Subject: Bovine Dreams of Flight (1/1) Rain King Spoiler
Date: Sat, 10 Apr 1999

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 vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com. I had such high hopes for this
episode <sob> They just sort of ignored the potential.

Bovine Dreams of Flight
by Vickie Moseley
vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

"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.

Vickie

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"I can have my faith, and my Mulder, too."
Dana Scully in Barbecue Series: Eggies in the Hanties by Susan Proto