Title: Blue Author: Susan E-mail: touchstone98@tx.rr.com Classification: post-ep vignette Keywords: disturbing images and BIG TIME angst (translation: this story is not my usual fare and isn't pretty) Rating: PG to R Spoiler: Orison, brief reference to Wetwired Archive: No archive without permission. Disclaimer: These characters belong to each other, not me. Author's notes: What if Mulder hadn't gotten to Scully's apartment when he did at the end of Orison? What if he'd arrived just a few minutes later? Maybe this... Additional author's notes at the end. Summary: This time he was too late. ******************************************************** Blue by Susan ~~~~ When he felt every hair on the back of his neck rise in unison, he knew. He had to get to her. There had been other signs since he'd gotten home. The odd grinding sound his clock was making. The unusual taste of the toothpaste as he brushed his teeth. The same song on his radio that she'd heard earlier. But it was the prickly hairs around the base of his neck that prompted him to race down the stairs instead of using the elevator, then drive off into the night at breakneck speed. He'd had other premonitions about his partner recently. Other moments when his adrenaline went into overdrive because she was in danger. And thankfully, each of those times he had been able to save her. But would he be able to this time? ~~~~ He pulled into the hospital parking lot at exactly 7:15 a.m., found a place to park, then shut off the engine. The cold rain was coming down hard now and though he usually kept an umbrella in his glove compartment, he suddenly remembered that he'd given it to Scully to use two days ago. Two days ago she'd gratefully taken it from him during an unexpected downpour and given him a warm smile he'd never seen before. Just two days ago... Getting out of the car, he slammed the door, pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck, and walked towards the hospital. Slowly. ~~~~ When he got to her doorway, he didn't bother knocking or even trying the key. He kicked the door open, gun in hand, heart thrumming in triple time. His eyes darting around the room, he quickly surveyed the damage before him. Broken lamps, scattered magazines, loose chair cushions. Shattered glass everywhere and the faint scent of cinnamon candles. When Donnie Pfaster had held her hostage five years ago, he'd seen the same things, but he'd also seen Scully right in front of him, hands tied, a gag loosely hanging around her neck. This time he saw nothing. And he knew. This time he was too late. ~~~~ The moment he walked through the main entrance, he was struck by just how many people he saw. Were there really that many patients here for them to visit? And of those patients, how many had been hurt in car accidents? How many of them had gone through surgery this morning? How many were dying of cancer or lung disease? There were probably hundreds of patients like that scattered throughout the five floors of the hospital. But how many of them had five of their fingers sliced off by Donnie Pfaster last night? Only one. ~~~~ When he found her, she was lying on the floor next to the bathtub, burning candles surrounding her. And blood. Not on her neck or head where he expected to find it, but on her fingers. The same fingers that had so carefully dissected dozens of victims over the years. The same fingers that she'd used to tuck her hair behind her ear. The same fingers he'd held in his own hand. The same fingers that had softly trickled down the curve of his back just two nights ago. Her fingers, once smooth and strong and perfectly manicured, now desecrated beyond recognition. He wanted to shoot, kill, destroy. But he was too late. Too goddamn late. ~~~~ He stepped into the elevator, pressed the button for the fourth floor, then leaned back against the wall. As the door shut, he closed his eyes and waited for the familiar sensation of being lifted off the ground. And then he felt it, his body going up, up, up, and he wished he could just keep going right up through the top of the building and into the sky. And he wished Scully was with him too, the two of them flying through the clouds in their own private elevator. But then he felt it stop, saw the door open. And the white clouds were gone, replaced by a hallway of white walls. ~~~~ He didn't know where Donnie was or why he'd left without finishing the job. All he knew was that she was still alive. Her pulse was thready, her eyes dark and glassy, her wrists red with rope burns. But she was alive. She was alive... "Scully, talk to me, Scully," he pleaded as he pulled her limp body into his arms. "Please..." he begged, lifting her face up closer to his, looking for a sign of recognition, a flicker of hope, anything... But there was nothing in her eyes for him to see. And nothing for him to hold onto. ~~~~ Four years ago, he remembered walking down a long white hallway like this. He was called in to identify a body that had been found along the side of a highway, then brought in to the coroner's office. At the time, he thought he was going to have to see her body lying there, dead on the table. It took everything he had to make himself walk down that hallway. And though this time he knew she'd be alive when he got to her room, he felt the same way again. Now if he could just make himself breathe... ~~~~ Grabbing a towel from the rack, he carefully wrapped it around both her hands, then reached inside his pocket and pulled out his phone. His hand trembling, his voice barely audible, he pressed the buttons and called 911. And he waited. And he cried. ~~~~ When he walked into her room, there was a nurse standing by her bed, writing on a chart, the same nurse who'd attended to her last night when she was brought in. "Has there been any change?" he asked hopefully. "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder, there hasn't," she replied, setting the chart down on the nightstand. "But she's comfortable," she added, gently touching his arm as she walked by. "Thank you," he whispered, grateful for her kindness. "I'll be back in a half hour to check on her again," she said, quietly leaving the room. And for the first time since he'd found her on the bathroom floor, they were alone. He'd been alone with her before in a hospital room, waiting for her to open her eyes and look over at him, but this time was different. This time her eyes were already open. But they weren't looking at him. They weren't looking at anything. ~~~~ "She's an FBI agent...my partner," he said, trying to keep his composure, but failing miserably. The paramedics bent down beside him and lifted her from his arms, the woman keeping the towel wrapped around her hands, the man doing most of the lifting onto the stretcher. "Be careful with her," he whispered, his arms now empty, the bottom of his shirt bloody. "We'll get her to the hospital as fast as we can, sir," replied the female paramedic reassuringly as they raised the stretcher and quickly wheeled her out of room. He nodded his head, then made himself look around again. At the tray of shampoos and conditioners perched on the edge of the tub, at the dozens of candles still burning, their wax dripping onto the porcelain. At the knife on the floor. The same bloody knife Donnie Pfaster used to slice his partner's fingers. Was she aware of what he was doing? Did she scream for help? Beg him to stop? Was she paralyzed with fear, or did she fight him with everything she had? He surveyed the room again, his eyes taking in the broken glass from the mirror, the scuff marks on the floor, the small tuft of hair on the rug. She's a fighter, his Scully. Always has been, always will be. But how will she ever have enough strength to fight her way back from this? ~~~~ Whenever she'd been in the hospital before, he'd sit beside her bed. Sometimes he'd talk to her. Sometimes he'd simply watch her sleep. But there was one thing that he always did, one thing that always made him feel connected to her in a way that nothing else did. Holding her hand. He would place his hand over hers and lightly squeeze her fingers, then lean over her bed and tell her what a strong person she was and that she had to fight. But this time that connection was gone. This time her hands were taken away from her, half her fingers stolen by a sick bastard because he was too late. Too goddamn late. ~~~~ The police arrived shortly after the paramedics left. He told them all he could, then left just five minutes later. He had to get out of her apartment, get away from the smell of burning candles and freshly spilled blood. And he had to get to her. He had to be there when she called his name, when she reached out for him. And he had to be there to see her looking up at him, not with eyes that were dark and glassy, but with the beautiful blue that he knew. ~~~~ He opened the blinds on the window and looked outside at the icy rain bouncing off the glass. If the rain continued that way, driving home later on the slick roads could be dangerous. But he wasn't going to worry about it. He wasn't going anywhere today. Closing the blinds back up again, he walked over to her bed and leaned down, gently kissing her cheek. Then he sat down in the chair beside her, carefully placed his hand on her arm and looked into the same eyes he'd been looking into for the past seven years. Somewhere beneath the darkness were the bright blue eyes he knew, he was certain of it. And he'd wait for them as long as he had to. ~end~ *Wow, are you as emotionally drained as I am? This was a difficult story for me to write, but I really felt like I needed to tell it. So many times throughout the years that the show was on, both Mulder and Scully came close to dying, yet they always found a way to survive, and I liked that about them. But then I got to thinking, what if one of those times, there wasn't a hopeful ending? What if something tragic happened to one of them, and it wasn't resolved after just one episode? What if they had to deal with it for the rest of their lives? That's why I wrote this, and that's why it gave me a such a great deal of creative satisfaction. The words and images were dark and raw and at times, actually made me feel uncomfortable, and it is my hope that as you read it, they made you feel something too. Thanks so much for your continued support throughout 2004 as well as all the other years I've been writing. I feel truly blessed to have met so many wonderful x-philes who enjoy fanfic as much as I do.:) Susan possibilities http://possiblities.bravehost.com/ Originally posted December 2004.