Title: A Brand I Don't Like
Author: Vickie Moseley
Summary: fill in the blanks for Brand X, in Mulder's own words.
Spoiler: Brand X, all things, en ami and Chimera, sort of
Rating: PG-13
Category: MT, MA, SA, MSR (fade to black)
Disclaimer: No infringement intended, well, except maybe to all tobacco
companies, but that's just wishful thinking <G>
Archive: yes
Finished: June 14, 2000
Comments: I just had to have a story with Mulder as the center of
attention and not off someplace where we can't see him. Thanks to Susan,
Dawn, Ten, and the few stalwart souls (Brandon, Lenore) who are keeping me
sane in this tediously long summer.

A Brand I Don't Like
By Vickie Moseley

Forsyth County Morgue

I don't like panic. I don't like it much at all. It usually precedes
something that requires time, effort, and more likely than not, medical
resources to overcome. So when I looked down at my hand, held fast in
Scully's much smaller one, and saw the red smear of blood across my
fingers, I really hated that feeling of panic that hit the pit of my
stomach.

I didn't have much time to think about the consequences, because the small
hacking that had started as a tickle deep in my chest became a full blown
batten-down-the-hatches cough that doubled me over. If it weren't for
Skinner grabbing my shoulders, I know I would have landed face first on the
floor.

I could hear Scully, her voice tense and urgent as she spoke to the
dispatcher over the phone. It seemed a little humorous that we were in a
morgue, but needed to call for an ambulance. If this morgue was like
morgues in a dozen other cities we'd worked in, they would have brought a
stretcher down from one of the floors above and I'd have been whisked into
the Emergency Department before my next breath. But as it was, Ashville
had a morgue in the County Building, and the hospital was several blocks
away. So the three of us got the joy of waiting for the cavalry to arrive.

Scully wanted me to lie down, but I refused. I had inadvertently sat on
one of the steel morgue gurneys, and I'd be damned if I was going to lie on
it while I was still conscious and breathing. So I sat, or rather, leaned
heavily on Skinner each time the coughing started up again.

The taste of blood was making me nauseous and I knew I was going to puke
right there. I was trying to figure out a way to avoid hitting Skinner's
pants leg, or his shoes, when the EMTs hit the door like the Big Red One.
Scully must have taken a look at my face, she's seen me toss my cookies
before, because she was holding a bowl from I don't want to know where
under my chin and I let loose with the full contents of my stomach.

God almighty, that hurt!

One of the EMT's let out a curse when he saw the results of my activities.
"He's hemorrhaging", he called out to his partner.

Scully grabbed his arm. "It's in his lungs. He's been infected with the
larvae of the tobacco beetle. We need to get him on O2 as quickly as
possible."

The guy looked at her and raised an eyebrow. That's when the other guy
took in the scrubs she wore and the plastic glasses sitting on her head,
not to mention the open chest of the dearly departed Mr. Gastall just a
couple of feet away on the other steel table.

"Like this guy?" he asked.

"Yes, just like that guy," she assured him.

"Shit, Jerry, get the guy on the stretcher and we'll start O2. Anything
else, Doc?"

Scully shook her head. "Call into base, see if they have a pulmonary
specialist they can reach stat. And he'll need a full series of chest
x-rays on arrival. Have them set up and waiting for him, we can't waste
any time."

"Yes, ma'am, Doc," the second guy answered. I knew that feeling. Scully
at full tilt often made my head spin, too.

Jerry moved Skinner aside and took my left upper arm. His buddy grabbed my
right arm and together they maneuvered me to the stretcher at my feet. But
as they started to lower me down on the mattress, a horrible crushing
feeling started in my chest and I jerked against their hands, struggling to
sit up.

"Can't . . . lie down!" I coughed out, blood spewing across my legs and the
white sheet of the mattress on the stretcher.

"Better raise him to an elevated position. There's fluid building up in
his lungs," Scully said and I could see in her eyes she knew exactly what
kind of 'fluid' it was. It was my own blood, and I was choking on it.

The O2 mask came over my face and for once in my sorry existence, I
welcomed it. I don't know what's come over me lately, but I no longer balk
at all this medical garbage. When the snakes bit me, I found myself
begging for painkillers and even let them sedate me at night just so I
could rest without the benefit of squirming nightmares. And now, here I
was, letting them stick one of those stuffy, claustrophobia-inducing
plastic masks over my nose and mouth just so I could suck in as much of
that free flowing oxygen as possible. I even surprised Scully, I think,
when I held out my left hand for the inevitable IV needle. The miracle
ended there, because I howled like a scalded cat when the fat needle hit my
skin and punctured it's way into my vein.

It was a bumpy and extremely uncomfortable ride. I was sitting mostly
upright and still the tightness in my chest wouldn't let up. I coughed and
hacked and the mask would get coated with a fine spray of blood. Scully
sat next to the door and I could see her bite down on her lip every time
Jerry had to pull the mask away to swipe out the red stain on the inside.
I closed my eyes and bunched the blanket in my hand, wishing with all my
might it could be Scully's fingers mine were curled around.

Once, as we were turning a corner, the whole ambulance went gray and I felt
like I was floating. I closed my eyes, but opened them on Scully's sharp
command.

"Mulder! Stay with me, partner. Don't go to sleep. Not till we get
there. Don't go to sleep on me."

That was more than enough to keep me in my place. I used every ounce of
strength I had left keeping my lids from coming together. If Scully was
that insistent, it was for a reason. I got the irrational fear that if I
let my lids close and stay that way for more than a heartbeat, I wouldn't
be waking up again. It became a mantra in my head, 'don't close your
eyes, don't close your eyes'. And I didn't. My life depended on it.

We smoothed to a stop, Jerry's partner was a good driver, and the doors
flew open, almost spilling Scully out on her ass. She righted herself and
ran ahead inside the double doors, catching hold of a nurse or two who were
standing there apparently waiting for me. I felt like Prince Charming
arriving at the Ball. All these lovely ladies were swarming around me and
I was too sick to enjoy being the center of attention.

It didn't take me long to remember why I have an intense dread of Emergency
Departments. They seem single-mindedly focused on removing every shred of
my dignity, not to mention my clothes. Not that I could have helped much.
But my recent experiences have been too foggy for me to recall hands
reaching to my belt buckle and unzipping my pants without even a polite
introduction. I was the patient. Someone would get around to addressing
me, but not until after I was undressed. I really hate that part.

The pants came off but thankfully the blanket remained. My shirt went the
way of my jacket, boxers, socks and shoes. I was wearing an undershirt and
they decided it was too much to try and work it around the IV, so that made
it's way into the shredder. And then, God help me, they found the shortest
damned gown in the building and tied it ceremoniously around my neck. I
suddenly remembered exactly what the mythological 'siren' was all about. A
she-beast bent on the destruction of the male of the species. I had them
crawling all over me.

Scully had disappeared only to reappear again about the time they were
tucking me in. "Is x-ray ready for him?" she asked the nearest nurse. It
hurt for a second, that she was following the crowd and ignoring my
existence. Then, when the answer was a brisk, 'the orderly is on the way
down', she walked over and took my hand, the one that had been aching for
hers in the ambulance.

Let me explain something, just for the record. We made love for the first
time exactly three months ago. We had a rough spot a little while back,
where Scully had some doubts, some cold feet, and I got a little confused,
it seemed. After some thought, well, very little thought actually, I did
the first thing that came to my head - I ran. It could have turned out
disastrous. If I'd known I was leaving her in the clutches of a former
lover, I would never have gone off to England in search of elusive fields
of bent grain. I discovered when I returned that the doubts she'd felt
were nothing more than a clearing of her heart, sorting out the old affairs
and making room for me. That's what I've come to understand in the last
two weeks. After the first night back, she's been at my apartment or I've
been at hers. We don't always wake up together, but we always fall asleep
in each other's arms.

So I really needed her reassurance as I lay on the gurney. She took my
hand and brought it up to her breast and gave it a squeeze. It was a
gesture born of our complicated lives. Any other lover, wife, mate, would
have been able to touch their loved one with abandon, not caring who might
see the connection, physical or spiritual. But we hide our deepest
feelings in the shadows, and so she was restricted to holding my hand. It
was enough. Just barely, but enough.

The orderly came and I thought Scully would stay behind, but she followed
us to x-ray. I really don't like getting x-rays. The whole idea of
standing there and patiently letting them poison me with radiation, however
low the levels might be, is not my idea of a good time. But then they
informed me that in order to get a 'good picture' I had to either stand up
or lie flat.

Sam had this stand that her Barbie stood on. It was a support, just a tiny
pole with arms at the top so that Twist and Turn Barbie could appear to be
'dancing' to the Bee Gees. It occurred to me what an ingenious little
contraption that was and I really wished someone had thought to make a real
life-sized version. They could have 'stood' me in front of the x-ray
machine and I could have breathed for them, or held my breath as the
situation merited. But no such luck. In seconds, I was flat on my back on
the table and not very happy about it.

Breathing is such a neglected talent. No one ever really thinks about it
until it's not working. I breathe all the time, naturally. I breathe
heavy after running, and it feels great to have the slight burn in my lungs
that tells me I worked them good and hard. The feeling as I lie on that
cold table was nothing like that 'good burn'. It was a choking, ripping,
slicing, crushing kind of burn that terrified me. I know it's impossible,
but I could feel those little worms crawling around in my lung tissue and I
knew what was going on. They were sucking off anything handy, my blood, my
tissue, and then growing nice, hard exoskeletons, complete with little
pinchers, which they would use to rip their way up my esophagus and out my
mouth, whether I wanted them to or not.

Scully still hadn't told me it was all right for me to pass out, but I
didn't know how long I could keep awake. The pain was excruciating, but
the fear was overwhelming me and I just wanted so much to make it all go
away.

Several eternities later, the orderly came in and hoisted my panting body
back on the gurney. I thought we'd go back to the ER, but, as usual in
medical situations, I didn't know shit. We entered an elevator and took a
ride up. The Penthouse suite, I later discovered. ICU.

Scully was right behind me, but still at a 'respectable distance'. The
thought crossed my mind that I really didn't give a damn if Janet Reno took
that opportunity to check up on the relationships of the male/female
partners in the Bureau and decided to come visit us in the hospital. I
wanted Scully next to me, I wanted her arms around, I wanted to lay my head
on her breasts and just slip away. I was scared shitless because I was
certain I was dying and I didn't want to die with her standing on the other
side of the room. Besides, it looked like it was killing her not to run
over and take me in her arms. This was for shit!

I was being manhandled onto another table and I somehow got enough air to
say one word. Of course, I didn't have to think real hard which one it
would be.

"Scully!"

I lied to her once. I told her she'd never seen my panic face. Well,
she's seen it enough times in the last seven years to know it when she sees
it. And she must have seen it right then, because I was definitely in a
panic. The only good part was she knew I was in a panic.

She took my hand again, this time lacing our fingers together. "Mulder,
we're going to let you rest a while. We're going to put you to sleep . . ."

"Bad," I coughed out.

"I know this is scary, Mulder, but it's going to be all right. We're going
to perform something called 'deep suction'. You'll be under general
anesthetic so you won't feel a thing. They'll be inserting a really tiny
tube with a vacuum cleaner on the end into your lungs. They'll suck up as
many of the larvae as can be found before they have a chance to pupate into
beetles." She was saying all this while she stroked my forehead, a little
habit I've noticed she can't seem to break. Not that I wanted her to at
that point. Or ever, for that matter.

"Come . . . too?" Was pretty cryptic, even for me, but I hoped she
understood that I wanted her in the operating room with me. I know she's a
pathologist, but Scully could switch specialties any damned time she felt
like it. She's a great clinician, but she's an excellent all around
doctor, as I've learned more than a couple of times.

She got this really sad smile on her face and nodded. "Where else would I
be?" she whispered in my ear. Then she pulled back. "Now, the nurse is
giving you valium, just to relax you. I'll go talk to that anestheologist
to make sure they know what you tolerate and don't tolerate. I'll be right
back. Don't go anywhere." She winked at me and was gone from my side.

Valium is a funny drug, generally speaking. Or rather, my reaction to it
is pretty humorous. Most times, I would rather gnaw my arm off than allow
them to shoot that shit in my bloodstream. But facing the prospect of a
tube, and I know better than to honestly believe it was a 'tiny' tube,
going down my throat to suck worms out of my lungs, hell, I wondered if
valium was the strongest stuff they had. Haldol was looking pretty damned
good.

It was a pretty good hit, or I was weaker than I normally am when I get
valium, because it knocked me on my ass. But my stupid mantra kept ringing
in my ears. 'Don't close your eyes, don't close your eyes.' Over and over
and in Scully's voice, just to make sure I didn't lose any resolve. I
couldn't close my eyes and yet the damned drug was pulling me under.

And then she was there, beside me. She found a stool or something to sit
on because she was above me, not like on a chair where she would have been
eye level. She took my hand in one of hers, and with the other hand, she
brushed back my hair and stroked my forehead.

"It's all right, Mulder. You can close your eyes. I'll be right beside
you. I'll be here when you wake up. Just go to sleep."

Her voice made the most perfect lullaby. I wished at that moment, with all
my heart, that I could give her a baby to sing to sleep.

I don't remember much after that point. I remember sort of waking up, and
like she'd promised, she was there. She took my hand, and I can remember
her eyes so clearly. They were dark blue and filled with worry. I knew
the news wasn't good.

But before I could wake up enough to understand what she was telling me
about Weaver and a cure, I suddenly couldn't breathe. No air was entering
my lungs. I was drowning and yet, not in water. It terrified me, almost
as much as the panic in Scully's voice as she screamed for the doctor.
After that, I remember nothing.

End of part one

A Brand I Don't Like (2 of 2)
By Vickie Moseley
Disclaimer in part one

The next couple of days were a complete blur. I remember waking up puking
my guts out, then waking up with enough spit in my mouth to drown a horse.
Shakes, fever, chills, all in rapid succession and all at once. I heard
words like 'overdose' and 'bad reaction' and I couldn't remember who was
saying them. Woke up one time with a respirator tube down my throat and
Scully with tear tracks on her cheeks sitting on the edge of the bed,
holding my hand like it was the only thing keeping me on earth.

Then, one day, I woke up and there was food in front of me and before I
knew it Scully was talking to the doctor about 'home care' and release
forms and what prescriptions I needed to take with me and what we could
pick up at home.

The part I really hate was just beginning. I hate going home.

Life outside the hospital never feels right. The colors of the trees are
too green, the sky is too bright. The sun is definitely too yellow. The
air smells funny. It's because I'm sick, still, when I leave and I don't
want to see the world while I'm sick. I want to be better. The trip home
from Ashville was no different.

Skinner surprised us with First Class. Not that the airplane was that big
to have much of a First Class to boast about. But it was nice to be able
to stretch out a little and lean back in the seat without worrying that I'd
just bumped some guy in the head. I don't remember the trip at all. Aside
from feeling a little jittery, I fell asleep almost before the no smoking
light was off.

I dreamed I smoked a pack and a half during the flight home. It was a
strange dream. I was sitting at my old desk at Quantico, chain smoking. I
used to smoke. I smoked all the time I was in BSU, all the time I was
under Patterson. He's the one who got me started. Funny, a lot of kids
who grow up with parents who smoke don't smoke. I was one until I became a
profiler. I took up the habit out of self-defense. It was expected. It
made me a little less 'Spooky' to the other guys. Before I knew it, I was
hooked. My packs of cigarettes were as much a part of my desk as my yellow
legal pad and my pencil holder full of sharpened number twos. Back in my
glory days, when I was the Top Dog, I was sucking down two to three packs a
day. It took me a three months after I left Quantico to quit, but I did.
No patch, no 'step program'. Just cold turkey and a whole lot of sleepless
nights. But it ended and I was damned proud of myself. I'd never had a
craving until that flight.

When I woke up as we landed, my hand automatically went up to my mouth and
I was a little surprised that there wasn't a butt in my fingers. Scully
gave me a funny look, but must have thought it was just a nightmare about
the worms. She had mentioned that I had to stop getting too personal with
squirming animals.

I didn't know what to expect as we made our way to my apartment. Scully
had stayed with me for a couple of days when we got back from Tennessee. I
was still sicker than a dog from the antivenin and pretty swollen. I
looked like something out of a really bad horror movie. I wouldn't let
Scully sleep in my bed, I was afraid she'd never want to touch me again if
she saw how mottled my skin was from the bites.

OK, I admit it, I was a jerk. And after three days and two nights, I asked
her to go home. The really awful part is, she did. I didn't know if any
part of that contributed to our little 'problems', and quite frankly, I
didn't want to think about it. But I knew I had to be on my best behavior
if she was going to stay with me.

It was amazing to me, how easily I got tired. Just standing outside the
airport concourse, waiting for the taxi, wore me down to the bone. I
honestly didn't think I was going to make it up the steps to my apartment.
I got in the taxi next to Scully, closed my eyes and let the droning of the
car tires lull me to sleep, figuring I'd better rest up while I could.

When I opened them, we were at Scully's, in Georgetown.

"This way, you can't throw me out," she said with a wicked smile and paid
the cab driver. I didn't have the strength to argue.

She took our bags, which were just overnighters and put her arm around my
waist. I hated the way I had to lean against her for support. My lungs
were still pretty much out of commission. The doctor had sent me home with
inhalers and a prescription for something called a 'nebulizer', if Scully
thought I needed it. That was in addition to the vitamins and antibiotics
and a hundred and one other little bottles that were now my constant
companions. Most of them liquid and God help me, bubblegum flavored. I
was reduced to taking kid medicine because I just couldn't swallow pills.

Talking was another major obstacle. I had been reduced to a hoarse whisper
and that would go out on me from time to time, leaving me flapping my mouth
soundlessly like a sunfish out of water. But we've never needed words
much, Scully and I. She seemed to understand what I needed and what I was
trying to say.

Which is how I managed to find myself being tucked into her bed only five
minutes after arriving at her door. And how I felt the mattress bounce and
the blankets pull back as she slipped in next to me. Her arms went around
me, her head found its way to my shoulder and my head turned so that my
nose was just inches above her hair. I slept, and it was completely
dreamless.

I spent most of the next day in bed, though not doing any activities that
normally would keep me under the covers that long. Not for lack of desire,
but our first tentative kiss left me gasping for breath. Scully decided I
couldn't handle more than that, and I had to grudgingly agree with her.
Even our 'quiet' sex still required air in my lungs and I couldn't
guarantee it would be there when needed. So I did the next best thing - I
dreamed of having sex with her.

By the second day, I crawled out into her living room and collapsed on her
couch. I never liked her couch as much as mine. Too short, too clean and
it reminded me too much of Eddie Van Blundht. But Scully went to the store
and brought me back sunflower seeds, which I sucked on and spit out whole
to sooth my throat, and made iced tea and sat with me while I watched
Manchester United kick the shit out of some other team that I never caught
the name of because by that time, I'd fallen asleep again. That's when I
figured it out. Not breathing made me sleepy.

It was dark when I woke up. There was a crick in my neck from the armrest
of the couch, my mouth had a horrible taste from the interaction of iced
tea and too many pharmaceuticals and Scully was nowhere to be found. I
don't know why, but I panicked.

I tried to call her, but there was no answer on her cell phone. I called
her mother, almost scaring the poor woman out of her wits because at first
she thought I was a prank call and then she realized it was me and thought
we'd both been in an accident. I discovered then that Scully hadn't talked
to her Mom since we got back from Asheville and about the time Mrs. Scully
was demanding details about our trip and my condition, my voice went out
completely and I all I could make were some unintelligible squeaks and
squawks. She told me she was on the way before I had the chance to stop
her.

And that's when Scully walked in, arms loaded with grocery bags and soaking
wet from a rain shower I hadn't noticed.

I admit it now, to all and sundry. Scully knows my panic face. She put
the bags down on the kitchen table and was over to me faster than I could
blink. She wrapped her arms around me and I think I probably squeezed her
too tight because she let out an 'umpht' but didn't push me away. I sobbed
on her shoulder for a minute or two and hated myself for it. We sat there
for a long time before she brought her hand up to the back of my head and
stroked my hair.

"Mulder, what happened?" she asked me so gently that I started crying again.

"Woke up. Gone." At least those were the audible parts.

I could feel her smile against my neck. "Mulder, I left you a note."

I pulled back and searched the room. There, on the surface of the blank TV
screen was a large yellow post-it note with blue scratchings.

"I figured the first thing you'd do was turn on the TV again," she
explained and untangled herself from me to retrieve the note.

"Mulder - we ran out of toilet paper and bread. Went to the store. Back
in 10. I love you, S."

I sat there, reading the note and rereading it. I brought my finger up and
traced the words. "I love you, S." I finally dared to look up and into
her eyes. She was smiling at me, all knowing.

"What did you think? That'd I'd let you throw me out of my own apartment?"
she asked with a hint of a smile in her eyes.

My eyes were drawn back to the note. "I love you, S." I had told her I
loved her a hundred times by that point in our relationship, but all I ever
got in return was a nod and a smile. Not for one minute had I thought
Scully wasn't in love with me by then. It was just too hard for her to say
the words. She told me every day in a thousand different little ways how
much she loved me. But to see the words, in her handwriting, and so off
handed, so casual, so damned natural, well, it reduced me to tears again.

I wanted to tell her why I was blubbering and that it wasn't her fault and
I just hated being sick and I was so happy she'd told me she loved me and
it was all just a little too much, but there was a loud knock at the door
and I knew who it was. Mrs. Scully had arrived, with her own key.

Mrs. Scully is a real quick study. She took one look at us, saw the bags
on the table and I'll be damned if she didn't figure it all out before she
even hung up her umbrella on the coat stand.

"Dana, why didn't you have your cell phone on?" were the first words out of
her mouth. Then she was over to us, kissed Scully on the forehead and
surprised the shit out of me by kissing me on the nose. "Fox, you look
like you need to lie down, dear. I'll help Dana put the groceries away."

Just like that. Like it was the most normal thing in the world to walk
into her daughter's apartment and find her daughter and a co-worker in an
intimate embrace with tears running down the guy's face.

I don't know what transpired in the kitchen, but Mrs. Scully stayed for
dinner and even cooked most of the food. Scully must have filled her in on
my health, because she asked a few very intelligent questions and didn't
mind that I had to write some of the answers out on paper. Apparently her
sister had asthma and she knew quite a bit about ailments of the lungs.
The dinner menu consisted of creamy mashed potatoes with gravy and carrots,
smashed with brown sugar and butter. Something I could easily choke down
and managed to reach for seconds. She offered to stay with me if Scully
wanted to go back to work the next day. As much as it warmed my soul that
she would do something that nice for me, I was relieved when Scully said
she had it handled and we were coming up on a weekend, anyway.

I kept wondering when the subject of 'living arrangements' was going to
come up. She must have wondered about it, but Mrs. Scully was totally
discrete. At nine o'clock sharp, she kissed Scully good night, favored me
with a hug and a kiss and left us with a brief over the shoulder glance and
big smile.

We made it through the weekend without my driving Scully crazy. I was
irritable and cranky and just wanted to talk in a normal voice, eat food
that wasn't mashed and drink a beer while watching the baseball game.
Instead, Scully went out and rented every baseball movie she could find and
all the fixings for milkshakes, strawberry, banana and chocolate, not to
mention the easiest, vanilla. Also in the magic white bag were Popsicles
and ice cream sandwiches and I remembered how I fell in love with her the
first time back when I was laid up in a hospital in Raleigh, North Carolina
and she snuck up a slice of pepperoni pizza just for me. I also remembered
every one of the other 9,999 times I've fallen in love with her since that
moment.

Sunday night, I was able to breathe long enough to neck on the couch while
we watch whatever the hell FOX shows on Sunday nights. But necking was as
far as we got. I fell asleep. It was becoming annoying, to both of us.

Monday morning, I kissed Scully goodbye at the door and she went off to the
office without me. I went back to bed and hugged her pillow until noon. I
got up, ate two bowls of ice cream and sacked out on the couch watching the
History Channel. When Scully got home, I was ready to climb the walls. We
took a walk around her block, I just barely made it back to the apartment.
I fell into bed, asleep before Scully got my shoes off my feet and tucked
me under the covers. I detected a pattern developing, but was helpless to
change it.

As the week dragged on, I had a little more energy. I had a doctor's
appointment Thursday and managed to stay awake for the ride there and back
to the apartment. Later that night, Scully treated me to dinner out, a
little Chinese buffet not far from her place. I choked down chicken fried
rice and egg drop soup, the hot and sour being both too hot and too sour
for my sensitive throat. I even succeeded in brushing my teeth and
undressing myself before I fell dead to the world on what had become my
side of the bed.

I woke up late that next morning with an unquenchable craving. I had to
have a cigarette.

Scully had told me they used nicotine to kill the worms in my lungs. OK,
that wasn't a pleasant thought and I tried real hard not to think about it.
As far as I was concerned, I was very happy to have been out of my head
most of the time, and the few blinks into reality I did experience back in
the hospital have been shuffled to the 'bad memories' file in my brain,
only to be opened during nightmares and hallucinations. But I thought that
was the end of it.

It took me three long months of being a bastard to everyone who ventured
within 10 feet of me when I quit smoking the last time. I've had the mere
thought of taking it up now and again, but I have one thing to thank that
Black Lunged Son of a Bitch for - he's made me abhor smoking. I refuse to
stoop to his level. I won't do that to myself. It's more than just a
nasty habit to me, it's a lifestyle choice, a betrayal of all I've been
through, all Scully and I have been through and I will not do it.

Now, to convince my stupid body of my resolve.

Rationally, I think the craving took so long because I had still been
pretty sick. Evidenced by the fact that sleeping was my most strenuous
activity from the moment I left the hospital, I could see that all my
reactions were a little slowed down. But for the craving to hit right at
the time my support system left me to my own devices for 8 hours a day,
that was just plain cruel.

I started watching old movies, the ones on Turner Classics. Maltese
Falcon, It Happened One Night, the Thin Man Series. Nick and his martini,
but oh, God, please let him hold a cigarette, too. It was sick. The
psychologist in me told me I needed to talk to someone, the paranoid
wouldn't let me because I'd end up in the clutches of someone like the
incarcerated Dr. Goldstein, who was probably in league with Spender, and
the part of my psyche that had become Scully's Significant Other was
terrified that she'd kill me in my sleep for even thinking about taking up
the habit. I do have some semblance of self-preservation.

So, I decided this was something I'd better do myself.

It wasn't the physical act that I was craving. Sunflower seeds had
replaced the cigarette years ago. It was the craving in my stomach, my
muscles, my head. I woke up with headaches, went to sleep with headaches,
and I felt like shit. All while I was trying to convince my personal care
physician that I was well enough to return to the office.

I found a replacement, or at least one that made me think less about the
cravings.

That night, when Scully came home, I had the table set, dinner on the stove
and her favorite CD in the stereo. I seduced the hell out of her. It
worked, too, because when I woke up the next morning, I didn't have a
headache. I was exhausted, I'd probably participated more than I should
have, but no headache crushed my skull and I could sleep away the fatigue
I'd caused myself.

Well, needless to say Scully had to keep wiping a shit-eating grin off her
face for the next four days because I 'attacked' her in a similar manner
every single night, but the craving was kept at bay. It was only at bay, I
knew that, and eventually, I was going to have to face it.

On Friday, the doctor released me for work on the condition that I stay at
my desk and do paperwork until he could check me again in two weeks.
Scully and I celebrated by going out to dinner. I discovered that although
my voice still sounded like a rock quarry, my throat didn't hurt that much
and I actually swallowed the better part of a nice sirloin. Between Friday
night and Saturday afternoon, I put several grins on Scully's face.

Mrs. Scully called on Saturday afternoon. Bill was in for a day or two at
some big meeting and she was having a family dinner. She made Scully put
me on the phone so that I had to decline to her personally. She didn't
press me on my lame excuse of going to work on Monday and wanting to be
good and rested. I think she understood that I'd escaped death recently
and didn't want to face it again so soon, and at the hands of her son to
boot. So I kissed Scully and headed off to my apartment to find out if I
had any suits left and see if the fish were still alive.

I ate four bags of sunflower seeds and ended up getting sick on them.
Throwing up sunflower seeds on an almost sore throat is not my idea of a
good time. But it wiped me out enough that I was able to fight off the
craving and just sink into sleep. Still, my dreams all ended with Scully
in my arms and a cigarette shared between the two of us. Just like in the
old movies.

Monday morning, I got in my car and started to work. I'd wanted a run, it
would have cleared my head from the pounding little anvil that had taken up
residence behind my left eye, but the doctor said that was a bad idea until
the next check up. So instead, I decided to drown my sorrows in a cup of
coffee. And not the good stuff. I was looking for the cheapest, strongest
black coffee I could find. I always found it at the same gas station and
convenience store where I filled up my car.

They put those things, those 'cancer sticks', just above eye level, but
still within easy reach. And invariably, the place always smells like a
bar without the booze. The red box was hanging there, taunting me. Was I
man enough to take it? Was I man enough to resist? I don't know if I
answered either question, but I grabbed a box, threw it on the counter and
silently dared the kid to ask me if I was over 18 years of age.

I kept staring at it all the way to the office, and almost smacked the car
into a truck at a stoplight. See, my little Jiminy Cricket conscience
chided me, smoking is bad for you. I noticed ole Jiminy was sounding an
awful lot like Dana Scully, but I mentally flipped him a middle finger
salute anyway. Scully wouldn't find out. Not if I did this right. The
right breath mints, only smoking when she wasn't around, never in the
office or a closed room. It could work. I could do it. I spent the time
left in my commute devising ways to smoke as many as ten to a dozen
cigarettes a day and never let my partner know. It was sort of fun. Like
a game I was playing.

I got to the office only to discover that she wasn't there yet. Then I saw
her briefcase sitting on her chair and figured out she was in the building,
just not in our office. My evil little mind kept telling me it was the
right time to take my prize and go find a quiet janitors closet to light up.

I was just about to do it, too, when I passed her desk. It smelled
wonderful. Scully's scent, her perfume, was everywhere around her desk. I
think it was 'Happy', by that make-up manufacturer. I know I went to the
cosmetics counter one time and smelled a whole bunch of fragrance samples
before shrieking 'Eureka' at the poor woman and buying a big bottle that
cost me a fortune.

How could I foul up that smell? How could I mix cigarette smoke, something
I've come to find more than a little disgusting, with that wonderful
'Scully smell'? I couldn't. I shoved the pack of cigarettes in my top
desk drawer and went back to the computer in the far back of the office to
check my e-mail. The craving was still there, the little voice was still
screaming, but I was man enough to resist. Resist or serve, even a rat is
right on occasion.

Scully breezed in on a cloud of Happy and smiled at me. "Good to be back?"
she asked, like she didn't know the answer. She still had the faint grin
from our last hours together dancing in her eyes. Good, that was exactly
what I needed - more resolve. I thanked my lucky stars for sending her to
me.

But I've learned something from Scully. Confession is good for the soul.
After we talked for a minute about the case and my medical records becoming
court records, I had to let her know what I had almost done. I knew she
would forgive me, I just needed to tell her.

I showed her the pack. A small box, but so much danger inside. The look
she gave me was exactly what I expected. Horror, pleading, determination
not to let me slide into any abysses that might be headed my way. Yes, it
was just what I needed.

The box is down in the wastebasket as we speak. I hope they take out the
trash before we get back from Skinner's office.

The end.

Vickie

Let's get this straight for anyone who might be 'confused':

1. They did it more than once. They've been doing it a long time!

2. The baby is Mulder's! Scully's doctor LIED about her fertility!

3. Scully will HATE who ever they partner her with

4. The baby is NOT an alien and will not be abducted BEFORE it's born.

Now, any questions? Then go check out my site for further proof.

It's brought to you by the fabulous Shirley Smiley with graphics by the
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http://vickiemoseley.freeservers.com