Title:  Red (1/1)
Author:  Maraschino
Feedback to:  maraschino@ibm.net

Disclaimer:  Not mine.  Never will be.  Not making money.  Nuff said.

Archive:  Sure... just keep my name and addy attached.

Classification:  SA

Rating:  PG-13 - for one bad word right off the top

Summary:  "Field Trip" post ep.  More angst to satisfy my insatiable 
quotient.  Oh, and theres sap up the ying yang.

***

	Fuck hospital tape, my mind swears as I feel skin being ripped 
away.  I unsuccessfully stifle a grimace, wondering who the show is for 
when its just me and the bathroom mirror entertaining each other.  
Finally, after inhaling sharply, the white gauze is torn away, and it 
drops from my lifeless fingers as I feel tile spin lazily around me.  

	Apparently the hallucinogen-induced hangover hasnt completely 
disappeared.

	I stare dispassionately at the inflamed streak of red burning 
happily on the left side of my face.  My lips curl into a cruel smile, 
thinking of the Phantom of the Opera.  Surely wearing the white gauze 
around work like a mask would do wonders for the Spooky reputation.

	"Mulder, youre studying your face as if its worthy of a Ph.D. 
thesis.  I assure you, its not."

	I turn around suddenly at the voice, my thoughts rapidly 
scattering, the stark reality of the hospital hitting me with full 
force.  Forget the smell of disinfectant, and the bland tiles; Scullys 
face is an adequate enough reminder.  Its littered by red splotches - 
a happy map of red masses that spreads across her cheeks and hands.  

	Her brand new spring coat had taken much of the abuse, much to 
her chagrin.  But I had been quick to point out that there had been no 
cell phones injured in the course of this case, nor any guns 
missing/stolen/lost.  The accountants upstairs would most likely do a 
double take at the normalcy of it all.

	"The other patient in my room was getting prepped for a 
transplant, so I decided to drop by."

	My mouth refuses to work.  Underneath the harsh bathroom lighting 
I can see the inflamed areas on her face, and I realize how close we 
had come.  They are painful reminders of the frost bite from 
Antarctica.  The insect bites from Olympic National Park.  Scully 
mistakes the reasons for my silence, and gently turns my head to 
inspect the burn on my cheek. 

	"Dont worry about it, Mulder.  The doctor said that there is a 
little to no possibility of permanent scarring."

	I smile weakly.  Hello martyr complex - Im once again pleased to 
meet your acquaintance.  I feel nothing but relief that I was in the 
cave longer than she was. Seeing the stark contrast of the mild burns 
on her alabaster skin, no one is more glad to wear the white, gauze 
monstrosity than me.

	"Doctor Yorke says we should be out of here by tomorrow, barring 
any complications, of course."

	I give a nod of acceptance, still unable to look my partner in 
the eyes.  I suppose I shouldnt be too surprised that Scully would 
quickly notice the silent statue beside her - shes become quite 
proficient at Mulder-ese. 

	"Mulder, are you okay?"

	My shoulders shrug reflexively, and I try to offer a par-for-the-
course sardonic grin.  "Its not everyday youre almost outsmarted by a 
plant."  My voice echoes off the tile, and I realize that any room with 
a porcelain throne and toilet paper is a ridiculous place to be holding 
a conversation. 

	Scully hangs her head in embarrassment, although I cannot fathom 
why.  "Some more that others."  She shakes her head, her voice softer.  
"Mulder, I dont know what would have happened if you hadnt signaled 
for help."  At my surprised look, she smiles slightly.  "Skinner told 
me about seeing your hand waving in the dirt."

	I try not to hang my head down in shame.  "I wasnt," the words 
seem to stick to the lump in my throat, "signaling for help."  Scullys 
eyes blink once deliberately, and she tilts her head in a silent motion 
to continue.  I stare at the floor, wondering why her name is still so 
difficult to say.  "Samantha was being taking away, and I was just 
trying to grab her."  Even though she is standing right beside me, I 
wonder if Scully can hear me; the words have enough difficulty passing 
through my lips.  My eyes close and I wonder how tears can still form, 
thirty years later.  "I remember," I close my eyes tighter, "reaching 
up for her."

	The light had seared my face; green and orange spots had danced 
in my eyes as I had watched her disappear, desperately reaching towards 
the sky to grab any part of Sam that I could.  I shake my head, trying 
to shake the last gossamers of the memory.  When I open my eyes, Scully 
is staring at me, radiating compassion.  I smile self deprecatingly.  
"Such a hero, huh?"

	Realization dawns on her face.  "You reached for my hand in the 
ambulance."

	I admire the bathroom floor, embarrassed.  "I had to make sure 
you were there."

	Her hand grazes across mine.  "I had to make sure you were there, 
too," she whispers.  She falls silent, and she picks at invisible lint on her 
hospital gown.  "I dreamt," she begins softly, "that I had been in that 
train car again.  And I couldnt move.  Those hands started reaching 
for me, and I was sure they were going to kill me."

	At the confession, her steely façade tries to build itself.  But 
her lips quiver, and her eyes become bright with unshed tears.  I know 
the sequence of events that she is thinking of now.  Like a row of 
dominoes, the abduction, the cancer, Emily, and the bridge flash like a 
grotesque kaleidoscope.

	I pull her into an embrace, and the outside world disappears 
momentarily.  "Everythings okay now," I say with as much reassurance I 
can muster.  Scully breathes in deeply; I take comfort in feeling her 
diaphragm move up and down rhythmically.

	When we mutually pull away, her pale complexion has regained some 
color.  "I should go," she says, but makes no move towards the door. 
For a moment she looks uncertain, but then her eyes shine with 
curiosity.  "How do you think we could have had the same hallucination 
in Skinners office?"

	I turn around, facing the mirror, trying to busy myself with 
tidying the small number of objects around the sink.  Ive asked myself 
the same question, wondering if the answer is deserving of its own X-
File.  

	*Its a bond, Scully.  A connection.  A covenant.*

	Its something that all Harlequin relationships aspire to be.  A 
notion that Phoebe Green would take great pleasures at scoffing at. An 
idea that Diana Fowley would say "Oh Fox, you cant be serious" with 
those deep brown, disapproving eyes. 

	Its the hardest theory to explain, and I think Scully already 
knows the answer.  

	My mind desperately backtracks. I think back to the transplant 
patient waiting in her room.  No case is complete without the Scully 
eye roll or the way-out-there-for-the-sake-of-being-way-out-there 
Mulder theory.  "I think in the six years that weve known each other, 
some sort of soul transplantation occurred, ala Frankenstein."

	Mission complete, and I hear Scully sigh exasperatedly.  The dark 
mood is gone and she is already moving towards the door.  "Good night, 
Mulder.  Do me a favor, and dont alienate the nurses too much tonight, 
okay?"

	The smile pulls the skin on my cheek, and I wait until the door 
softly clicks shut so that I can collect my thoughts.  I turn back to 
the mirror, content to stare and try to find answers in the hazel 
spheres that gaze back at me.  Im not surprised when I catch a flash 
of red.  I turn my head the other way, noticing a flash of blue that 
lasts nanoseconds. 

	Perhaps that soul transplant hypothesis isnt that implausible.

	Maybe its the simplest explanation.

~~*~~

END

Feedback to:  maraschino@ibm.net