

Mulder is doing, he's doing it full tilt.  I skid to a stop as I reach the

door.

The crash cart is next to his bed and my own heart stops.  I'm pushed aside

as Kristen appears, carrying a bag of medicine.  Yates is injecting

something into Mulder's chest.  Oh God, it hits me.  He's gone into

anaphylactic shock.

"I'd hoped we had avoided this," a man I've never seen before says to me as

I stand in the doorway.  "I'm Denny Yates, I was assigned Agent Mulder here

when I came on shift."

"Are you a resident?" I ask, and my own voice sounds foreign to my ears.

Dr. Yates ignores me at first, barking orders to Kristen and the other

nurse, another person I've never seen before.  Calls for stronger

antihistamines and steroids.  One of the nurses is changing the nasal

cannula for a full oxygen mask.  Finally he looks back to me.

"Uh, yeah.  Third year.  I've put a call into Dr. Peterson, but he lives

over in Nelson's Holler and probably won't get here for another half hour

or so."  He looks a little defensive.

"That's all right.  I'm sure you're doing everything humanly possible," I

assure him.  The last thing I want is to have him second guessing what he's

been trained to do.  It seems this hospital specializes in snake bites, and

since I know almost nothing about them, I'm more than willing to bow to

their expertise.

"I'm starting him on steroids.  We've had him on Benadryl but it wasn't a

strong enough dose, apparently.  Has he had respiratory problems recently?"

I realize I'm being asked a question.  "He was very sick, just a few months

ago.  But it wasn't respiratory."

"What was it?" Yates asks, watching as the epi shot takes effect and the

heart monitor calms down.  The unnamed nurse is back with a syringe, which

Yates injects an IV port.  

"Excuse me?"  I'm too engrossed in what actions they're taking, I'm not

really listening to what is being said.

"What was wrong with him?  This fall?  You said it wasn't respiratory, but

it might be related.  What was it?"

I lick my lips self-consciously.  "It was neurological."

Yates looks over at me, taking that in.  "It could be a factor, but I doubt

it would require a change in protocol."

I shake my head firmly.  "No, I don't think it would change what you're

doing.  And besides," I say with a nod toward the heart monitor, "it seems

to be working."

The doctor watches the monitors for a moment, then writes something on the

chart.  "For now.  But I think we need to be on our toes tonight.  There

are other complications we need to be looking for.  I don't want to have

him sneak up and start bleeding."

My stomach drops.  Here I was thinking everything was under control, and in

actual fact, it's as far from that as it could be.

"May I stay?" I ask.  I know I sound timid, but I'm too close to tears to

worry about it.

A shrug, then "I guess," are his reply.  I settle back into the chair I'd

vacated just five hours ago.  I walk the chair closer to the bed so I can

hold Mulder's hand through the rail.

It's been five hours since I really looked at him.  The venom has been

continuing to work, though I imagine it's now fighting a  battle with the

horse serum in his blood stream.  All the bite marks look like bruises, and

there's a mottled look to his skin overall.  There is still some swelling,

especially around his chin and along his jaw line.  He  looks like he's

getting a case of the mumps.

His breathing is noisy under the mask.  Each breath hitches in his chest

before it releases the exchange of gases.  I chew on my lip, and bite down

a little with every breath he takes.

Mulder, why can't you get a break these days?

It's dark in the room, only the night light over the sink against the wall

giving any illumination.  The shadows are deep.  I close my eyes and hold

on to his hand, letting the warm of his touch reassure me that's he's still

there, asleep, but still with me.

"Miracles don't jest happ'n.  Some of 'em take some work."

The words, rough and booming, startle me and I jump as I open my eyes.

Enoch O'Connor is leaning against the door frame, wearing a hospital gown

with another thrown over his shoulders as a robe.

"Rev. O'Connor, you should be in bed," I warn him.

"I was.  I was dreamin'.  There was a lamb, strayed off the path.  Got

hisself caught up in the brambles.  A little girl was tryin' to lead him

out, but he was too stubborn to listen.  He just kept strugglin' and

gettin' more tangled.  I woke up and knew I was needed."

I sigh.  I'm too tired to deal with this man right now.  "Rev. O'Connor, as

much as I appreciate your concern . . ."

"You said he was a good man.  I believe ya.  But that don't mean he don't

need help."

"Rev. O'Connor, right now all my partner needs is medical attention and

he's getting that.  Really, it's all right.  Go on back to bed."

"Prayer is a powerful weapon, missy.  You'd do right to learn that."

I bite my lip to hold back a sharp reply.  With overt patience, I answer.

"I know about prayer, Rev. O'Connor.  I believe in it's power.  But Mulder

. . ."

O'Connor laughs lightly and shakes his head.  "Don't matter none what _he_

thinks.  Prayer don't work that way.  He won't know and I figger, he won't

much care, neither."

He steps to the foot of the bed and puts a worn leather Bible on top of the

covers by Mulder's feet.  Then he pulls his glasses from the shirt pocket

of the hospital gown and puts them on.  He opens the book with exaggerated

reverence and turns the pages lovingly until he finds what he's looking for.

"To Thee, O Lord, I call;

My rock, do not be deaf to me

Lest, if Thou be silent to me, 

I become like those who go down to the pit.

Hear the voice of my supplications

When I cry to Thee for help,

When I lift up my hands toward Thy holy sanctuary.

Do not drag me away with the wicked

And with those who work iniquity;

Who speak peace with their neighbors,

While evil is in their hearts."**

I listen to his voice raise and lower with the emotion of his words.  I

wonder if he's praying for Mulder, or praying for himself.  I close my eyes

and my prayers join O'Connor's.  When I look up, the first rays of the

morning are peeking through the blinds and the reverend is gone from the room.

I know in my mind that it's been hours since Mulder was started on the

medication he's receiving.  Long enough for a marked change in his

condition.  

And there has been a change.  His breathing is slower, easier.  He sounds

like he just fell asleep on my couch watching the last quarter of a blow

out Redskins game.  The swelling in his face isn't as pronounced.  The

bruises are still there, but they have lost some of their color.  

He looks better.  He sounds better.  

He turns his head toward mine and blinks his eyes open.

"Mornin' sunshine," he drawls in a hoarse whisper.

It makes me smile, but I feel the tears streaming down my cheeks.

"Scully, I didn't mean to make you cry," he says, reaching out a finger to

wipe the tear off my chin.

"The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, Mulder," I tease him.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I went twenty rounds with a hundred rabid staple pullers," he mocks me.

"Not far off," I tell him.  "Should I call the nurse?  I know the pain has

to be bad."

He nods and shifts uncomfortably.  As I rise, he grabs my hand.

"Scully, what I said about . . . About Communion wafers.  It was out of

line and I'm sorry."

I stare at him, confused, but say nothing.

"I should learn to keep my mouth shut.  I shouldn't tease you.  I'm glad

you have your faith.  I'm glad you're so strong in it.  Sometimes, I think

your faith is strong enough for the both of us."

I bring his hand to my lips and lightly kiss the knuckles.  "Thank you,

Mulder.  I accept your apology."  I hold his hand for a moment, then lower

it gently to the bed.  "I better go get the nurse."

His voice stops me at the door.  "Hey, Scully?"

I turn, waiting.

"Keep the faith," he grins at me like a Cheshire Cat.

"Always, Mulder.  Always."

The end.

**Psalm 28

Vickie

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