Shred of Doubt (5/9)
Jo-Ann Lassiter and
Vickie Moseley 

A fifteen-dollar cab ride later (made thirty-five because of the bribe), Mulder cautioned the cabbie to drop back so they wouldn't be noticed. He watched as Kocin's Cutlass pulled into an old abandoned industrial area. "I'll get out here," Mulder rasped. 

"By yourself?" the cabbie inquired as he took Mulder's cash. "You ain't gonna call for backup?" 

Mulder did a double-take and frowned. "You've been watching too much NYPD Blue," he assured the man. The cabbie shrugged, waited patiently as Mulder got out of the cab and then drove away. 

Running was out of the question. Mulder just prayed he'd find the Cutlass parked near to the main road because the industrial park seemed to stretch far into the horizon. He almost hooted with joy when he saw the car sitting, deserted, about a half a block away in front of an old warehouse. It was still going to take him a while to get there. 

I should call Scully, his mind kept repeating as he walked cautiously to a door set into the building. But Scully was out capturing Darren Dodds with that asshole San Diego detective. Mulder wasn't at all surprised that just when they finally found each other, someone would try and rip them apart. That was par for the course. What did take him back was the fact that it was Scully being played for. Not that Scully wasn't beautiful, desirable, hell, he admitted to himself, she was way out of HIS league. But she just didn't fall for guys on cases. Well, except when she had a brain tumor . . . but he refused to go there!  

What had happened the first time she met Kresge? By the time Mulder had flown out, everything was about Emily. He couldn't remember her mentioning Kresge's name once until the man had been placed in ICU for exposure to the green blood. She certainly had never mentioned him after they got back home.  

He thought back to that time -- the time surrounding her discovery of Emily. It hadn't been a lot of laughs -- that was certain. She had just learned she was in remission not that long before, and he had been over the moon. He thought they might finally start taking some steps forward. As much as he hated to think about it, the time she was in the hospital, that last time, they had been so close! But as always with them it was one step forward, two steps back and before he knew it, they were hip deep in cases and their relationship had slipped back to the usual walls and defenses. But had she ever got a dreamy look in her eyes, thinking about San Diego?  

In a few moments, he was at the door. Since the warehouse windows were all along the top of the two-story building, he couldn't see in. That did give a bit of an advantage, however. It meant that Kocin hadn't seen him come up to the door, either.  

Mulder reached to his hip and unsnapped his holster. When he pulled the gun out he felt the old familiar rush. It had been a while. Technically, they could have made him recertify before allowing him to carry his weapon, but he'd only been out a little over three weeks. Compared to his alien-affected-hyper-brain incident of the fall, the tobacco beetles had been kind -- relatively speaking. 

He drew in a deep breath to steady himself and then had to fight the tickle in his throat and the twinge in his chest. Damn, when was he going to feel 'right' again? Counting silently, he gripped his weapon in his right hand and sought out the door handle with his left. 

To his surprise, the doorknob turned and he slid the door open. Harsh sunlight cut through the dust motes floating in the stale air of the warehouse. Mulder frowned and looked cautiously left and then right. On the ground, he could see patterns of footsteps, all the same size. Kocin obviously used the place often, but never quite got around to tidying up. 

The room was as big as it was vacant. There were a couple of crates of various sizes scattered along the floor, but no indication of any activity. Mulder frowned, but sought out the footprints on the dust-covered floor. They led to the far side of the room, where a long wall held two sets of double doors. Just from what he'd seen from the outside, the wall divided the building in half. Looking around again to ensure he still hadn't been discovered, he walked as quietly as he could toward one set of the double doors. 

He could feel sweat trickling down his back. Even though the Southern California temperatures were just barely breaking 70 for early May, it was hot and stuffy in the closed up warehouse. The grip on his weapon tightened to compensate for the sweat on his palm. 

He held his breath this time when he took hold of the door knob. He twisted his wrist. Nothing happened. The door was locked. He tried the other half of the double set. It was locked as well. He hurried over to the other set of doors, ignoring the clacking of his dress shoes on the cement floor. Both locked. 

Confusion marred his features as he looked around. Then he spotted the footprints again. They were at the first set of doors. He cursed himself for not bringing his lock pick. Unfortunately, that one-time Christmas present from the Gunmen was secure in the top drawer of his desk back in Arlington. Blowing out a quick breath he considered his options. Going back to the hotel was not on the list.  

He heard a scraping beyond the door and started. It was then he noticed something at the far corner where the wall met the exterior wall of the building. It was a set of stairs, leading to a catwalk. It appeared that the catwalk breached the wall and ended on the other side. Mulder moved quickly over to the stairs and took them two at a time. 

It had been a while since he moved so fast up any kind of grade. His puffing was loud in his ears as he went through the opening into the other room. 

From above, it looked like a magician's workshop. A giant box stood in the middle of the room painted black with brightly colored pictures of the planets adorning the sides. He saw a table covered with a shawl, a top hat resting upside down on it. But what drew his immediate attention was a long box, about the size of a small coffin, with a head sticking out one end and a pair of shoed feet sticking out the other. Kocin was standing with his back to Mulder, sawing with a large hand-saw, right through the middle of the box. It might have looked like a vaudeville act, were it not for the puddle of blood on the floor beneath the saw cut. 

"Freeze, FBI!" Mulder croaked as loud as he could over the sound of metal teeth hitting wood. 

Kocin continued his grisly endeavor. 

Mulder hurried down the steps, coming within a few feet of the man and repeated his demand. "Freeze! Mr. Kocin, you're under arrest!" 

Kocin stopped and turned. He looked directly at Mulder, his eyes flashing in recognition. As Mulder stepped forward, reaching for his cuffs with his left hand while his gun was still trained on the subject, Kocin brought his hand up to mere inches from Mulder's face. 

The brilliant white light that blossomed from Kocin's fingertips was followed by a dull thud, soundwaves chasing lightwaves across the inches of distance. Suddenly, Mulder's eyes began to burn furiously. He dropped his gun, bringing both hands up to his eyes. He blinked, but it got worse; the burning only grew in intensity. The agent dropped to his knees, clawing at his eyes. Frantically, he felt in his pocket for his cell phone, using only touch to find the right buttons. In agony, he waited until the line was connected. 

"Scully," came the terse reply. "Mulder, I'm so pissed right now -- " 

"Scully," he rasped, pain and lack of breath stealing his words. "Scully . . . help me." 

"Mulder! Mulder, what's wrong?" 

"Follow . . . Kocin. He's . . . the killer. God, Scully, my eyes! He did something to my eyes!" 

"Mulder, oh, god, hold on! Can you tell me where you are?" 

"Warehouse district, Lot 93. Scully, I can't see!" 

"Stay on the line with me, Mulder!" He overheard her talking, no, screaming for someone to call emergency services and rattled off the address. 

"There's a body, Scully. I don't know if she's dead -- there's blood -- " 

"Shhh, Mulder, calm down, I can hear your wheezing over the phone. Just relax. Is Kocin still there?" 

"He . . . took off," Mulder gasped, curling into a ball. Whatever was in his eyes was burning holes in his skull. He let out an agonized howl. 

"Mulder, shit, did you say he threw something in your eyes?" 

"Yeah -- bright white flash," he croaked. "Oh, God, it hurts!" 

"White, really bright? Shit, it was probably magnesium. Mulder, the ambulance says they'll be there in ten minutes. Don't rub your eyes! Keep your hands away from your eyes! Magnesium is an alkaline -- that's very dangerous and can cause permanent damage. Do you hear me, Mulder -- don't rub your eyes! Please!" 

"I'll try, Scully," he whispered. "Please, hurry." 

** 

5:51 p.m. 

When Kresge told her where they were headed, she found that she'd driven right past the access road on her way to meet the detective at the station. 

"Why the hell didn't you tell me it was on my way? We could have met there and saved fifteen minutes!" 

Kresge didn't look the least repentant. He looked, in fact, rather smug. "But, Dana… then we couldn't drive there together." 

She couldn't believe what she'd just heard. "What?" she asked, incredulous. 

"You know… you, me, in the car, talking about…" He finally seemed to get an inkling that this wasn't something about which she was pleased. "…the case," he finished lamely. He looked totally befuddled. "Dana, is something wrong?" 

She took a deep breath to calm herself. Maybe he simply hadn't considered that she could get her own self to the scene, that *all* her cases were in unfamiliar territory, and that she had been known, on occasion, to find an address all by herself without a big, strong manly man to drive her there. It was at times like these that she appreciated just how much Mulder left her to her own devices. Even though at times she resented him for it, he never doubted her competence, and he never treated her like 'the little woman.' Detective John Kresge could take a lesson. 

Still, maybe it was his way of showing consideration for a colleague (he wouldn't show the same 'consideration' to her partner, a small voice niggled at her). Uneasily pushing that thought aside, Scully focused on the man awaiting her response. "No," she said, unable to prevent an accompanying sigh. "I just wish you'd told me where we were going before I came all the way back here." 

"Oh. Sorry." 

Since he truly did appear remorseful, Scully decided to overlook the incident. "Let's forget it, John. Shall we get over to the farm?" 

A spark of excitement lit up the detective's eyes. "You bet. Let's go catch us a serial killer," he said, grinning. 

Scully gave him a tight smile. Dodds was a killer, all right, but not the serial killer. Mulder was right, she knew. No matter that the evidence was pointing more and more toward his theory -- if Mulder said Dodds wasn't their killer, he wasn't. Of that she had no doubt. Convincing Kresge, on the other hand, was going to prove to be a challenge, if only for the fact that the detective would not want to be proven wrong, and especially by Mulder. 

During the drive, Scully was still ticked off enough with Kresge to thwart all his attempts at smalltalk with short, terse replies. It took a few minutes, but the detective eventually gave up and fell silent. 

Only when they were approaching the road that led to the farm -- which she'd passed twenty minutes ago -- did he let her in on what would be going down. "I'll take the front door with two deputies. The sheriff and the other two deputies will go around back. One of the deputies has been watching the house from cover for about an hour. No one's come in or gone out, and no one's in the barn. So we should have all exits covered." 

Scully stared at him. "What about me?" 

He smiled down at her. "You'll be my back-up. If anything goes wrong, you call in the troops on my radio." He pointed to the squawk box mounted under the dash. 

Once again, she found herself dumbfounded. "You're kidding. Right?" 

Kresge blinked. "Huh?" 

Scully felt a flash of anger. "You're relegating me to backup?" 

"Well…" For a second, the detective looked unsure of himself, but it quickly passed. "…Yeah." 

"Detective Kresge, I am a fully-trained federal agent. I am quite probably better able than the local sheriff's department to go up against Dodds." 

Kresge laughed -- actually laughed -- before he tried to cover it with a cough. "Uh… I'm, uh, sure that would, uh, normally be the case, uh, Dana, but, Dodds isn't a boy scout. He's bound to come out shooting." 

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you implying that I'm not capable of doing my job?" 

"No, no. Not at all. But you could get hurt." 

"So could you," she snapped. "So could any of us. That's our job." 

"Right, right," Kresge said in what she was sure was supposed to be a placating voice. All it did was irk her. "But I can handle it alone. Well, with the sheriff's department." 

"Just why did you ask me to be here, then, John, if it wasn't to participate in Dodds's capture?" 

"But you are!" Kresge protested. 

"As backup. Sitting safe in a car while you do all the work." 

Kresge beamed. "While I catch our serial killer!" 

About to rip his head off and feed it to him through his overly-large asshole, Scully was denied the pleasure when they pulled up to the ring of sheriff's department cars, and John jumped out. Later, she promised herself. This discussion was not over. Not by a long shot. 

Getting out of the car and joining the men, Scully listened to Kresge detailing how he wanted to proceed. With something akin to shock, she watched as he reached into the back seat and pulled out a Kevlar vest -- one Kevlar vest -- and donned it. It was then that she noticed that the entire group was wearing vests. Scully felt heat on her face, unable to distinguish whether it was more from anger or embarrassment. 

When Kresge described her role in the plan of attack, the sheriff had the good grace to look surprised that the fed on the case had not been included in the approach to the house. Throwing her a look of apology, he opened the trunk of his sheriff's department car and wordlessly handed her a vest. Scully accepted it with a nod of thanks. 

Despite John's wishes, Scully did not wait in the car. As the men stealthily advanced on the rambling farmhouse, she watched from the cover of the woods. 

Ten minutes later, Kresge came back empty-handed. Dodds, and apparently anyone else who'd lived there, was long gone. 

Upon seeing her, Kresge scowled. "I thought we agreed that you were going to wait in the car?" 

"*You* agreed that I would wait in the car. I couldn't provide backup from the car." 

"What if he'd been there? What if he'd put up a fight?" 

"Then I'd be in a position to back you up -- from here." 

"Dammit, Dana, you deliberately -- " 

"Listen, John, I don't have -- " She cut off as her phone rang. Seeing that it was Mulder, she turned her back on Kresge and pressed the button to speak. "Scully." She needed to vent, and Mulder could only appreciate how mad she was at the detective. "Mulder, I'm so pissed right now -- " 

"Scully…" The tone of his voice made her hair stand up on end. "Scully… help me." 

Oh, Christ, while she'd been playing cops and robbers with the local boys… "Mulder! Mulder, what's wrong?" 

"Follow… Kocin. He's… the killer." Her ire that he'd gone out on his own evaporated at his next words. "God, Scully, my eyes! He did something to my eyes!" 

Scully felt all the breath leave her. He was hurt. Mulder found the *real* killer, and because she wasn't there to provide *real* backup, he'd been hurt. "Mulder, oh, god, hold on! Can you tell me where you are?" 

"Warehouse district, Lot 93," he rattled off without hesitation in his raspy voice. His next words were choked. "Scully, I can't see!" 

Oh my god, oh my god, she thought. "Stay on the line with me, Mulder." Turning back around seeking out Kresge, she found him nowhere in sight. "Sheriff Ramirez," she called to the man already on his radio, "I need you to call the paramedics. My partner's been injured by a suspect." 

"Already standing by, Agent Scully. Just tell me where." 

She thanked God that at least someone didn't have his head up his ass. She repeated the address Mulder gave her and told him there was something wrong with her partner's eyes. 

"There's a body, Scully," Mulder said in her ear. "I don't know if she's dead -- there's blood --" She could hear him starting to hyperventilate, a pain-filled grating of a sound. 

"Shhh, Mulder, calm down. I can hear your wheezing over the phone. Just relax." Suddenly, she felt herself go cold. "Is Kocin still there?" 

"He… took off."  

Her relief was short-lived as an anguished wail came over the line. Oh, God, he had to be in terrible pain to let her hear that. What could be hurting his eyes so much that -- "Mulder, shit, did you say he threw something in your eyes?" 

"Yeah -- bright white flash. Oh, God, it hurts!" His voice was almost gone, yet he managed to convey his torment perfectly clearly; the thought of him alone and suffering brought tears to her eyes.  

She forced herself to find out as much information as she could from him now in case he wasn't in any condition later to help. "White, really bright? Shit, it was probably magnesium."  

"Agent Scully!" The sheriff's hail -- just barely -- pulled her attention away from Mulder. "An ambulance will be there in ten minutes or less. Lucky the building he's in is close to the hospital." 

"Mulder, the ambulance says they'll be there in ten minutes. Don't rub your eyes! Keep your hands away from your eyes! Magnesium is an alkaline -- that's very dangerous and can cause permanent damage. Do you hear me, Mulder -- don't rub your eyes! Please!" 

"I'll try, Scully," he whispered. "Please hurry." 

She turned beseeching eyes upon the sheriff. "Where's --" 

"Come on. I'll take you." 

Not really caring that she was blowing off Kresge, Scully followed the sheriff. "Mulder, you're very close to a hospital. I'll meet you there. Okay?" 

She heard him sniff, then, "Okay." 

"I'm coming, Mulder. You just hold on for me, okay? I'm coming." 

"I am," he said, his voice choked. 

Not giving a damn that she had an audience, she said what she felt, and what she needed to say. "I love you, Mulder." 

She continued to talk to and comfort him until the ambulance arrived, and the paramedics took the phone away from him, and took him away from her. 

** 

Warehouse District

Lot 93

5:52 p.m. 

". . . Scully," he rasped weakly. He felt the phone in his hands, but he couldn't hold it up to his ear. The urge to rub his eyes, tear them out, actually, was so great he had to keep both hands away from his face. He could hear her voice at a distance, but he couldn't make out what she was saying. Had he heard her right? 'I love you' . . . ? 

He moaned in pain and willed himself to calm down. The pain was causing him to panic, which was causing his chest to tighten and all breath was leaving his body. Somewhere in his fall he'd lost the inhaler, not that he could fumble it to his mouth without seeing what he was doing.  

Sirens approached and soon he heard doors slamming and footsteps on the concrete. 

"In here," he gasped, as loud as he could. "I'm in here."  

As luck would have it, the EMTs managed to find him in a very short time.  

"OK, sir, we're here to help you," said a light soprano voice. Mulder could almost picture it coming from a winsome blonde. 

"The woman . . . in the . . . box," Mulder choked out, waving his hand in a direction he hoped indicted the body he'd seen earlier. 

"Andy, check on her," came the voice again. "What's your name, sir? Can you tell me your name?" 

"Mulder. Agent Fox Mulder. FBI," he said through gritted teeth as he was jostled and placed first on a backboard and then a gurney.  

"OK, Agent Mulder, my name is Nancy and I'm going to take a look at your eyes. Tell me if I hurt you, I'm going to try to be gentle."  

He felt her hands on his cheeks but when she brushed her fingertips across his eyelids, he almost shot off the floor in agony. "Stop! Please, stop," he begged. 

"We need to flush these," Nancy said to someone else. "Agent Mulder, do you know what the substance was?" 

"Bright white light . . . um . . . partner said magnesium," he panted, trying to get more air into this struggling lungs. 

"His respiratory reading isn't too hot, Nan. We better start him on some O2," came a deep voice, one Mulder would place with a line backer or a heavyweight wrestler. 

"Go for it, James, and get me that pack of Ringers. We'll flush with that. Call base, tell them we need ophthalmology on arrival." 

Mulder suffered in silence, only listening to his own heartbeat as the two medical technicians worked on him. There was a stick on the back of his left hand -- he knew the all too familiar IV was being inserted. He felt Nan's hands on his face again. 

"Agent Mulder, I need to flush your eyes with a saline solution. It's probably going to hurt, but it will stop the burn, I promise."  

He nodded weakly. Now that James had the oxygen mask in place, he was breathing easier, but pain and fear kept his heart pounding in his ears.  

"OW!" he yelped when he felt the liquid trickle down the side of his face. It felt soothing to his cheeks, but it felt like it was burning his eyes right out of their sockets. "Please," he begged. "Please stop!" 

"Just a little more and then we have to do the other side," Nan said apologetically. "James, what's his b/p?" 

"150 over 110," James said tersely.  

"Call in and tell them he's in a lot of pain. Maybe they'll let us give him something for the ride." 

Nan tried to keep him occupied by supplying her with his list of medications. Scully had compiled a list on the computer, including dosages, and had him carry a copy in his wallet. After another quick call to the hospital, Nan touched his shoulder. 

"Good news, they're going to let us give you a shot for the ride. Now, I want you to just relax, we'll get you to the hospital in a jiffy. Is there anyone you need us to call once we get you there?" 

" . . . my partner . . . she's meeting me . . . at hospital," he said in a hoarse whisper. He could feel something cold running through the IV James had started and welcomed the feeling. Soon the pain would leave him alone. 

"OK, well, we're going to get you out of here. Just hang on. If you start to feel sick or anything just call out, OK?" 

"OK," he said weakly. He could feel the medication starting to work. Since he still couldn't see anything, his hearing was affected. Sounds came to him from a great distance. As the pain eased, and the oxygen aided his breathing, he drifted off into a doze. 

** 

Warehouse District

Lot 93

6:38 p.m. 

As he neared the address relayed to him by Sheriff Ramirez's deputy, John couldn't believe how irritated he still felt about Dana's running off to her partner's side -- and leaving a potential crime scene, to boot. What the hell was wrong with her?  

The sheriff's taking off with her didn't exactly leave an agreeable taste in his mouth, either. Now here John was, finishing up what that ass, Mulder, had started. Humph. Ramirez never did say what happened to the guy and why Dana had to rush off, only that he'd been injured at the scene, and that he'd mentioned something about a body. 

One lone policeman waved at him as he pulled up to the broken-down building in the sprawling complex. Odd, he thought sarcastically, you'd think there'd be more than one emergency vehicle at the scene of a murder. Could it be that J. Edgar was wrong? 

As John parked, the two sheriff's department cars that had accompanied him screeched to a halt behind him. "What've we got, Jimmy?" he asked, getting out and walking toward the tall African-American sergeant.  

The veteran officer looked perplexed. "There's no body here, John. Just a storefront dummy." He looked up at the detective. "Some nut stuck it in a coffin and cut it in half. Coffin and all." 

"No body, you say? Now there's a shocker." Paying no heed to the deputies standing around exchanging looks of indecision, John swept by the whole pack and into the dark warehouse. He approached the officer standing beside the body.

Great. Jenelle Withers. Where the hell was Jimmy's regular partner? He shuddered. Whatever was he thinking when he'd gone out with Jenelle last year? Though he'd considered their break-up amicable, she sure as hell didn't share those feelings. 

"So. Kresge." She looked him up and down, malicious amusement dancing in her eyes. "You call in the D.B.?" 

John scowled. "No," he said, curtly. "That would be the F.B.I." 

"Uh, huh," she said, that smug tone to her voice that he despised. "Well, it's all yours." She gestured to the oblong box -- and its occupant -- behind her. "I'll consider myself relieved at the scene." She started to walk away, then called over her shoulder. "Watch out you don't step in that blood." 

Looking down at his feet, John leaped away form the coffin when he spotted the red stain beneath him. Jenelle's malevolent chuckle reached his burning ears as he realized that the 'blood' was nothing more than some old paint stains. "Damn it," he muttered. He kicked the table upon which the box sat. "Stupid fed." 

He was shocked to find that he'd applied that to both Mulder *and* Dana. After all, she was the one who deserted him and sent him on this snipe hunt. She was the one who went running off because her partner had a hangnail. Or something. 

And who took the abuse? Who would become the butt of all the department jokes for the next decade? Not Mulder. Ohhh, no. In a week, tops, that joker'd be on his way east, the case and all its ramifications -- such as John's humiliation -- out of his mind. 

Damn it. John really did not like that guy. 

"Excuse me. Detective?" Deputy Ralph Greenburg, whom John hadn't even heard enter the building, was regarding him with trepidation. Three deputies stood around him in various states of anxiety. 

"Yeah, Ralph. What can I do for you?" John was careful not to take his ire out on the young deputy. 

"We're going to check out the rest of the building, then head on back. That okay with you?" 

John grimaced as the deputy pointed out something he should have initiated himself. "Yeah, Ralph. Thanks. I'll… secure this area." 

Sighing, John put in a call for a forensics team. Even though the body turned out to be a sham, a crime had been committed in this warehouse. A law officer had been attacked, and John had a duty to garner as much evidence as he could. 

"Detective!" 

"Yeah?" John answered the hail from Greenburg. 

"There's some powdery stuff on the floor here. Looks like someone stepped in it and ran off that way." He pointed to the rear of the building. 

"Okay," John said, walking over to take a look. "Can you guys hang out here until Forensics shows up? I need to be somewhere else." 

"Sure," the deputy said agreeably. "We'll set up a perimeter so the evidence isn't disturbed." The young man sounded so excited by the prospect that John would have smiled if he wasn't so aggravated. 

"Yeah. Great. Go ahead." As he started to move off, he felt a pang of guilt for his abrupt treatment of Greenburg. "Good work," he said, forcing a smile. 

Throwing a quick look to his co-workers, Greenburg beamed. "Thanks, Detective." 

"Sure," John told him before heading out. "At least someone's getting something good out of this," he grumbled under his breath. 

Relieved to find no trace of his former lover, but losing any semblance of good humor his encounter with the deputy may have brought about, John hopped in his car and headed over to the hospital so he could give Mulder a piece of his mind. 

** 

University of San Diego Medical Center

6:45 pm 

Dana Scully paced and fumed. Upon arrival, she discovered that her partner hadn't arrived, but the admissions department was already looking for her. She thanked her lucky stars that she'd insisted Mulder get two insurance cards each year at 'benefits choice period' -- one for his wallet and one for hers. Even then it took the better part of half an hour to ensure the medical center that the Federal Employees Group Health insurance would pay in full, since the injury was work related, even though the medical center was an 'out of network' provider. She might have found it all humorous if she hadn't gone through the same drill in Raleigh just two weeks before. 

When she managed to untangle herself from the yards of red tape, she'd been informed that her partner had arrived. However, due to the critical nature of his injury, the doctors had instructed that all family members remain in the waiting area during initial treatment. She flashed her badge, her District of Columbia medical card and was about to pull her gun, but to no avail. She was still pacing when the doctor came out to speak with her. 

"Are you with Agent Mulder?" a bright eyed woman no older than 35 asked. 

"Yes, I'm Dana Scully. Doctor Dana Scully," she emphasized her title. "I'm Agent Mulder's partner." 

"Doctor Scully," the woman replied, also emphasizing the title. "I'm Julia Pearson, head resident in ophthalmology. If you'll follow me, I'd like to speak to you about your partner's condition." 

Dr. Pearson led Scully back through the double doors of the Emergency Department and into a hall of small offices. She entered one and took a seat, gesturing to Scully to sit down. She picked up a chart from a small table and handed it to Scully. "I don't usually let family read the charts, but since you're a doctor . . ."  

"My specialty is pathology," Scully said guiltily. "But I do keep my certification up in emergency medicine -- it comes in handy in the field." 

"I can imagine," Pearson said amiably. "Well, as you can see, Agent Mulder sustained injury to both eyes -- chemical burns which we were able to determine were caused by magnesium powder. Since Agent Mulder was alert enough to tell the EMTs that it was probably magnesium, they were able to flush his eyes at the scene, which saved his sight, more than likely." 

Scully swallowed hard and nodded. "Then he will recover his sight?" 

Pearson smiled. "We have every reason to believe that will be the case. Of course, we're treating for infection and complications can arise -- " 

"I understand, thank you," Scully said, breathing easier. "Are you admitting him?" 

"Yes. It's necessary in a case such as this. Alkaline substances are highly corrosive to the ocular tissue and organs and we need to ensure that all traces of the chemical are gone. We'll be administering Homatropine in a 5 percent solution for the next twenty-four hours to flush the eyes and Tobramycin to stop any possible infection. Plus, your partner will still need medication for pain. We'll keep patches on until we feel the eyes are healing properly -- those will have to stay on even after he's released, at least for a few days. Now, I noticed that he's on a bronchodilator. Is his asthma chronic?" 

"He's recovering from a severe infestation in his bronchial tissues. I'll have the records from his most recent hospital stay faxed to you," Scully promised. 

"Most recent?" Pearson asked quizzically. 

Scully smiled serenely. "Two weeks past. Yes." 

The young doctor raised her eyebrows but didn't comment. "Well, I'm sure you'd like to see your partner and he's been asking to see you. When I left I promised him that you'd be allowed to see him once he was settled into his room."  

** 

Room 563       

half an hour later 

Mulder rolled his head from side to side. He could feel the crisp cotton pillowcase, and the smell of bleach and plastic overwhelmed his delicate stomach. He tried opening his eyes, but was met with some resistance. Confused, he brought his hand up to his face, only to have it caught in mid air in a firm grip. 

"No, Mulder. Leave the patches alone." 

"Scully," he rasped. His throat wasn't on fire, but that didn't make his voice any stronger. After a brief self-evaluation, he decided nothing really hurt, but he felt foggy -- unsure of himself. Maybe he was dreaming this? 

"I'm right here, Mulder." She sounded tired and worried and just a little exasperated. Par for the course. So it was possible that it was all a dream. 

"Here, have some of this." A straw suddenly touched his bottom lip and he sucked on it greedily. Water. Not ice chips. Well, if it wasn't a dream at least he wasn't in horrible shape. Slowly, the events of the warehouse filtered back to him. His eyes! 

"Scully, my eyes?" His chest grew tight, waiting for her answer. She laid a hand on his shoulder and he flinched. 

"Sorry, should have warned you," she said calmly. "Mulder, your eyes will be fine. You were very lucky -- the paramedics got to you quickly and were able to rinse most of the chemical out of your eyes before it could cause permanent damage. The doctor left orders for your eyes to be treated with a solution for the next day and they're giving you antibiotics and pain meds. You can go home tomorrow afternoon, if everything looks good." 

That calmed his nerves considerably, but left the way open for other concerns. "How about the body in the warehouse? I saw Kocin -- he was killing her!" 

"Mulder, calm down," Scully ordered. "I came directly here, but John, er, Detective Kresge sent a team over to the warehouse. I'm sure we'll hear from them soon." 

"I'm sure _you'll_ hear from him," Mulder grumbled just under his breath. 

"What?" she asked. 

"Nothing. So how long do I look like a really bad pirate?" he deflected. 

He could almost hear the grin in her voice. "The patches have to stay on for a few days, minimum, possibly a week. Your eyes weren't permanently damaged, but they did sustain some injury from the burn. We have to keep them covered to protect them from infection and simply because they'll be sensitive to light for awhile. After a few days, sunglasses will suffice. And rest. Much more rest than you've been getting," she said, her tone growing serious. 

"So when can I read, Scully? I need to be able to read to work on my profile." 

"Mulder, the only reason you aren't on a plane headed back to DC this minute is because you couldn't negotiate the airport back home by yourself," she growled. "As for this case, you are officially off it -- per direct order of Assistant Director Skinner, who is threatening to suspend you without pay if you try to ignore said order." 

"Guess you've been busy," he sneered. 

"Oh, I've been very busy," she shot back. "See, while I was at a stakeout of a possible murder suspect I got a call that my partner, who was supposedly safely at the hotel, had been attacked and was possibly blinded by another possible murder suspect. After filling out enough paperwork to have you admitted to the United Nations as a fledgling third world country, I had to report to our superior what the hell you've been doing and how you managed to end up, yet again, in the hospital -- for the second time in less than thirty days, he reminded me. Yes, I've had a stellar day, Mulder!" 

Oops! Open mouth, insert nearest appendage. It was time to regroup and start over. "Scully, I'm sorry," he croaked out. He grabbed wildly at thin air until she finally took his hand. Quickly, he brought her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her knuckles. "I really am sorry," he repeated.  

"Mulder -- " He could hear the utter frustration in her voice. There was something else there -- defeat? Maybe resignation? God, he hoped not! He listened hard and heard a soft snuffling sound. Oh shit. She was crying! He'd really done it this time. 

"Scully," he tried again, tugging her hand and reaching out, finally finding her shoulders. He pulled her gently down to embrace her as best he could. "I know, I know. I really am sorry," he said once again, hoping this time it would appease her. 

She let him hold her for a few moments and he relished the feel of her against his shoulder, became almost light-headed as he inhaled her perfume. Then, suddenly, she was pushing herself up and out of his arms.  

"Mulder, I just . . . I just don't know how much more of this I can take," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "Every time I see you in another hospital bed -- " 

It wasn't just the words, they were bad enough, but her tone of voice sent a chuck of dread straight to his stomach. What was she saying? She couldn't take this anymore? Couldn't take what? Him? 

"Scully, please -- " he begged. 

"You need to get some rest. The nurse will be coming soon for another eye treatment and you should try to get some sleep till then." 

"Will you be here?" he asked. He was afraid, yes. Afraid of the treatment, a little. But more than that, he was afraid he was losing her.  

He felt her hand cup his cheek. "Of course. I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere. Go to sleep, Mulder. I'm here." 

Her words sounded reassuring, so why wasn't he reassured? Was it her tone? Or was it that he couldn't look in her eyes and know that what she was saying was what she meant -- that she wasn't giving up on him? He wanted to ask her more questions, try and catch the clues in her voice, but the pain meds were dragging him back into the darkness. It was a puzzle he didn't have all the pieces to and it would have to wait for a while. 

**

University of San Diego Medical Center

7:33 p.m.

Room 563 

"Dana!" John's hail caused her head to snap up from where it had been leaning on her hand. Upon seeing him, she rose quickly and headed toward where he was standing in the doorway. As she got closer, he noticed the trails of wet streaks she was hastily trying to remove. What the hell…?  

She led him to a lounge area a couple of doors down from Mulder's room and took a seat on the couch; John sat beside her. He couldn't help but stare at traces of mascara she hadn't completely wiped away from her eyes. What the heck was going on? 

John had checked with the nurses' station before heading to the dickhead's room; they reported that Agent Mulder was resting comfortably and was out of danger. So why was Dana crying? 

Sudden fury surged through John. That son of a bitch! It wasn't enough he had to screw with the case and get himself tossed in the hospital. Now he'd gone and said or done something to poor Dana.  

Huh. Poor Dana, he reflected. Poor Dana who'd run off at the first sign that her precious partner was in a jam. Still, he admitted grudgingly. He couldn't fault her for her loyalty, misplaced though it was. He supposed it was one of the things that attracted him to her. 

"Hey," he said, immediately softening. "What's wrong?" 

She shook her head. "Nothing, John," she said, trying to force a smile. 

"Come on," he said gently. "You're not sitting here… like this… for nothing." He'd caught himself at the last second; even if she was a woman, prone to crying, he was man enough not to rub her face in it.  

"Really, John, I'm fine. It's nothing. Okay?"

Her denial only made him more suspicious. "Is it him?" 

"Him?" Her pretension that she didn't know what he was talking about incensed John. She *was* hiding something. About that bastard Mulder. 

"Him!" John indicated Mulder's room with his chin. "Your partner! The guy who called in a false police report on a nonexistent body! The one you're protecting for God knows what reason!" 

"There was no body?" Dana asked, completely brushing aside the real subject -- what that son of a bitch had done to make her cry.  

Fine. She didn't want to deal with it yet… he could play the avoidance game. For the moment. "No, there was no goddamned body! There was a dummy in a box and some red paint. Your stupid partner caught some schmuck hacking away at a sawdust dummy, and got himself hurt because he was harassing a guy engaging in some kind of weird fetish. What the hell happened to him anyway that you had to leave the scene of a crime? And leave without letting me know where the hell you were going?" 

The look of astonishment on her face was oh, so satisfying to his wounded pride. Yeah, that's right, Dana, he berated her silently. You went too far and made me lose my temper. Ain't payback a bitch? 

"Crime scene?" she finally said, her tone somewhat subdued. Well! At least she realized the error of her ways, he thought with a smirk; maybe he'd let her off easy since she was being so cooperative. "You call that run-down excuse for a farm a crime scene?" Whoa. What was this? What happened to meek, submissive Dana? "Dodds was a no-show! How does that qualify as a crime scene? And I don't answer to you, Detective, so I can leave whenever the hell I want!" When she stood up, he actually moved back a step, until he caught himself and stood his ground. "As for Mulder, he is my partner. He was hurt, and he needed my help. You, on the other hand, made it abundantly clear that you did not." 

What the hell was she nattering on about? For Christ's sake, he let her in on the Dodds capture, didn't he? It wasn't his fault their bird had already flown the coop. "What do you mean by that?" 

"Putting me on backup! I had every right to be in on his capture, yet you did everything you could to push me to the background." 

He was flabbergasted. Is that what she thought? "No, Dana," he said in his most soothing voice, guiding her back down onto the couch and reseating himself next to her. "I was only trying to keep you out of harm's way. You -- " 

"I'm a federal officer," she said, and he swore he could hear her hissing. It was NOT a sound that normally attracted him to a woman, but in her case he was strangely fascinated. "I am a duly sworn agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I will NOT be protected by you or anyone else." 

John was appalled. "Your partner doesn't protect you?" My God, she needed John more than he'd thought! 

"No, goddammit, he lets me do my job!" 

"God, Dana, I'm sorry." 

That single sentiment seemed to take the wind out of her sails. "Well -- " 

"I knew there was something about that guy that rubbed me the wrong way." 

Dana looked totally confused -- God! What a cute expression on her! 

John nodded, warming to a subject (Mulder) that didn't normally warm him. "What kind of man puts his own safety above that of his partner? You. A woman." 

John could see anger creeping onto Dana's face yet again. Finally, she was seeing the light. It's about goddammned good time! 

"And just what does that mean?" she said, a dangerous trill to her voice that gave him the chills. In a good way. 

John shrugged. "It's perfectly obvious, only you're too blinded by loyalty to see it." 

"See what?" 

"Your partner's not doing all he can to shield you from harm. Your partner's not doing *anything* to keep you safe. He's endangering your life by putting you in the line of fire, and he's going off on his own and harassing honest citizens, then getting himself hurt and putting you through hell because of his carelessness. You don't need that, Dana. You don't need to be worrying that your partner might be off doing something stupid that might get you hurt -- or killed."