Author: Jvantheterrible
Date: September 13th, 2000
Rating: R, for language and M/M affection
Disclaimer: The boys belong to CC and Co.
Not mine, I just play with them for no profit and turn them back in after a
long, hard...oh, use your imagination. No copyright infringement intended.
Author’s Notes: I told you I had ideas, dammit.
Thanks to amokeh for being amokeh. I dedicate this story to my two years of
Criminal Justice college classes. I didn’t have the “Right Stuff” to be a cop,
but I paid attention.
Feedback: Welcomed to Rllnlsvr@aol.com.
Life’s really too short for flames, isn’t it?
*************************************************
People who are in law enforcement often dread getting
phone calls in the middle of the night. Those of us with the FBI are no
exception, especially when our loved ones are away on business. It’s not enough
to know that there is a gun at your hip, and most likely another one at your
ankle. Shit happens, and sometimes the good guys just aren’t as wired as the
bad guys - just aren’t as fast. Hell, sometimes it has nothing to DO with a gun
- guns can’t always help us out of situations. Bad things happen all the time.
Good things happen too, of course - just not as often.
It’s not just guns, and it’s not just law enforcement
officials who suffer the malady of those calls. But we DO have a firmer grip on
it, because we are the ones that have to deal with it firsthand. Sure, we may
have to go tell a parent that their son or daughter is dead, and yes, it’s a
horrible thing. I’m just not sure it’s AS horrible as finding said son or
daughter with their face suctioned to a windshield because they were out
partying and someone forgot to designate a driver. Couldn’t be as bad as
finding said child raped and mutilated beyond identification out in the middle
of nowhere, bound and obviously tortured before death. It’s one thing to be
told that your loved one is dead. It’s another thing completely to SEE it in
person. The finality of it...it’s unreal.
The point I’m getting at here is this; being in law
enforcement, you KNOW what that call in the middle of the night means. And instantly,
every horrible fucking thing that you’ve experienced in however many years
you’ve been in the business comes to you two-fold, haunting you all at once
before you even know what has actually happened. Before the voice even comes
over the phone, all the blood and gore and the worst things that you can
imagine come to mind. Thank God that most of the families of the bodies I’ve
found never SAW what happened to their loved ones. But I have. I’ve seen it,
and I know what death REALLY looks like. It’s not angels and harps and choirs.
It’s red and gory and thick and grotesque and stench-filled and insect-ridden.
It’s the residual horror that you can see in their faces, sometimes still
frozen there in effigy to their suffering.
And so it is that final image that greets me when my phone
rings at 2:24 am. I’m not fully awake, yet already I am aware that Mulder is
out on business, I’m alone, it’s dark, and the phone should not be ringing
right now. If everything was alright, the phone would most certainly not be
ringing. But the phone is most certainly ringing. And I most definitely don’t
want to answer it.
**************************************************
“Skinner,” I mutter into the phone, eyes closed tightly
against the voice on the other end. Perhaps if I close my eyes hard enough,
this will turn out to be a dream and everything will be fine. Maybe it’s even
Mulder, calling to tell me that he got a break in the case and he’s on his way
home. What if it’s not Mulder? What if it’s the coroner, or a cop at some
scene, and they’ve just identified him from his dental records? All these
things buzz around my head before the person on the other end of the line has
uttered a sound. Images swim violently around, making me open my eyes and
concentrate on the darkness, trying to clear my mind of the last twenty years
of crime scenes.
“Mr. Skinner?” A female voice asks, then continues without
waiting for my reply. “This is Nurse Goldstein at the Georgetown Medical
Center.” She pauses then. Is there really a need for a dramatic fucking pause
at this time of the night?
“Yes,” I prompt her, verbally kicking her ass into gear so
she can tell me what the hell is going on.
“Mr. Skinner, there’s been an accident. You are listed as
the emergency contact for a...let’s see, I just had the file here...yes, here
it is. A Mr. Fox Mulder has you listed as his contact. Do you know Mr. Mulder?”
“Yes,” I say through clenched teeth, “I know Fox. What’s
happened?” If I could reach through the phone and shake this idiotic woman by the
shoulders, I would. I’m not normally a violent person, but it’s the middle of
the fucking night and the HOSPITAL is asking if I know Fox Mulder. I keep my
voice even, against the lump that formed in my throat almost immediately when
the phone rang as I ask her again, louder, “What’s happened to Mulder?”
“There’s been an accident, Mr. Skinner. We’d like you to
come down as soon as you can,” she says, then stops again.
FOR WHAT, YOU STUPID BITCH, I want to scream, TO IDENTIFY
HIS BODY? IS HE DEAD? IS HE SHOT? IS HE MAIMED? IS HE DECAPITATED OR WORSE? I
clear my throat as best as I can and ask her as politely as I can muster, “What
is his condition, Nurse?” I literally hold my breath as I hear her flip through
her fucking papers a little bit, releasing it in a huge whoosh as she informs
me that he’s in extremely serious condition.
“Thank you. I’m on my way,” I tell her before I slam the
phone down into its cradle and hop out of bed, flicking on a lamp and pulling
on jeans and a black crewneck sweater, along with black socks and my boots.
It’s fucking ten degrees outside, with snow and ice. Georgetown Medical Center,
I think to myself as I finish getting dressed and put on my wirerims. He was
almost home. Shit. I shake my head and run downstairs, zip myself into my
bomber jacket, grab my keys, and barely remember to lock the door behind me.
Fox. Hurt. I’m on my way, babe. Hang in there.
*************************************************
The roads are way more treacherous than I imagined. DC in
the winter is no barrel of monkeys, that’s for sure. You just don’t fuck around
with Mother Nature, especially this time of year. You’ve probably seen the
video footage of cars sliding all over the freeway on CNN or the Weather
Channel, and if you haven’t, then you can’t imagine how exciting the drive to
the hospital is. Average rate of speed for this morning tops out at about 20
miles per hour, and that’s really moving. Traction does not exist, and I wonder
where in the fuck all the salt trucks are, nearly sliding into one in my
panicked state, only concerned with getting to the hospital:
A) As fast as I can, and B) In one piece. A drive that
usually takes about half an hour turns into an hour and a half sledding
excursion, but I make it, pulling into the hospital parking garage around 4 am.
I sprint from the garage and nearly fall on my ass as I
hit the icy pavement separating me from the sliding doors; luckily, I manage to
keep my balance and go with the ice-skating idea, which allows me to clumsily
stay upright and more or less fall INTO the doors, rather than ONTO the ground.
Works for me. With a barely audible ‘swoosh’ the doors open and I walk
hurriedly to the front desk.
I don’t know how you can have an ‘Information Desk’ with
no one tending it, but that seems to be the case this morning. After a mere
three minutes I’m ready to start on the first floor and check every room up to
the roof for Mulder, but a janitor walks by and offers to radio someone for me.
I thank him profusely and wait another five minutes for the attendant, a
pimple-faced young man who tells me that Visiting Hours are over at 9:00 pm and
I’ll have to come back tomorrow.
My hands involuntarily clench into fists while I explain
that Nurse Goldstein called me nearly two hours ago to tell me that my friend
had been admitted and to come down right away, which I did, in the ice and
cold, in the middle of the night, and I inform him more than politely that if
he would please go and get the fucking nurse that I would be most grateful. He
appears to understand, and directs me to the sixth floor, which I can only
assume is where they have Mulder. “Thank you, sir,” I tell him as I head for
the elevators and wait ever so patiently for the goddamned car to FINALLY get
to the Lobby level so I can go see Fox. Mulder. The love of my life. Light of
my day. Sunshine of my soul. Sentimental? You bet your ass. My man is in the
hospital and anyone else who gets in my way before I get to his room is in big
trouble. With a capital “T” and that rhymes with “A.D.” and that stands for ME.
(Music Man reference - no copyright infringement intended.)
*************************************************
“This has got to be the the slowest goddamned elevator in
the world,” I mutter aloud to no one as it’s stupid bell clangs for every floor
that it passes, FINALLY depositing me on the sixth floor. Bingo. At least
there’s a nurse at the Nurse’s Station, and I can see from her nametag that it is
the one and only Nurse Goldstein. I unzip my jacket as I approach the desk,
crinkling my nose up a bit at the Clorox smell that inevitably permeates every
inch of the building.
“Nurse, I’m Walter Skinner...you called me about Fox
Mulder. I’m here to see him,” I tell her matter-of-factly, assuming my most
intimidating jaw-clenching hands-on-my-hips stance in case she decides to
inform me that Visiting Hours end at 9:00 pm.
“Mr. Skinner, yes, thank you for coming. He’s been asking
for you. Come with me,” she says, motioning for me to follow her. I sort of
feel bad about the things I was thinking about her earlier - wanting to shake
her until her head rolled off and all - but we can’t really be held accountable
for our thoughts in situations of distress, so I let it go. I follow her up the
hall and around a corner until she stops and points to Fox’s room. Room 615 is
where my lover has ended up this night, instead of in my loving arms. He’s in a
sterile bed, all alone, on a cold and dreary night when he SHOULD be wrapped up
in my arms instead...in OUR bed...safe and sound at home. I nod at Nurse
Goldstein and thank her politely before I open the door and close it gently
behind me, entering the room as silently as I can.
“Oh Christ, Fox,” I murmur softly as I take in his
appearance. I suppose it could be worse, but this is bad enough. Tubes and
bandages and beeping monitors abound, his head wrapped in some kind of
makeshift turban and his face swollen beyond recognition. Well, to most people,
that is. I’ve studied that face for hours on end, with its beautiful prominent
nose and perfectly formed chin; those dark brown eyebrows that frame his
gorgeous hazel eyes - eyes which I wish I could see, but are currently closed
in unconscious rest. Those cheekbones that I’ve spent hours stroking and
kissing, administering lovebites to - it’s my Fox, alright. Battered and
bruised and bedraggled, but he’s here.
He’s black and blue just about everywhere there’s skin
exposed, which unfortunately isn’t very many places. He appears to have a
broken arm, massive head injuries, broken ribs, a broken foot, perhaps a
shattered shin, judging from the cast...but he’s here. Just as I’m ready to
take the chair next to the bed, the door to the room opens and a doctor beckons
me to join him in the hallway.
“Mr. Skinner, my name is Dr. Holloway. I performed surgery
on Mr. Mulder this morning,” he tells me, and I shake the hand that he offers
me, trying desperately to eradicate the lump that has formed again in my throat
as I was studying Fox. “Fox was involved in a car accident, as you are probably
aware. His car slid off the freeway and rolled over twice before coming to rest
at the bottom of a ditch just off the expressway. A trucker behind him saw it happen and called 9-1-1, and we got
him here as fast as we could. He was wearing his seatbelt, but the trauma his
body suffered as a result of the rollover impact was...well, it was
sufficient,” the six-foot-two giant in
turquoise OR scrubs informs me.
“I noticed, doctor. How bad is it, all told?” I ask, not
really caring how long it takes Mulder to heal up, just happy that he’s still
here. Hell, it’s a horrible thought, but Mulder could be limbless and in a
wheelchair and I don’t think I’d love him any less. No, I know I wouldn’t.
“Well, you’re looking at a long list of injuries, Mr.
Skinner. He has a fractured skull, broken left arm, broken right foot, four
broken ribs, numerous contusions and abrasions, massive facial and internal
bruising and swelling,” Dr. Holloway stops there, surely seeing how pale I must
look, and quickly continues with, “But he’s extremely lucky, Mr. Skinner.
Honestly, it’s a miracle he survived the crash to begin with, what with the
vehicle rolling twice - even with the seatbelt he was asking for major trouble.
This damned ice, I’ll tell you,” he says, shaking his head.
“Is he going to be alright, Doctor?” I ask simply, because
to be honest, I don’t really give a shit what kind of injuries Fox has. I just
want to know that he’s going to be okay. In the proverbial big picture, that’s
all that really matters to me. If this healthcare professional tells me that
Mulder is going to be okay, then I don’t need to be concerned about much of
anything else. “I just want to know if he’s going to recover, doctor.
I...we...he...he’s...”
I stumble over my words and finally stop stuttering when
the doctor places his hand on my shoulder and smiles, nodding at me, and says,
“Yes, Mr. Skinner, we expect Fox to make a full recovery. Now, I’ve got other
patients waiting, and I’m sure you’ll take excellent care of your friend in my
absence. I’ll be back to check on him in a bit.” I nod at Dr. Holloway, then
surprise him AND myself when I pull him to me in a bear hug and thank him
profusely for saving Mulder. Once I regain my senses, I release the overwhelmed
doctor and give him a smile that feels like it’s burning into my face with
embarassment. He merely smiles back at me and pats me on the shoulder before he
walks off down the hall. I watch him go and wonder if he’s ever gotten a call
in the middle of the night. A moment later, I head back into Mulder’s room, the
softly beeping machines now comforting me instead of alarming me. He’s going to
be okay.
************************************************
I take the seat next to Mulder’s bed and gaze at him
longingly in the darkened room, studying his profile, drinking in the sight of
him welcomingly. I don’t care how beat up his body is; it’s what’s inside that
holds the greatest intrigue. His mind and his heart are the greatest turn-ons
to me. Sure, the wrapping on the package doesn’t hurt a bit, but I love him for
the man that he is INSIDE. Speaking of packages, Christmas is next week. Yeah,
we’ve got a tree and all the goodies - but this is the best gift that I could
ever hope to get. Fox William Mulder in one piece, defying death one more time
so that he might be returned to me safely.
He’s breathing on his own, the beeping merely monitoring
his heart-rate, and I lean forward and try to inhale his scent beyond all the
damned anaesthetic and bleach smells. It’s still there, and I smile faintly as
I drink in the musk and sweat and whatever it is that is just plain Mulder, and
I get tears in my eyes that I actually allow to fall. Tears of relief that he’s
still here with me. I sniffle loudly, and he stirs; dammit! I didn’t want to
wake him...but I’m thrilled when his eyes open as much as they can with his
swollen face; they’ll most likely BOTH be black and blue by tomorrow, but I
don’t care.
“Ssssh, baby, go back to sleep,” I whisper to him, “I’m
here now and you’re going to be alright. I love you, Fox.” He turns his head
ever so slightly so that he’s somewhat facing me, and I swear I see a ghost of
a smile play across his lips - nevermind the fact that they’re puffed up to
twice their normal size. They’re moving...he’s trying to talk to me. “Sssh,
Mulder, for once in your life, try not to talk. You need to rest. I’m here,
babe, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Stubborn bastard that he is, he goes on anyway and I have
to put my ear right down next to his mouth, but I hear it. I hear what is so
important that he won’t rest until he gets it out, “Ssssorrry, Walt,” he gasps,
and instantly tears begin to stream down my cheeks, but he’s not done. “Love
you ssssoooo much,” he whispers, and then his eyes close once more and he nods
off. I put both of my hands on his left hand, the one that isn’t hooked up to
an IV, and squeeze gently, hoping that he can feel my love conveyed through his
flesh. I swear he looks more peaceful than he did when I first came in. I lean
over the side of his bed and lay my head down on the mattress, his hand still
in both of mine.
The images of the dead and dying leave my mind as I drift
off to sleep next to my lover, holding his hand, willing him to get better in
my dreams. The call that came for me in the middle of the night tonight was not
death calling. It was life, for a change. I’ll have to call Scully at a decent
hour of the morning tomorrow and let her know what has transpired with her
partner, and that he’ll be fine. She’s out of town with her family for the
holidays, and I wouldn’t want to call her now...because she too knows what it
means when the call comes in the middle of the night. No, I’ll call her when
the sun is up and shining (snow and ice or not), the blue sky overhead like a
blanket of hope. There’s no bad news here tonight. Like I said...good things
happen too, just not often enough. Tonight just happens to be often enough for
me.
*************************************************
Ahh, I love Walter when he’s waxing poetic. Thanks for
reading!
--Jvantheterrible