TITLE: It's Been Awhile (1/3) AUTHOR: FabulousMonster EMAIL ADDRESS: fabulousmonster@hotmail.com DISCLAIMER: I do not own the X-Files characters. They are the property of Ten-Thirteen, Chris Carter and Co. and FOX. However, I do own the ones that you have never seen in the X-Files before. They are my own creation. DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Gossamer, Xemplary, yes. Anywhere else, just let me know. SPOILER WARNING: Up to and including Season 8 RATING: PG-13. A couple of bad words-nothing you haven't heard on the playground before. CLASSIFICATION: Mulder POV, MSR, A SUMMARY: Welcome back, Agent Mulder. Nowhere Man. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story is comprised of a series of snapshots of Mulder's life during Season 8. I have tried to flesh out the physical and emotional trauma of his 're- birth' while staying within the context established by 1013. Staind's 'It's Been Awhile' has been playing incessantly throughout the writing of this story. My husband is threatening divorce. Please see additional Author's Notes at the end. All thanks to my betas Duke, MSK, and Keleka who provide me with straightforward and insightful comments, and keep me honest. Feedback is always appreciated! XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX It's Been Awhile--Part 1 "Why did you keep my apartment, Scully?" "It was a crime scene, Mulder." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX A gentle hand weaving through my hair awakes me. "Mulder, it's me." Of course it is. Who else would it be? "What time is it?" The voice I hear is rusty and weak. "Time," she laughs quietly. "It's six months, 14 days, and 27 minutes past the hour." My eyes aren't open--I can't manage that much activity yet--but I know she is crying. "So, the Alien Bounty Hunter took me for joyride." My lips are dry and I try to lick them. Cool water is brought to my mouth. "What do you remember?" Disconnected images flash across my closed lids. I can't piece them together. My head begins to throb. "Don't worry, we can talk later. Get some sleep." The stroking of my hair begins again. A wave of uneasiness washes over me. It feels as though small beetles are embedding in my skull. I think I pull away from her touch as sleep claims me. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "So, it looks like you've been busy while I've been gone." She smiles shyly at my observation. "Can I get you anything? Are you comfortable?" She busies herself around the room, straightening my bed sheets and rearranging the flowers. Her activities irritate me. Ignoring my question irritates me. I am disturbed by my irritation. I try again. "How did this happen? I thought it hadn't worked." Dear God, has she tried with someone else? Or has the chip in her neck, her field trip with CGB Spender, or her illness in Bellefleur played any part in her condition? I taste the bile in my mouth. My irritation turns to dread. "Everything's fine, Mulder. The baby's fine." She brings me a magazine and turns on the TV. "But Scully..." "Everything's *fine*, Mulder." She looks at me pointedly. I get the message loud and clear: no more questions. To emphasize the fact that everything is fine, fine, never better, she smiles tightly and squeezes my wrist. The gesture is meant to reassure me, and I think, maybe her. My skin crawls at her touch. I look into her eyes. I see the fear. No, everything is not fine. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I am in the hospital for over a week before I am allowed out of bed for a walk--actually a shuffle with a walker--down the hall. Turning a corner, I see Scully and another man talking. I can only see him in profile, but I recognize the square jaw, ex-military hair, and squinty resolve immediately: FBI. He is gazing down at her, and she up at him. With a flash of insight, I know I am not meant to hear this conversation. "You gotta tell him," I hear him say in an odd New York- Stone Mountain accent. She sighs. "I don't know. I don't know if it's the time. He's just getting his bearings." He frowns. "He's gonna find out." "Maybe I should wait a little longer." His frown deepens. "Hey, I thought ya always tol' me that he was big on the Truth. No time like the present, if ya ask me." She matches his frown. She didn't ask him. Not really. There is an awkward pause. He shifts gears, moving infinitesimally closer to her. "You look like hell." I feel my hackles rise. If I could get my legs to work, I'd run down the hall and kick his ass. From Scully's expression, I see she's going to beat me to it. "Well, it's not about me right now," she informs him coldly. "Asshole," her expression completes the sentence. "It's all about you right now--and the baby." They are locked in a silent duel. I am amazed when Scully breaks the gaze. He touches her briefly on the arm. "He'd want you thinking that way, too." He strides away. She looks after him and sighs. She places her hands behind the small of her back, closes her eyes, and rolls her neck, trying to stretch out the kinks. He's right: she looks like hell. I hate him for recognizing in two minutes what I've missed for over a week. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Mulder, I've got something to tell you." We are sitting outside on the hospital lawn. The sun is a benediction on my face. I open one eye. When she's finished, she looks at me intently, a mixture of fear and uncertainty etched across her face. I know she's expecting me to wax poetic on life and death and heaven and hell. A little Nietzsche; a little Kierkegaard; maybe even a bit of Ayn Rand thrown in for fun. More than anything though, she needs me to say something profound. "Did you play 'I Did It My Way' at my funeral?" I zigged when she expected me to zag. I forget that she's been out of practice for over six months. Her eyes swim with tears, but she laughs quietly. "Yes, Mulder, we played 'I Did It My Way.'" "The Chairman of the Board or The King's version?" "Elvis, of course. My mother was surprised. Frohike cried." "What did you do?" Time stops momentarily. The sun on my face suddenly becomes unbearably hot. She laughs again, but now there is no humor. Her eyes lock with mine. 'How can you ask me that?' Her question echoes in my head. And she hasn't said a word. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I am eating green Jell-O when the door to my hospital room bursts open. "I have some people who want to talk to you!" the young priest exclaims. He is cafe au lait, curly black hair, Backstreet-Boy-handsome. I choke on my Jell-O. "Do you know who you are? What you mean?" He thinks he is talking to Lazarus. Visions of Pope-dom dance in his eyes. For once in my--second--life, I am without words. How do I answer him? Panic overwhelms me. "Father!" Scully stands at the door. We pay attention. "Father, you're mistaken. Agent Mulder wasn't dead--he was simply missing." "But, I heard...the rumor in the hospital is..." She places her hand on his arm. "I know, but they're just rumors." She smiles up at him. 'Trust me,' her eyes say. 'I am God's child.' He stands in the middle of the room, befuddled and embarrassed. He looks over at me, but the Jell-O is suddenly commanding my attention. I feel a gentle hand come to rest on my head. I look up at him over my bowl, now equally embarrassed. He smiles at me. "Well, I'm glad--God--is glad you are safe. Bless you, Agent Mulder. The Lord always watches over His own." He leaves. My eyes lock with Scully's. "You're going to Hell for that, Scully," I joke weakly. The joke falls flat. Her face is frozen; her eyes haunted. "I've already been there." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Skinner comes to visit me. "Walter!" I exclaim, genuinely pleased to see him. He sits at my bedside, squirming uncomfortably. He is sweating profusely, something I haven't seen before. I become fascinated by a bead of sweat that is traveling from the top of his head towards his nose. He is saying something, but my concentration is on the sweat bead. I begin to mentally count down the time it will take until it reaches his nose. "Mulder, I have to explain why..." Ten, nine, eight. The bead begins its descent down his forehead. "You have to understand, I had to protect..." Six, five, four. The bead has reached the bridge of his nose. "You'd been gone...Krycek...Scully's life...the baby's..." The bead begins to trickle down his nose. Two, one. I interrupt him in mid-sentence. "Walter, why are you sweating so much?" I really want to know. He looks at me incredulously. I see the familiar spark of Skinner anger. "I don't know Mulder, maybe it's because I've never spoken to a fucking corpse before!" Genuine emotion. Honesty. Sweet relief after days of people tiptoeing around me. I laugh. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I hate looking at myself in the mirror. Frankly, I hate my entire body: its pale, scarred gauntness reminds me too much of where-of what--I was only recently. Basic hygiene is torture. The sound of water striking porcelain; the heat, humidity, and closed space of a shower; water like nettles raining down against my skin... I experiment with not shaving for a couple of days, but the itchiness and a disapproving Scully eyebrow eliminate that option. It's getting worse. Any touch, any incidental contact overpowers me. I don't tell anyone. The only fear greater than my phobia is remaining in the hospital. I am desperate to reclaim my life, to plant my feet in the real world once again. I tell myself that the X-Files and Scully need me. The truth is *I* need to be needed again. There must be a place for me in this brave new world. There must be a reason for what has happened to me. Even the agnostic in me can't accept that God can be *that* sadistic a son-of-a-bitch. Using all my training as a psychologist, I blind people to my condition. The doctors, nurses, and hospital personnel are putty in my hands. And Scully... She so desperately wants me to be the Mulder of Old again that she only sees what she wants to see. Ignorance is bliss; love is blind. She tells me I am making a remarkable recovery, and of course, I agree. But, I am falling apart molecule by molecule, and no one knows. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Well, maybe someone does know. Dr. Tuyet-Nga Nguyen-"call me Mai"-is sitting across from me in my hospital room. She is the last step in my road to freedom. If she signs off on my psychiatric review, I will be released from the hospital. She peers at me from over half-moon tortoise-shell glasses. "I haf' some concerns abou' your assessment, Mistah Muldah," she informs me in her charmingly fractured English. A graduate of Ho Chi Minh City University of Medicine and Pharmacy, and the Centre Hospitalier Sainte Anne, Vietnamese and French are her languages of choice. In my attempt to convince her to accelerate my release, I have tried to win her over with my Oxford Conversational French 101. "Ce qui est votre diagnostic, docteur?" She smiles at my incorrect pronunciation. She doesn't indulge the pretense. "I do nah belief you are recovring emotionlly as quickly as you are physiclly. You are wethdrahn an' distan' from those aroun' you. She rolls her chair closer to me. I know somet'ing about torture...rape, Mistah Muldah." I know it takes time, t'erapy to make t'ings well again." I see Vietnamese 'Re-education' Prison Camps in her face. I see the Alien Bounty Hunter tethering me with steel wires through my skin. 'Don't think, don't think,' my brain screams. "I don't have the time to rot away in some hospital." She stiffens at my outburst. I am making her case for her. I try again. "Let me come to see you on an out-patient basis. We can work together..." She interrupts me. "Mistah Muldah, why do I t'ink I will nevah see you again if I sign dis release?" "I don't agree," I protest. "Admittedly, I am struggling a bit to make sense of all this," I flash her my most dazzling smile. "But I believe I am coping with it as well as can be expected." She peers at me again. "Really?" Very deliberately, she places her hand directly over mine. I see it coming, I know what she is trying to do... And I flinch. Her hawk-like gaze is replaced with one of sympathy. As she moves to withdraw her hand, I grip it tightly. "Please Mai, don't delay my release. I need to get out." I cringe inwardly at the desperation in my voice, but continue. "I need to reclaim my life, and I can only do that back at my job, back with the people I know--back with Scully." She opens her folder. "Ah, yes, Dr. Scully. She very much wants you to be release. She belief you are betta off ah home." She sighs softly. "Howevah, I am nah sure how objectif she is." "Scully knows me better than anyone. You should listen to her." "Dr. Scully use to know you. I am nah sure she knows you now." What can I say to this? XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "You've been released, Mulder!" Scully is positively beaming with pleasure at this turn of events. I try to disguise my surprise. "That's great news, Scully." I wonder why I suddenly cannot muster any enthusiasm. "Great news," I repeat dully. Scully notices my hesitancy, and gently rubs my arm. I turn away so she cannot see my distaste at the contact. "It's going to be okay, Mulder," she says softly. "You'll feel better when you're home." I turn back to her and nod. But I don't even know where 'home' is anymore. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ...continued in Part 2