Title: Bovine Dreams of Flight Author: Vickie Moseley Summary: Finally, a little MT from the episode 'Rain King'. Finished: April 10, 1999 Category: V H MT (mild) UST (safe for all) Rating: PG, naughty language alert. Disclaimer: I don't, you do, I didn't, don't sue :) Archives: Yes. Comments to vmoseley@fgi.net. I had such high hopes for this episode They just sort of ignored the potential. Bovine Dreams of Flight by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net "What was the nature of your injury and the circumstances of the accident." God damn it, Scully, you know how much I hate these damned medical forms. All right, I'll admit it's not so bad since you did a bunch up on the computer and now all I have to do is fill in the stuff about the incident and not all the 'rote' shit like name, date of birth, and Social Security Number. But I can't understand why the Benefits people need to know the rest of this shit. Just to get their jollies, I'll bet. It's the best time they have, reading our medical insurance claim forms. Bet they had a field day with the stuff we turned in on our return from McMurdo Station last summer. Cretins. OK, 'nature of injury'. That's simple. A four inch gash running the length of my left arm, numerous bruises and, what's the word you like so much? Oh, yeah, 'contusions'. Numerous contusions. That sounds downright impressive. Numerous contusions on my legs and . . . should I mention that bruise the shape of Canada on my right hip? Nah, that's just what they love to see. Forget it, it's almost gone now anyway. So, a cut that needed seven stitches, and a bunch of bruises. Hell, for me, that's a _good_ day! No concussion, no seizures, no defibrillation. I should be the FBI Health Benefits employee of the month if this keeps up! Of course, the mental stress will go unrecorded. Yeah, Scully, mental stress. You try laying under a pile of rubble, wondering if your legs are still attached to your body, while listening to you partner, the partner who has been by your side for six years, screaming 'Oh my God, Mulder, what the HELL did you do now?' Don't deny it, Scully. You were woken out of a sound sleep and all you could think about was that _I_ had done it. _I_ caused the crash, _I_ caused the explosion of water when the beam from the rafter hit the copper piping and severed it. _I_ had done it all. And better yet, I had done all of the above for the express purpose of _waking you up_. Oh, yeah, Scully. I heard it in your voice. You did redeem yourself later. You always do. After the 'do you know what time it is, Mulder' speech, you always make up for it by saving my life or keeping me out of the electric chair or some other heroic feat that means I can not in all good conscious stay mad at you. I'm forced to swallow, take the hit and then, to put icing on the cake, I have to be grateful. Not that I'm not grateful. Not at all. It's just that once I'd like to point out to you that I _don't_ do this stuff on purpose. Well, OK, so letting the mad Doctor Goldstein drill holes in my head was my idea. But a cow through the ceiling? No, not in my wildest dreams would I come up with that one. Even you can't accuse me of that. It was scary, lying there, Scully. Damned scary. The stupid cow didn't knock me out, but she did knock the wind out me. And the stuff that landed on me, well, I didn't know at the time that it was all wedged in the frame of the bed. I thought I couldn't feel my legs because they weren't attached. I didn't know that it was because they weren't really injured. The bruises were from falling on my tennis shoes. There, OK? I admit it. It I weren't such a slob, I would have avoided the bruises. But not the gash. That was the metal piece that held up the drop ceiling. That was sharp. And there was a lot of blood, Scully. I like to bleed when I'm unconscious. Well, not exactly like, but prefer it to the alternative. When I bleed while I'm awake, it looks like I'm bleeding to death. You couldn't get to me, I couldn't get my hand out from under all the ceiling tiles, my arm was right there, in front of my face, and I thought for all the world that my legs had been severed and I had cut through an artery in my arm and I was going to bleed to death before any one could get to me. All because of a cow. There is _no_ way I'm putting down the facts of the accident in this report. Come on, Scully, even you know that they would make multiple copies and paste the damned thing on every bathroom mirror in every regional office in the country. Fifteen minutes after I turn the damned form in, it will be on the internet, e-mailed to more people than the Melissa virus. I can't tell them what happened. I can't. And since you're still pissed at me, you won't. Jeez, Scully, you realize what kind of a position you've put me in, don't you? I mean, for the last five, no scratch that, six years you've filled these forms out for me. Now, all of a sudden, you've decided to get all huffy about it and you're making me fill them out on my own. But Scully, there's a real problem here. They will notice the difference! I don't use the same words you do. You tell of my injuries like a doctor would, using all those great medical terms like contusions and lacerations and sutures and hypovolemia (I really loved that one, didn't like living it, but the word looks _great_ on a form). I, on the other hand, use words like cuts, bruises, stitches, bleeding to death. See, none of them sound that great. They sound so ordinary. And so people skim over them and get to the part that is just too embarrassing to think of. How in the hell do I put down that a cow fell on me? Not only fell on me, fell through a shingled roof, a joist, three beams and a drop ceiling to fall on me. Poor Gertrude. That was her name, I found out. Gertrude. Gertrude the Guernsey. Did you know that Gerty never took a steroid or hormone in her whole career as a dairy cow? That Gerty was reknown through out the county for her higher than normal fat content in the milk and cream she gave? That Gerty has five blue ribbons from the county fair adorning the walls of her stall? The stall she'll never see again. She didn't deserve to die a flying death dropped from well over a hundred yards up in the air. But I understand the steaks were fantastic! Oh, God, Scully, I _can't_ do this. But if I don't, they won't pay the ambulance that drove all the way out to the motel to find that all I needed was some stitches, some gauze and a couple of extra strength Tylenol. I can't believe that comes to $650. Here goes nothing. "The injury occurred when a bovine mammal was sucked into a vortex and deposited through the roof of the structure the agent was occupying. Said bovine ruptured the ceiling of the structure, causing substantial damage to the structure, but relatively minimal damage to the agent. After considerable time had elapsed, the agent's partner successfully removed several pieces of debris and freed the agent from the ruin of the room he was occupying. Emergency Medical Technicians on the scene cleaned and sutured the four inch gash on the agent's arm and probed all other contusions and lacerations for any residual debris. The agent was treated on the scene and released to aforementioned partner's medical supervision. Agent was deemed well enough to return to work after a much needed shower." Oh, God, Scully, that is never going to fly! OK, I have a better idea. I'll grovel. I'll do the expense reports for this case and four more just like it. I'll do the next fifty background checks and you can file your nails for all I care. I'll cover for you when you and your mom decide to hit the mall and you don't get back to work for an hour and a half. And, yes, I will be at work, at my stupid little desk, in the middle of the bull pit . . . on time, for the next month. I can see by the smile on your face, Scully, you're caving. And believe me, I am eternally grateful. the end