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PATIENT 5A
by Glymax

glymax@aol.com

Rating: PG
Category:  V
Spoilers: None
Summary: A third-party view of an unfolding X-File.
Archive: The usual, where ever that may be

The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files"
are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and
Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No
copyright infringement is intended.


Author notes: Well, at the request of a dear friend, I have
temporarily come out of fanfic retirement to torture you with a story
that has been kicking around the ol' hard drive for quite some time.
So Nat - this one's for you.

******************

PATIENT 5A (1/4)


According to the duty roster, there's a new man in my ward, Room 5.
They must have brought him in last night and apparently not without a
fight. His chart indicates he's in tie-downs, strapped to the bed
like those monkeys they sent into space back in the '50's.

Putting his chart on the top of my stack, I decide to make him first
on my list. The new ones always require the most attention,
especially in the beginning.

Room 5 is a semi-private, but the new guy is the only occupant right
now. They had to totally redo the room recently, because of the
suicide attempt that eventually succeeded. There was blood everywhere
and holes punched in the walls, windows broken out, furniture
smashed. It was awful. And the sad thing was, we didn't see it
coming. We thought Lenny was better, even the doctors, who
ironically, are sometimes the last to pick up on these things. I
mean, we work with these people every day, we know their ins and
outs, likes, dislikes, the quirky little habits that they all seem to
have. So Lenny caught us completely by surprise.

I set the rest of the charts in the wire basket outside the door,
taking only the one that I need as I quietly push open the door. I
have to admit, patient 5A takes me by surprise. He's handsome, I can
tell, even though his features are slack from the drug induced
slumber. Most of the younger guys that we get in here look like
they've been rode too hard, years of drug abuse will do that, but
this guy seems to possess an almost angelic quality. I'm not fooled,
of course. If he was an "angel" he'd hardly need to be in restraints.
I compare the name on his wristband to the one on the chart: Fox
Mulder. Kind of a weird first name, maybe his parents were nature
freaks or something.

The chart indicates that Mr. Mulder spent 14 hours yesterday confined
to the psychiatric ward of DC General. That had to be an interesting
experience. If he wasn't psychotic when he went in, he would be by
the time he came out. That place is full crackheads and wackos
without any insurance and no where else to go. Definitely not where
you want to spend a lot of time if you don't have to and Mr. Mulder
doesn't look like the type that would. But somebody with a lot of
influence must have pulled some strings to get him in here this fast;
we've got a nine month waiting list.

I pull the blood pressure cuff out of its holder beside the bed and
wrap it around his upper arm. He's firm and muscular, not typical of
a long term user, so he hasn't be on the highway to hell for too
long. As I pump it up, he begins to stir, almost imperceptibly, but I
know the signs. His long, slender fingers curl and flex, his feet
shift under the covers.

I'm able to finishing checking his pressure before I call for an
orderly. I like to have someone with me when patients start to come
around. Even though the chart says he's typically non-violent, you
never know how they're gonna react. Besides, this guy's probably
going to need a to use the restroom. When they bring them in with
restraints, they don't catheterize the first night. Usually, there's
no need, unless the patient is going to long term bedridden. But with
all the medication, things tend to happen on their own. I hate
cleaning up after them, but I'm not without understanding. I don't
let them just lay there in their own mess.

Patient 5A is becoming more active, but he seems reluctant to join
the conscious world. I gently stroke his hand and call his name. "Mr.
Mulder? Can you hear me? Come on, open your eyes."

The eyelids flutter a couple of times, then lift just a slit to
reveal beautiful hazel irises. He looks around the room, finally
turning a bleary gaze my direction. It's a few more blinks before
he's putting enough of the puzzle pieces together to realize that he
doesn't know me or where he is.

His first reaction is to attempt to pull away, but the restraints
hold him stationary. He pulls on one arm then the other, trying to
figure out why he can't move. I can see the panic beginning to show
on his face just as the reinforcement comes strolling through the
door.

"He awake yet?" Bob, the orderly asks. Mr. Mulder's head jerks toward
the door. Another face he doesn't recognize.

I nod and Bob moves closer to the bed.

"Mr. Mulder, my name is Julie Wilson. I'm a nurse at The Ferndale
Center in Columbia, Maryland. That's where you are right now. You
were brought here last night from DC General. Do you remember that?"

Those hazel eyes stare at me for a moment, before he shakes his head.

I smile and again take his hand in mine, both for reassurance and to
gauge his reaction to my touch. This time he doesn't pull away. "No.
You probably don't. You must have been having some problems, that's
why you are in restraints. We don't want you to hurt yourself."

His eyes leave my face and travel down the length of his arm to see
for himself. He pulls against the strap, then closes his eyes in
frustration.

"It's okay," I soothe. "I'll take them off, but you have to promise
that you won't do anything foolish. Just lie still. Can you do that
for me?"

His eyes stay closed, but he nods his head in agreement.

I start undoing the strap around his left wrist as Bob
surreptitiously uncaps the syringe that he had in his pocket and lays
it on the bed table within easy reach. It's just a precaution, but
it's one that we both take. Patients can be unpredictable sometimes.

Mr. Mulder opens his eyes when he hears the orderly move to the other
side of his bed. He pulls back again when Bob reaches for his right
arm. "This is Bob," I tell him. "He's here to help you. Now lie still
like you promised."

The patient tries to relax, but I can feel the tension in his body.
He's nervous and confused, but he's trying to keep his end of the
bargain. When both arms are free, he rubs his right wrist with his
left hand, soothing the skin where the strap has chaffed. The
movement is unconscious, but immediately he seeks out my face to see
if his action has violated his promise.

"I'll put something on that. I'm sure it's sore," I tell him, letting
him know that he is still in my good graces.

The straps around his ankles come off next, then finally the one
across his waist. Mr. Mulder stays perfectly still, but his eyes
track our every movement. That's a good sign, at least he is
coherent.

"All done," I say, patting him lightly on the leg. "Now, first things
first. Do you need to use the restroom?"

He licks his lips and clears his throat before attempting to speak.
"Yes," he answers in a strangled whisper. His voice is hoarse from
recent disuse and from the abuse it took yesterday. Restraints
usually mean there was a fair amount of screaming and hollering
before, during, and after.

I point to the door on the opposite side of the room. "Do you think
you can make it over there with some help?"

He takes a moment to consider. "I don't know. I think so."

I smile at his honest answer. "Okay. Let's try that. Bob will help
you and I'll be right back."

I pull back the covers and help him swing his legs over the side of
the bed. The orderly comes to the other  side and helps him to his
feet. He's unsteady, but his coordination skills are trying to kick
in.

"I'll be right back," I remind him as the pair shuffle off to the
restroom.

Closing the door behind me, I make my way toward the nurse's station.
It's still early and Suzanne, one of the other ward nurses, is just
starting to gather her charts. She looks up when she hears my soft-
soled shoes squeaking on the highly polished floor.

"Everything okay?" she asks, an unaccustomed anxiousness in her
voice.

"Fine," I say with a frown. "Why?"

She looks past me to the room down the hall that I had just left. "I
heard you call for Bob. I was just wondering if you needed any more
help?"

"No," I say shaking my head. "No problems."

She sighs in what seems relief and continues to gather up her charts.

Now I am getting suspicious. "Suzanne, is there something I should
know? About the patient in room 5?"

She shrugs. "I ran into Lydia on the way in. She said someone brought
in a patient late last night and that he was pitching such a fit,
they had to sedate him at the door. He tried to claw Charlie's eyes
out when they moved him to the permanent bed."

"Really?" I ask, somewhat shocked. Mr. Mulder seemed pretty docile
this morning, but maybe it was because he was still under the
influence of the sedative.

I check my in-box for any new messages, just killing time until Bob
can finish with the patient. There's a copy of the newsletter, an
advertisement from a pharmaceutical company and various other kinds
of junk mail. Nothing directly related to my job and especially no
instructions concerning any of the patients.

I roll my head to the side, stretching the muscles in my neck,
thinking about what Suzanne had said about Charlie. Suddenly, I
remember that Bob is alone with this man and I almost trip over the
trash can beside the desk in my rush to get back to the room.

When I skid into the room, Mr. Mulder is sitting on the edge of the
bed, dressed in clean sweats and T-shirt, staring in concentration at
the floor.

I hear Bob in the bathroom, cleaning up after the morning's
constitution. A moment later, he exits and seems surprised to see me
back so soon.

"Okay?" I ask, letting out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

He smiles broadly. "Yep. Tank's empty, teeth brushed, hair combed,
new outfit. I think we're good to go for a while."

I nod, chastising myself for doubting my instincts. "Thanks Bob. I'll
take it from here."

As Bob leaves, I turn my attention back to the patient. He hadn't
moved since I came in and he seems totally oblivious to the
conversation that just took place.

"How about if I put some salve on those wrists?" I ask, hoping to
draw him out of the state he is in. The chart that I have is very
non-specific about this man's condition, so I have no idea what to
expect. Until he is evaluated by the doctors, I will pretty much be
in the dark.

My question seems to bring him back and he stretches out his arms for
me to see. The wrists are red and angry where the straps rubbed
during his struggles last night. He stares at them for a second, then
at me. "How did this happen?" he asks, his eyes full of confusion.

I'm not sure how to answer. Has he forgotten or is he searching for a
deeper meaning? In the end, I decide to turn the question back on
him. "What do you remember?"

He shrugs noncommittally and lets the subject drop.

His eyes wander the room as I gently smear the ointment first on his
wrists, then on the similar looking ankles. His handling had been
rough and the cuffs had been wrapped too tight, but I imagine that
there was a certain amount of panic involved in trying to subdue him.

He's fixating on the view out the window and allows me to continue my
ministrations. I am so intent upon my task, that his question catches
me off guard.

"This is a psychiatric hospital, isn't it? They think I'm crazy."

I try to meet his gaze, but he continues to stare out the window.

"Mr. Mulder..."

"Mulder," he interrupts. "Just Mulder."

Mulder? Not Fox or Mr. Mulder? Just Mulder? That was a little
peculiar, but I abide by his wish.

"Mulder.." I say, carefully sounding it out. "This is a psychiatric
rehabilitation center. No one thinks you're crazy. You just need some
help...." Help with what? I still don't know why he is here.

Suddenly, he snatches his hands away from my grasp and when he turns
his head toward me, his eyes are full of venom. "That is such a load
of crap!" he spits.

I am taken back by his change in demeanor. My hand reaches up to
finger the pager on my waist, unsure of his intentions. But that is
all he says. He lays back on the bed and shuts his eyes, hoping I
think, that I will go away.

Lucky for him, he's going to get his wish. I have several other
patients to tend to this morning. "Why don't you try to get some
rest, the doctor will be in to see you shortly."

I wait for another outburst, but he doesn't even seem to hear. I walk
out the door, pulling the handle a second time to make sure that it
locks securely behind me.

***********************

Mr. Mulder..., excuse me, Mulder's case is getting more interesting
by the minute. So interesting in fact, that the attending physician
and the psychologist called a joint meeting with the staff just to
discuss his situation.

We learned a little more about the events that brought him here, but
details are still somewhat sketchy. He is an FBI agent, which goes a
long way to explain the secrecy. It wouldn't look good to have word
get out that a federal officer has gone off his rocker while on a
case. The Ferndale Center is exclusive, prudence is our motto, but we
are not the ones that the federal government usually turns to for
assistance. Bethesda would be a more logical choice; which leads me
to believe that there is more to Special Agent Fox Mulder than meets
the eye.

Apparently, he had been working on a high level FBI sting operation.
According to accounts from colleagues, he had been under a lot of
pressure and tensions were high. Stress was in abundance in everyone
involved on the project, so it was not surprising that tempers
flared. Mulder, it seems, has a rather nasty temper, but usually
keeps it in check.

Colleagues reported unusual behavior in Mulder when he returned to
the command center after a short break. He alternated between a non-
communicative and withdrawn state to tyrannical and uncooperative. An
argument ensued between himself and his partner, Special Agent Dana
Scully, but the issue seemed to have been quickly resolved. Ten
minutes later, in front of a room full of witnesses, Mulder was
responsible for an unwarranted attack on his partner; stabbing her
twice in the left shoulder with a pair of scissors before he was
subdued.

He was taken by ambulance to DC General; his wounded partner was
admitted to Georgetown Medical in stable condition.

A full medical work-up was performed on Agent Mulder, including a
toxicology screen and MRI. No abnormalities were discovered. While at
DC General, the patient exhibited behavior similar to that described
by colleagues; vacillating between periods of exaggerated hostility
and total introversion. There were no indications of seizures or
other neurological disorders.

At 11:05pm, Agent Mulder was admitted to The Ferndale Center for
further psychiatric evaluation. Upon arrival, he was immediately
sedated when he became overtly aggressive; an orderly suffered slight
injuries in the incident. The patient was placed in full restraints
and remained so until 7:15am today.

I reported that the patient was cooperative, though slightly
disoriented upon waking.

Agent Mulder was evaluated later in the morning by both Dr. Henderson
and Dr. Watts, physician and psychologist respectively. Dr. Watts
reported that the patient was non-responsive to a majority of the
questions asked.

It was decided that Agent Mulder should be handled with extreme
caution until the state of his mental health could be more fully
evaluated. A strict regiment of low dose sedatives will be
administered until further notice. Any aberrant behavior should be
documented and immediately reported

***********************

After the meeting, I decide to check on Mulder. It's a little easier
to deal with him now that I have a better idea what to expect - the
unexpected.

I knock on the door, I like to give the residents a modicum of
privacy, and when he doesn't answer, I unlock the door and poke my
head in. He's sitting on the bed, totally absorbed in the pastoral
scene outside his window.

"Mulder?" I call softly and he turns his head my direction. "I hear
you didn't eat your lunch. Aren't you hungry?"

He shakes his head and turns back toward the window. I move closer to
see what he is looking at. From his position, he has a perfect view
of the long tree-lined drive and the front gate. I wonder if he is
planning a jailbreak?

"Do you want to come down to the rec room?" I ask, trying to get his
mind off that gate. "There's a TV, video games. We also have a nice
library."

He pauses for a moment as if considering my suggestion, but finally
answers. "I'd rather be alone right now, if you don't mind. I need to
think."

I can understand that. I'm sure that he's still trying to sort out
the events in his head.

"Do you remember what happened?" I ask, genuinely curious. Does he
carry the image of stabbing his partner in his head or is it a total
blank?

He shifts on the bed, turning his back to me. "I don't want to talk
about it."

"It might help you put things in perspective," I calmly suggest.

Suddenly, he turns toward me, anger clearly written on his face. "I
said I don't want to talk about it! Why won't you people just leave
me the hell alone?"

Another mood swing.

I don't want to get him any more agitated, so I back off.

"Okay," I respond in a soothing tone. "Just buzz me if you change
your mind or if you need anything. I'll be back in an hour to check
your vitals."

He shoots me a disgusted look, but I cut him off. "I'm sorry. House
rules."

Mulder seems to accept that answer, so I leave alone with his
thoughts.

***********************
tbc (1/4)



PATIENT 5A (2/4)
***********************
by Glymax

glymax@aol.com

My job is never boring, that much I can truly attest to. Janie, a
long-time resident of this facility because of extensive drug use,
chose diner time to have a severe flashback.

Okay. That's not fair. She didn't choose it, it just happened. In the
fully packed dining hall. In front of a lot of people who really
didn't need to see that kind of thing.

Poor girl, she was totally disoriented, running away from monsters
only she can see. It took us several minutes to calm her enough to
get her back to her room and a couple hours of hand holding to get
her to go to sleep. If at all possible, we prefer to have an upset
resident settle down naturally, rather than resort to barbiturates.

It's now eight-thirty and my shift ended an hour and a half ago. But
I couldn't leave her, not like that. She needed someone to reassure
her and I was the one she chose.

I drag my tired ass back to the nurse's station to gather up my
belongings. As I'm looking for my sweater, Gina, my replacement,
comes storming down the hall and slams a food service tray on the
cart next to the desk.

"Something wrong?" I ask, somewhat sarcastically. Gina is a nice
person, don't get me wrong, but she isn't cut out for this type of
work. She lacks the high level of patience that is a must in this
facility.

She looks up at me, eyes squinting, teeth grinding together. "The
patient in Room 5 refuses to eat. If he doesn't eat, I can't
administer the meds. No meds mean no sleep, and I'll be damned if I'm
gonna wait on him hand and foot all night."

I close my eyes and sigh. All I want to do is go home, soak in a hot
tub, then sleep for about three days. Instead I hold out my hand for
the food tray. "Let me try."

I open the door to his room without knocking, too tired to observe my
usual manners. Mulder is *still* sitting on the bed, though it's
probably his own reflection he sees in the window now.

"Why aren't you eating?" I ask, cutting straight to the subject.

He has the good sense to look embarrassed. "I'm not hungry."

I put the tray down on this bed table and rub my tired eyes. "Mulder,
you've had nothing to eat all day. That's not good for you. You have
to eat."

His gaze shifts from me to the floor. "I can't," he mumbles.

Okay. That's a start. We're getting somewhere. "Why?"

He shrugs instead of answering.

I decide to go with the direct approach. "Listen, Mulder, I realize
you are not up to it right now, but you don't have a choice. If you
continue to refuse to eat, you will be force fed, by feeding tube if
it comes to that."

I pause to let that sink in.

He looks up at me, studying my face with a deep intensity. "You look
tired," he says finally.

I sigh and pull up a chair. "I am. Extremely. But I can't go home
until you eat, because I can't administer your medication until you
do."

That's a little white lie, but at this point I'm not above trying
guilt to get a reaction. Apparently, it works. He lifts the lid off
the plate and takes a bite of his turkey sandwich.

We sit in silence until the sandwich is gone, then I hand over the
little paper cup that holds his sleeping pill. He takes it and
swallows in down with a big gulp of water.

"Thank you," I tell him as I hold up the covers so he can crawl
beneath. "I know that was hard for you, but I appreciate your
cooperation."

He nods before turning on his side, facing away from me. "Goodnight,
Mulder. I'll see you in the morning."

***********************

It's amazing what a few hours of sleep can do to brighten your
outlook on life.

Spring is finally arriving to the Mid-Atlantic. The trees are
starting to leaf out, the flowers are beginning to show the first
signs of color, the birds are chirping. Life is good.

God, I sound like a Hallmark card.

I find myself humming a cheerful tune as I organize for the day. Gina
reported that both Janie and Mulder slept through the night and all
was quiet on the Front. Good thing. I think she was looking to draw
blood last night when I left. I thought she would be pleased that
Mulder had finally decided to cooperate, but it seemed to piss her
off even more. She expects these people to behave like well trained
show dogs, but they're not canine, they're human - with more than
their fair share of human faults.

I put Mulder's chart on top of the stack and head down the hall to
his room. I don't hear any movement from the other side of the door,
so after unlocking the door, I enter without knocking. We are still
keeping his door locked at all times. It wouldn't do to have him
wandering the halls, especially at night. It may sound cruel, but
it's really in his best interest, and that of the other residents.
When he's been here a few days, we'll give him some more freedom.
This is not a prison.

He's still sleeping soundly and I hope that a good night of rest has
the same euphoric effect it had on me.

I sit his chart on the bed table and softly call his name. He doesn't
respond so I shake him gently.

Nothing.

I grab his shoulder and shake with more intensity and still get no
response. When I try for a third time and still can't wake him, I
start to get a little panicky.

My fingers expertly find the carotid artery and feel the slow but
steady beat. As I lift one eyelid to check for pupil response, the
patient starts to stir. He blinks rapidly as his eyes try to adjust
to the light and his head jerks back at my presence in his face.

"God, Mulder," I pant, relief draining down through my body. "You
scared me half to death."

Not the best choice of words under the circumstances, but it's the
first thing that popped into my head.

He rubs a hand over his face as he tries to bring himself into full
consciousness. A grimace crosses his face as he takes in my worried
expression.

"How do you feel?" I ask, as I make a note on his chart and circle
it. Apparently, he is more sensitive to the sedative than we
originally thought. I want to make certain that Dr. Henderson sees
it, so we don't have to go through this every morning.

"Okay," Mulder answers around a deep yawn. "What time is it?"

I smile, glad that he is lucid enough to care. "About seven-thirty.
Do you think you can manage the restroom by yourself this morning?
I'd like for you to come down to the dining hall for breakfast..."

I can see him start to protest, but the look I shoot him stops him in
his tracks. "You've got to get out of this room today. Period.
Besides, Millie, our cook, makes a mean omelet, but it's not the same
if you don't enjoy it in the ambiance and atmosphere of the
refectory."

He gives a short, mock laugh, his mouth curling up in the closest
thing to a smile that I have seen from him. At least he has a sense
of humor.

"I expect to see you there by eight-thirty. Okay? I'll leave the door
unlocked, so just come down when you're ready."

The smile is replaced by a deep frown, but I'm not going to take "no"
for an answer. I try not to treat him like a child, but he seems to
need that sense of direction in his life right now. It's just easier
to cope if other people tell you what to do and when to do it.

***********************

Mulder makes a hesitant entrance into the dining hall at exactly
8:30. I watch as he stands in the doorway for a moment, looking for
the most secluded spot he can find. I don't blame him, a room full of
fifty strangers, all of whom have some sort of mental imbalance, can
be a little overwhelming in the beginning.

He finally discovers an empty table near the wall and takes a seat. I
should have given him more specific instructions, like everything is
served buffet style, but I want to see how he reacts in this new
environment. This is only his second day here, but he was
functioning in the "real world" just a few days ago, taking care of
himself. He's not like a lot of the residents who have been
institutionalized for so long we need to teach them everything from
scratch.

After a few more minutes, I'm rewarded for trusting my gut instincts
when he gets in line. He moves through as quickly as he can, taking
only a meager portion of scrambled egg, but at least it's a start.

I have to admit, I'm already concerned about his reluctance to eat. I
guess I shouldn't be, it's not an uncommon reaction, but it still
worries me. But when the body is lacking, the mind can't possibly be
expected to heal. We try to keep our residents as healthy as possible
and hope that nature gives us a helping hand with the rest.

As I'm busy helping one of the residents decide what to have for
breakfast, I realize the room has suddenly gone quiet. I do a quick
survey and discover three men, in suits that scream "government",
standing just inside the doorway. It doesn't take much for me to
figure out who they are here to see.

Mulder has evidently made the same connection. He's standing up
behind his chair now, but his feet seem to be frozen to the floor.
The expression on his face is emotionless as he stares at the
visitors.

There is a tense moment and I feel like I'm waiting for a shoot out
at the OK Corral. Mulder stares down the suits, the suits stare back.
Finally, one of them motions Mulder over.

With his head hanging down, he slowly makes his way to the men and I
can practically feel the reluctance radiating from him. I meet him
half way, forming a unified front against these apparently unwanted
intruders. I stand in front of Mulder as I address the one who
appears to be in charge.

"Excuse me, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Visiting hours
are from one until three." It's lame and we all know it, but I have
to try to exercise my authority.

The "leader", a buff looking man if I do say so, gazes at me calmly
through the lens of his glasses. "Ma'am, my name is Walter Skinner.
I'm with the FBI." An official looking badge is shoved in front of my
face. Yep, it says Walter Skinner all right. "I'm here to see Agent
Mulder," he says, gesturing to the man behind me.

I'm sort of at a loss. This is against all the rules and regulations,
but this is the FBI for God's sake. "I need to clear this with my
supervisor first," I tell him as a last ditch effort.

He holds up a hand, "It's all been taken care of, I assure you."

Mr. Skinner is tired of sparing with me and now turns his attention
to my patient. The look on his face is surprising gentle. "How are
you feeling, Mulder?" he asks with genuine concern.

To his credit, Mulder meets the man's eyes with a steady gaze, though
his voice betrays his unease when he answers. "Better, sir. Thank
you."

Skinner nods, then inquires about the availability of a more private
location. I'm prepared to lead the way to the conference room, when
Mulder steps around me to stand toe to toe with the head suit.

"How is she?"

A simple question that packs a lot of punch. I know who "she" is. But
it answers at least one thing for me: he remembers that something
happened to his partner. How much he remembers remains to be seen.

The man lays a gentle, reassuring hand on Mulder's shoulder. "We'll
talk about it in a minute."

I point the way to the conference room, but am politely told by one
of Skinner's lackeys that my presence isn't necessary. I will just
have to hope that everything goes okay.

***********************

I didn't see Mulder for the next couple of hours. The FBI
"interrogated" him until ten, at which point he had an appointment
with our psychologist, Dr. Watt. Rumors circulated with the speed of
an oncoming freight train that Mulder put on quite a performance in
the good doctor's office. Objects were thrown and a trash can lost
its life as Mulder unleashed some of his pent up frustration. Dr.
Watt evidently managed to find a tender spot. Luckily for Mulder, Dr.
Watt is a patient and understanding man or he might have found
himself back in restraints.

Suzanne coaxed Mulder back to the dining hall for lunch, where he
once again sat in solitude. I'm hoping that he will eventually learn
to mingle a little more. Okay, so most of the residents lack the
ability to sustain much of a stimulating conversation, but I think
that he, as someone with a degree in psychology, would find some of
them to be fascinating.

After lunch, the residents have what we call "free time." If they
don't have visitors, they watch TV or read or play games in the rec
room. We even have a fairly well equipped gym. It's amazing how
people from varied backgrounds, with just as varied problems, can
learn to interact. There are the occasional uprisings and verbal
differences of opinion, but physical confrontation is strictly
prohibited.

We operate on the reward system; you do good, you get a point. You
misbehave, a point is lost. When a resident accumulates enough
points, he or she can "purchase" items at our store. Everybody here
knows that fighting is the quickest way to have points taken away.
And if there is a problem, a panel made up of residents and staff
decides how severe the point penalty will be. It's a pretty basic
plan, but it seems to work.

The nurses rotate in shifts during this free time; that way we all
get a break. I'm on the first shift today, so I grab my crossword
puzzle and find a comfortable spot where I can watch what's going on
without seeming to be intrusive.

Mulder is being forced to participate in this activity, but he
doesn't seem willing to join in the reindeer games. He's alternating
between staring out the window and pacing the length of the rec room.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he makes another circuit
up and down the room. He's a bundle of nervous energy and he's
making me tired just watching. As my shift comes to an end, I make a
decision. I'm going to take him outside for a while. The fresh air
and sunshine might help calm him down.

Residents are not usually allowed outdoors, except into the center
courtyard. Unfortunately, the area is undergoing a face-lift at the
moment and is off limits to everyone. If we are going to go out, it
will have to be to the outside of the building and that's risky. Once
you are on the other side of the locked doors, the only thing between
here and freedom is the front gate.

As another nurse takes over my shift, I approach Mulder and stop him
in mid-pace. I smile at him, but the gesture is not returned. "I
thought you might want to go outside for awhile, maybe walk off some
of your energy."

Mulder squints his eyes at me, as if trying to detect any trickery.
"I thought that wasn't allowed."

"Special circumstances," I tell him and motion for him to follow.

***********************

The effect on Mulder is almost immediate. He stops as soon as we are
outside the door, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Better?" I ask as we start walking down the paved path that leads to
a small garden planting. The Center sits in the middle of a
meticulously maintained fifty acre tract of land, complete with
gardens and a nice wooded area. It was the belief of the founders
that a peaceful surrounding would lead to a peaceful mind. It's too
bad that the people who really could use it aren't often allowed out
to see it.

Mulder sets a rapid pace with his long-legged strides and I'm glad
that I'm wearing a comfortable pair of shoes. I'm struggling just to
keep up without running. Suddenly, he stops and turns around to face
me.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks, his tone bitter.

I'm confused. "What do you mean?"

"Why are you letting me go out," his hands gesture wildly to the
surrounding view. "You know it's against the rules. What are you
trying to get from me?"

I shake my head, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of
water as I try to gather my thoughts. He's really thrown me for a
loop. "I'm not trying to get anything from you, Mulder. You just
looked so miserable that I thought maybe being outside, away from
that environment, would help."

He turns his face from me and I decide to lay all the cards in the
table.

"Look, Mulder. Let's be honest about this. You are not the type of
patient that we typically get here. We are an affluent rehabilitation
center, with a long waiting list, yet somebody did some pretty slick
tap dancing to get you in here. You get visits from men in black, you
work for those same men. You're a psychologist in your own right and
I'm fairly certain that you have every intention of playing some
pretty intense headgames with our shrink. You completely freaked out
on a case two days ago, but now you act reasonably normal, and we are
supposed to figure out how to deal with that. Apparently without your
cooperation."

My hands are shaking and I put them together to keep them still.
"Quite frankly, I'm not sure why you are here and if anyone as a
hidden agenda it's probably you."

I take a deep breath and wait for his reaction. I pushed some
buttons, something I would never do with another patient. Now all I
can do is see what happens.

His reaction surprises me.

"Thank you," he says with a slight smile. "I appreciate your
honesty."

"You're welcome," I huff. My fur is still ruffled, I let my emotions
get too close in that little tirade.

Mulder turns around and starts walking, glancing over his shoulder to
see if I'm following. When I do catch up, I have to strain to hear
what he is saying.

"I stabbed my partner with a pair of scissors and I have no idea why.
I can remember doing it, feeling compelled to do it, yet......"

His voice trails and I prompt him to continue. "Yet.....?"

He shakes his head. "Yet nothing. That's the only thing I can recall.
I don't remember what happened right before. Skinner tells me she and
I had a fight, but I have no recollection of that. I was also told
that I put up a hell of a struggle afterwards, but I don't remember
that either. Just me.....stabbing her."

"I could have killed her," he laments softly.

Suddenly I have the feeling that I am privy to some pretty private
and confidential stuff. I'm relatively sure that he hasn't told Dr.
Watt this information and I have my doubts about how much he said to
that Skinner guy. The question is, what do I do now?

"Is she okay?" I ask, curious and concerned.

Mulder stops walking and starts rolling a small stone under the toe
of his tennis shoe. He just can't seem to keep still.

"Skinner said that she is being released from the hospital today.
Some blood loss, some stitches, no damage to any vital organs. She
was pretty upset over the incident."

I'm trying to gage his emotions as he's telling me this, but he's so
hard to read. For the millionth time since I started working here, I
wish I had taken those extra classes in psych.

"You're close, aren't you? You and your partner." It's pretty obvious
to me that he is, but I'm wondering what his response will be.

He eyes me suspiciously and I realize after he hesitantly answers
"yes" what I might have been implying by that question.

I nod as it all becomes more clear. "You're upset because she's
upset. Because of something that you did."

He shrugs noncommittally, but I can almost feel the breeze as the
open door to Fox Mulder slams shut in my face. Too close, too soon.

"Tell me about her," I coax, trying to get him out again.

But he wants no part of it. "I don't want to talk about it anymore,"
he says as he turns on his heel and heads back to the building.

***********************
tbc (2/4)



PATIENT 5A (3/4)
***********************
by Glymax

glymax@aol.com

Mulder's mood seems to have deteriorated over the past couple of
days. Instead of becoming more interactive, he's become dark and
withdrawn. He spends as much time as he is allowed standing at the
window. Watching. Waiting. At least now I know who he's waiting for.

I find myself thinking a lot about Mulder's plight. It must be very
difficult for him to be confined and not know the cause behind the
effect. His career is that of a puzzle solver, yet he is his own
enigma. I don't think he remembers any more of the event than when he
arrived, so he waits for the one person who can answer some of his
questions.

It's now his fifth day at the Center, and I have become so concerned
about his continual retreat that I am beginning to fear for his life.
This partner of his, Scully, has yet to initiate any kind of contact
and I believe it's pushing Mulder to the brink.

His only statement to me today other than a few noncommittal grunts
was, "It will all be over soon." He uttered this in a voice that
sounded so far off and distant, that a tiny shiver ran uncontrollably
down my spine. But when I asked for an explanation, none was forth
coming. I wonder if he even realized that he said it out loud?

I haven't said anything to anyone, at least not yet. Writing
"Recommend suicide watch" on his chart would be as good as a death
sentence in and of itself. I'm admittedly unfamiliar with the FBI's
view on employee mental health, but I have friends in other branches
of law enforcement who have told me that cracking on a case is bad;
attempting or even threatening suicide is career-ending.

So I've decided just to keep a very close eye on him. But thoughts of
Lenny - Room 5's previous occupant, who really *did* commit the act -
keep nagging at me. I missed Lenny's warning signs. I'm not about to
miss Mulder's.

An idea pops into my head as I push open the door to Mulder's room to
find him once again glued to the scene out the window. If this Scully
won't come to him, why can't he go to her? Well, not "go" in the
sense of leaving this facility; that's definitely out of the
question. But a telephone call would be the next best thing. Maybe,
just maybe, if they can talk, at least part of this mystery can be
solved.

The Center has strict regulations about almost everything, phone
privileges included. It's part of the reward system and one of the
most popular uses of good behavior points. But Mulder still hasn't
earned any of the token points and the way he's going, he won't any
time soon.

I decide to talk to my supervisor to see of we can bend the rules
just a smidgen. The hardest part will be explaining the necessity of
this call without blowing the whistle on Mulder's fragile state of
mind.

***********************

I can't believe it. I really can't.

My supervisor, Mr. Green, who rules the roost with an iron fist,
allows my phone call idea and Mulder shoots it down; staunchly
refusing the offer without even batting an eye.

Now, I'm really at a dead end. I guess he's determined that his
partner should make the first move and hold out the olive branch. The
problem is, I don't know if she ever will. Maybe she is still shell-
shocked, denying that Mulder really tried to hurt her? Or maybe it's
just the opposite? Maybe she feels that he is dangerous and needs to
be confined? Maybe she's glad to be rid of him? I assume they have a
close relationship, but that opinion is based on Mulder's one-sided
take on things. Maybe he's delusional on top of everything else?

I puff out my breath in frustration as Mulder turns his chair more
fully toward the window, effectively putting up a barrier between
himself and the rest of his current world.

Well, if he won't call her, maybe I will. This can't go on.

***********************

Mulder's personal file is somewhat lacking in pertinent information.
For example, it lists various hospital visits, but leaves the reason
for treatment blank. So I know he was admitted to the hospital six
times in the past couple of years, but I have no idea why. I hope to
God that it wasn't for something similar to reason that he's here
now.

Now this is interesting. One Dana K. Scully is listed as the contact
person in case of an emergency.

It makes sense. If they are partners it would be a good idea.
Unfortunately, the file doesn't list a home number. Just an extension
to what I assume is a number at the FBI. It's already past six, so I
doubt I will catch her at the office. I'll have to wait until
tomorrow.

***********************

Just my luck. Gina, my night shift counterpart has called in sick
and Kim is still on vacation. That leaves only one other duty nurse
in this ward for the night. It's not enough, especially with Mulder
acting the way he is.

Mr. Green was trying to decide what to do and I think I floored him
when I volunteered for an extra shift. I've already been here since
seven this morning, so pulling a back to back shift would mean
twenty-four straight hours. Green's concerned about my ability to
perform, but I assure him that I will grab a cat nap here and there,
and that I will be fine.

After a quick dinner, I gather the charts and prepare the meds for
the residents before their bedtime. Almost all the patients here
receive some sort of nighttime medication; it's for their own good as
well as ours. One person having a bad night could keep the entire
ward awake. Cranky patients make for a bitch of a next day.

I opened Mulder's chart first. Dr. Henderson has knocked his
recommended treatment back to a low dose of diazepam. It's not very
strong, but after Mulder's scary episode the first morning, I'm more
than happy with prescription. And it must be working, because he's
been sleeping like a baby when I check on him in the morning.

I make the rounds, saving Mulder for last. He told me one morning
that he really hates the way the pills make him feel insecure, like
he's giving up too much of himself. I thought that it was a pretty
strange statement at the time, but I guess I can see his point. The
last time he wasn't in complete control .....

But rules are rules and at this facility they are meant to be obeyed
not broken. I asked Gina to hold off on his medication every night as
long as she could. It was the least I could do. Gina thinks I'm
pandering to him and maybe I am. I admit it, I feel sorry for the
guy. I mean, and I don't say this to be cruel, just as a statement of
fact, most of the people are here because they did something to
themselves. They took the drugs or drank the alcohol or did whatever.
They were sick, I understand that, and they couldn't help themselves,
but nobody held a gun to their head and made them do it. Mulder? Who
the hell knows?

I gently rap on Mulder's door before going in and am a bit surprised
to find him already in bed. He's not sleeping, his eyes are wide
open, but the stare is far away.

As I get within his field of vision, I sway slightly from side to
side, hoping to catch his attention. Eventually, my tactics work and
I can see him coming back to himself as he trains his sad eyes on me.

I smile warmly, wishing I could somehow wipe that look off his face.
But it has no effect.

"Ready?" I ask, though it's obvious that he is.

He holds out his hand and I drop the tiny blue capsule in his palm. I
hand him the glass of water from his bed table. He looks at the pill
in his hand, then at me, before popping it in his mouth and downing
it with a sip of water.

"I'm going to be on duty tonight," I tell him. "Gina called in sick,
so it's just you and me, kid." I am hoping for some kind of response,
a smile, a grin, a sigh of relief, but instead I get nothing. Just a
hauntingly blank stare.

A sigh of frustration escapes me. This is not good.

"Well, I'm going to let you get some sleep. Buzz if you need
anything," I say as a walk to the door. I pause for a moment before
turning out the light. "Goodnight, Mulder. Sleep well."

The only reply is silence in the dark.

***********************

I finished up some paperwork around eleven and managed to grab a
quick nap until one. I'm still dead tired, but at least I've rested
enough brain cells that my eyes will stay open.

It's kind of eerily in this place at night. The hall lights have been
turned off and scant illumination comes from the night lights on the
hall walls and the four recessed lights here at the nurse station.
Lydia, the other nurse on duty tonight, is busy transferring notes
into the patient files, her scratching pen is the only sound and it
seems deafeningly loud.

I rub my eyes and try to stifle a yawn. I wonder how Mulder is doing?

I've done a bad thing when it comes to him; I've let myself become
emotionally involved in his case. It's one of the first things that
they warn against when you begin nurses training. Never get too close
to the patients. It was meant to prepare and protect you in case of
death, but it does have other ramifications. Spending day after day
with people who are not well, either mentally or physically, can put
a tremendous strain on the psyche of the caregiver. You can be
sympathetic and understanding, but if you let yourself get too
wrapped up in their problems, you find yourself being pulled down
with them.

That's what's happening to me with Mulder. I find myself thinking
about him and his situation far too often. He is always on my mind
and I don't know why. I mean, I know why. I just don't understand why
he is affecting me this way. He's hardly the most cordial person, nor
the most outgoing, but there is something about him that makes my
heart bleed. I wish I could wave my hand and make this whole mess
disappear.

Maybe it's the look in his eyes? Eyes of an ancient one, rather than
a man in his mid-thirties. And the eyes are the windows to the soul
or so they say.

All these thoughts about him, remind me why I am here tonight. "I'm
going to check on the patient in Room 5," I tell Lydia, as I push my
chair back. She gives me a quizzical look, but nods her head in
agreement.

I try to walk on tiptoe as a make my way down the hall. I never
realized how loud the soles of my shoes are against the floor, and in
the stillness of the very early morning, it seems almost sacrilegious
to make too much noise.

I gently push open the door to Mulder's room, fearful of waking him
if he is on the fringes of sleep. Full moonlight coming in from the
window casts bluish elongated shadows across the area and adds to the
already weird feel of the place. I suppress a shutter and quietly
steal to his bedside, needing to see him in that peaceful and
untroubled sleep, as I do every morning when I wake him. It's the
only time when I get a true glimpse of the way this man really is or
at least should be.

As I near the bed, the sharp intake of my breath breaks the silence
and panic momentarily shoots through me as I realize that his bed is
empty.

My eyes quickly scan the room for any sign of him.

Nothing.

Autopilot training kicks in and I start to reach for the beeper at my
waist, when out of the corner of my eye, something catches my
attention. A flash or reflection from inside the tiny bathroom.

I let out the breath I had been holding and smile at my silliness,
letting my imagination get the better of me without thinking things
through. The medication he is on at night is enough to help him fall
asleep, but not strong enough to completely ignore the call of
nature.

I wait for a minute, but when I don't hear anything, I start to get
worried.

"Mulder?" I call softly, not wanting to startle him. "It's Julie. Are
you okay?"

I wait for a response, but I don't get one. Slightly more concerned I
move closer to the bathroom. The door is partially open, but the
light is off and it's dark inside.

"Mulder?" I try again, pushing the door open farther.

Suddenly, he is there. In front of me. A tall figure towering over my
smaller body.

I back away, startled by his abrupt appearance.

As he comes closer, I see him raise an object high over his head.
When my eyes track to that object, I again see the reflection of
light and my mind quickly warns me that it culminates in a sharp
point.

I gasp, but am too stunned to react immediately.

Without warning, he starts to plunge the object toward me, and in
fear I find my voice.

"Mulder! No!"

My cry stops him immediately and his body rocks forward with the
momentum. After regaining his balance, he stands perfectly still for
a moment, staring at me as if I am an apparition.

After another moment, his gaze drifts from me to the object in his
hand. When he sees what he is holding, his eyes widen and his mouth
slowly drops open in shock. The object slides from his limp fingers,
and as if in slow motion, we both watch as it falls to the floor,
shattering into hundreds of tiny, shiny fragments.

All at once the room is thrown into blinding bright light; my plea to
Mulder instantly alerting Lydia.

"What the ....? Jesus! What happened?"

I turn to see a look of total disbelief on her face, then turn back
to see what she is staring at. Blood is slowly dripping from Mulder's
right hand, the red drops splattering as they hit the tile floor.

But it is the expression on his face that causes me the greatest
concern. He is stunned, as if totally unaware of the circumstances
which led us to be standing here in his room in the middle of the
night, surrounded by glass and blood. And it then that I realize that
I must be his protector.

I turn back to Lydia, my breath coming in heavy pants as I try to
hide my true emotions. "It's okay," I smile wanly. "Just a little
accident. If you could just get a first aid box, I'll take care of
this."

By the look on Lydia's face, I can tell that she doesn't entirely buy
the story. And who could blame her?  Even the most plausible scenario
would seem ridiculous at this point. Her glare slides between me and
Mulder and the ever-growing puddle of blood on the floor. Finally,
she nods and turns exits the room.

When I hear the door shut behind her, I whirl toward Mulder. "What
the hell were you doing?" I ask in a barely contained hiss of anger.
The shock has started to wear off, but my emotions were still close
to the surface.

He shakes his head slowly and I can see tears beginning to well in
his eyes. "I don't know," he whispers softly.

I close my eyes and let my head fall forward in frustration. I was
hoping above all hope that he had a reasonable and sane explanation.
An intruder, a giant spider, something. Anything to explain why he
was in the bathroom, in the dark, with a broken piece of mirror in
his hand. I've worked here long enough. I should know better by now.

When I look back up at his face, a solitary tear has streaked a wet
track down his cheek. Dear God.

"It's okay," I soothe, not sure if the tear is for himself or me or
his partner or all three. "It's all over."

The cuts on his palm are still slowly leaking and I grab his hand for
a closer inspection. One laceration looks particularly nasty, but
it's really hard to tell with all the blood.

"C'mon," I say, gently pulling him back toward the bathroom. "Let's
get these cuts cleaned up."

I am astounded by the sight that greets me when I flip on the
bathroom light. There are shards of broken mirror everywhere and I
wonder how he could have done this much damage without either me or
Lydia hearing.

At least Mulder is wearing his tennis shoes. A conscious decision?

I use one of the towels hanging on the rack to brush the debris off
the sink and turn on the water. Our feet crunch on the broken bits of
mirror as I pull him closer and gently push his hand under the
stream. He hisses as the water strikes his palm, turning the runoff a
brilliant pink.

I'm very thorough in cleansing his wounds, fearful that some of the
tiny slivers may have become embedded. Luckily, none of the cuts are
deep and upon closer inspection I can see that there is no glass. The
lacerations are straight and clean, with no ragged edges. They should
heal fairly quickly.

When I am satisfied with my preliminary first aid, I grab Mulder's
wrist and lead him back out into the room. I am momentarily surprised
to see that we are no longer alone; Phil, an orderly, and Ralph, the
night watchman, have come to join the party.

I smile to try to cover up my growing anxiety. I was hoping to keep
this low profile, because I know once this gets out, Mulder's a
goner. We don't keep patients with extreme violent tendencies. We're
just not equipped to handle it. He will have to be transferred to
another facility.

But I don't think the man is dangerous, despite what took place.
Perhaps it was an aggravated dream state? Or a reaction to the
medication? Or... or... or what?

I swallow hard and fight back my own tears. It's me who is being
delusional. Mulder just tried to kill me.

Phil misinterprets my threatening tears and immediately steps forward
to take control of the situation.

"I take care of this," he says, reaching to take Mulder's other hand.

Mulder, who has been docilely accepting my lead, jumps back when Phil
reaches toward him. I'm afraid he will do something truly violent, so
I intervene.

"No, wait!" I say, holding up my hand. "It was just an accident. I
startled him when he came out of the bathroom. There's nothing to be
concerned about."

Phil stops, but it's Ralph's turn to take up the attack. "How'd the
mirror get broken? They use safety glass in this place. It would take
one hell of a blow to break that."

I'm running out of excuses. "Look, I don't know how the mirror got
broken. Maybe it was defective? It doesn't really matter."

I pull Mulder toward the bed further out of Phil's reach. "Now, if
you gentlemen will excuse us, I need to dress this man's injuries and
get him back to bed."

Phil shoots Ralph a look, which Ralph returns. They're not buying the
story either, but at least they're not pushing the issue.

Ralph turns for the door and Phil follows. "I'll be just outside if
you need me," he says over his shoulder.

Someone had placed a small first aid kit on Mulder's bed table and I
take my time going through it, trying to gather my strength. I can
feel the heat of Mulder's stare on my back. Neither of us know what
to say.

I find some antiseptic, gauze, and a small roll bandages and busy
myself with my ministrations. When I'm done, I turn back to the first
aid kit, unable to meet his eyes.

"If it's any conciliation, I'm sorry," Mulder says quietly.

I face him and my heart breaks all over again at the sight. He's more
confused than before, but more than that is the look of shear and
utter defeat; he's given up. He's a law enforcement officer and a
psychologist; he knows what's going to happen to him now.

"I know," I tell him. "And if it's any conciliation to you, all is
forgiven. No harm, no foul."

It wasn't the best choice of words, because he hangs his head. "Not
this time," he whispers.

I could just kick myself. Way to make a bad situation worse, girl.

"What do you remember?" I ask, trying to help him through this. It's
only a matter of time before the authorities arrive. Lydia's a no-
nonsense gal; I know she's made the call.

He shakes his head and meets my eyes with a steady gaze. "It's like
before. I knew I had to protect myself from something, but from what
or why, I don't know."

Schizophrenia, my mind intrusively supplies. Delusions and paranoia,
being chased, self-protection against the unseen.

But that doesn't make any sense.

Schizophrenia is believed to be genetically linked and almost always
rears its ugly head during childhood or early adulthood at the
latest. Unless it was drug induced, which has already been ruled out
in Mulder's case. Besides, who in their right mind would let him be a
gun-toting, badge-carrying FBI agent if he was truly schizophrenic?

Time to regroup my thoughts.

Mulder's also been thinking while I was on my little mental road trip
and I can tell he's working himself up to asking the questions that
he probably really doesn't want the answers to.

"Tell me what happened? What are your impressions?" His voice is
soft, with a gentle tone of persuasiveness about it. He's distancing
himself from the incident, becoming the investigator rather than the
perpetrator. A role which, I'm sure, he is ultimately more
comfortable and familiar with.

I shake my head and sigh. "Mulder, I don't know what to tell you. I
came into the room expecting to find you asleep. When I didn't, I
checked the bathroom. You came at me, with a piece of the broken
mirror in your hand. I yelled at you to stop and you did."

I search his eyes, hoping to see what is going through his mind. I
don't have to have an MD or a PhD to figure it out. He's seeing the
incident with his partner all over again.

I take his uninjured hand in mine and squeeze gently, trying to offer
some kind of reassurance. "I'll stay with you for the rest of the
night," I tell him. I'm pretty sure that sleep is out of the
question, but I don't want him to feel as if he is being abandoned. I
can't bear the thought of him strapped to this bed like some kind of
wild animal and all alone.

I have to put the straps back on; I have no choice, it's a
regulation. But I'm not sure what his reaction will be. I'm hoping it
will be voluntary.

"Mulder," I say softly, as he lays back on the bed. "You know I have
to restrain you?"

To my relief, he nods. "I know. I don't blame you."

I bite my bottom lip to keep it from quivering. Too close. I'm way
too close. "It's not my decision," I tell him as I gently wrap the
nylon around his wrist and secure it through the rings on the side of
the bed. "I don't think it's necessary."

He gives me a look that says I'm patronizing him, which I'm not. I
really, truly, don't believe he is a psychotic madman, but the
evidence speaks to the contrary. He lays his left arm in the on the
second strap and is still while I tie it down.

When I have finished restraining him, I pull a chair close to the
edge of the bed and once again take his hand in mine. He can't pull
away, but he doesn't try to fight it either. Instead, he gently
squeezes back.

***********************
tbc (3/4)




PATIENT 5A (4/4)
***********************
by Glymax

glymax@aol.com

I am surprised when Mulder drifts off to sleep about an hour later.
He's exhausted by the ordeal; physically, mentally and spiritually. I
know how he feels. We didn't talk in the time before he fell asleep.
We just sat in the dark; silent, except for our own thoughts.

I careful remove my hand from his grasp and wait for a couple seconds
to make sure that he doesn't wake. He looks so peaceful in sleep that
it's hard to reconcile the man before me with the one I witnessed
just a couple hours earlier.

I need to stretch my legs and to find out what is going on. I fully
expected the men with the little white jacket to swoop down upon this
place like the wrath of God shortly after Mulder's outbreak, but it's
been quiet here. When I exit the room, I nearly run over Phil who is
sitting so close to the door he's lucky he didn't get knocked out of
his chair.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

His statement angers me. I can read between the lines. He's not
asking if I'm alright or if Mulder is okay, he wants to know if I've
done my duty.

"Yes," I snap back in a hushed whisper. "He's been secured."

I know I shouldn't be like that, Phil's just doing his job. But I
can't help the way I feel about his total disregard for the person.
Have I ever been like that?  Seeing only the situation and forgetting
to consider the real victims?

Lydia gives me a half-hearted smile as I walk behind the counter. She
knows I was trying to cover for Mulder, but she's kind enough not to
ask why.

"I'm sorry, Julie. I had to do it," she says sympathetically,
referring to the call about Mulder.

I nod my head. "I know." And I do. If the roles had been reversed, I
would have done the same thing.

She cocks her head and tries to meet my eyes. "What happened?"

I shrug, my attention focused on the large potted plant next to the
desk. Its large leaves are coated in a layer of dust that is slowly,
but inexorably choking it to death.

"I don't know." I shake my head in disbelief. "I really don't know."

Lydia sighs and returns to her paperwork. I ponder the fate of the
plant just to keep my mind off of Mulder.

***********************

We both jump as the door as the other end of the hall opens and we
hear the sharp tapping of heels on the tile. I lean over the desk to
get a better look, but it's kind of dark. I can barely make out the
shadowy outline of a woman walking toward us with a determination of
purpose. When she gets closer, there is no doubt in my mind who this
person is. Even without the sling on her left arm, I would have
known.

She steps into the light surrounding the nurse's station, plants her
feet firmly and squares her shoulders as if preparing for battle. Her
whole demeanor screams - Don't mess with me!

"Can I help you?" I ask nonchalantly, as if it is perfectly natural
for someone to come storming into the ward in the wee hours of the
morning. I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of watching me
squirm.

She tucks an errant lock of coppery hair behind her ear and reaches
into her pocket to pull out a badge similar to the one that the FBI
guy had the other day. "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, with the FBI.
I'm Agent Mulder's partner."

I stare at her for a moment, my mouth twisting as I bite back the
words I really want to say.

"And?" I ask derisively. I'm being a smart-ass, but I can't help it.
Where the hell has this woman been for the past week? Where was she
when Mulder needed her comfort and guidance? When she could have made
a difference? Before it was too late and her partner slipped around
the bend?

"And... I need to see him." She's playing along with my game, for
now.

I smile sweetly. "I'm sorry. Mr. Mulder is sleeping. You'll just have
to come back during *normal* visiting hours."

Lydia shifts nervously in her chair, throwing warning glances in my
direction.

As the petite redhead stands a little straighter, preparing for a
confrontation, a tiny wince of pain crosses her face and vanishes. So
much alike, she and her partner, I realize suddenly. Why is it so
important for them to mask the suffering behind a facade of stoicism?

"Listen, Ms.  ...." her eyes travel to my name tag, "Wilson. I
understand that you have regulations, but this is a matter of extreme
urgency. I have reason to believe that Agent Mulder's life may be in
jeopardy. It is imperative that I see him immediately and I am
prepared to do so, with or without your consent."

Her intense stare cuts straight through me, forcing me to look away.
I can tell that there will be no arguing with this formidable
opponent, so for the moment, I acquiesce to her demands. "Follow me."

We move quietly, yet quickly down the hall toward Mulder's room. Phil
stands when we reach the door, but I hold up my hand to stop his
questions before they start. He moves to the side and I open the door
for Agent Scully.

She makes a beeline for the bed, not bothering to try to find the
light switch, but skids to a halt about ten feet away. Suddenly she
whirls toward me, and even in the pale light of the new dawn, I can
see her eyes blazing with anger. "Why is he still in restraints?" she
hisses. "I was told that he was no longer considered to be a risk."

I can feel my dander beginning to rise again with the onslaught of
her accusations. But this time it is tinged with a sudden
realization - she doesn't know. She has no idea what happened here
tonight. She is not the one who has come to take Mulder away.

"Agent Scully," I begin slowly, taking her right arm in my hand and
pulling her close so that I can whisper. "There was a.... an incident
tonight about which you are unaware."

Her eyebrow arches slightly and I can see a tiny bead of fear seep
through the crack in her carefully controlled mask. "An incident?
What are you talking about?"

I'm hesitant to relay the story to this woman. If she thought badly
of her partner before, how would she react to the news of yet another
attack? Would she turn her back on him completely, at exactly the
time when he needed her the most?

And he did *need* her. Of that I have absolutely no doubt. He needed
her like I need air; without it I would die. Without her, so would
he.

"He ... he threatened me with a sharp object. I don't know why and I
don't think he knows either. It came from out of the blue and when I
asked him to stop, he did. Immediately. He seems confused about the
whole thing, incognizant of the reasoning behind it... just like he
was the night with you." I gloss over the details in my haste to have
this out in the open.

I try to gauge her reaction, but just like her partner, she is mostly
unreadable. I wonder if it's something they teach at the FBI?

She seems to ponder what I have told her for a brief moment, then
shakes her head. "Damn. I was afraid something like this would
happen."

Excuse me?! She was afraid of this sort of outcome? She suspected
that it would happen and did nothing to warn us or to stop it? What
the hell is going on here? I am about to give her a piece of my mind,
when Mulder begins stirring on the bed behind us.

"Scully?" he calls out softly.

His partner quickly pulls away from my grasp and goes to his side,
gently stroking his hand as she whispers reassurances. "I'm here,
Mulder. I'm right here."

The connection between the two of them is astonishing to watch.
Before my eyes, the feisty redhead, who only moments before was ready
to snap off my head, becomes an angel of mercy and comfort. And
Mulder, my angst ridden charge, transmutes to a state of tranquil
contentment.

No spoken words pass between them, but the silent communication
radiates an almost tangible aura. With his eyes he seeks forgiveness
and understanding; with a gentle touch, she acknowledges and accepts.

I can do nothing at this point but to stand back in silent awe.

Finally the spell is broken and the anguished frown once again
returns to Mulder's face.  "Scully, I..."

She closes her eyes, sighing slightly, as if she has been down this
road with him a thousand times and knows exactly where it's leading.
"Mulder...."

I am starting to feel like a voyeur interrupting a very private
moment, but my curiosity has been piqued to the maximum. I am almost
as anxious as Mulder to find out what really happened the night in
question and I find myself unconsciously moving closer to the bed.

Just as she is about to respond, the door to the room bursts open and
in strides another of the FBI's finest. Walter Skinner, the same man
who had visited Mulder shortly after his arrival.

He stops just inside the door, a mildly surprised expression on his
face. "Agent Scully."

For her part, the female agent seems equally surprised to see her
superior. "Sir? I thought you would be at the crime scene."

"I was," he says, turning the full force of his gaze to the man in
the bed. "But I received a call informing me of an emergency
situation here."

Suddenly, I become the focus of everyone's attention as all eyes fall
on me. I look up to see a kaleidoscope of expressions on their faces;
Skinner, demanding a further explanation; Scully, shock that she was
not the first to be notified; and Mulder, poor Mulder, a pitiful look
of a man betrayed.

I hold out my hands seeking absolution for my apparent varied sins,
but it is Agent Scully who comes to my rescue.

"Sir," she says, dropping Mulder's hand so that she could turn to
face her boss. "I'm not sure what happened here tonight, but I think
there has been a gross misunderstanding."

"A misunderstanding? What are you talking about?" Skinner asks,
shaking his head in confusion.

She licks her lips and pulls herself a little straighter before
continuing. "Sir, I believe that Agent Mulder's aberrant behavior is
linked to the case in more than just a superficial level."

It seems like a fairly vague statement to me, but it has a profound
effect on the men in the room. The look on Skinner's face is one of
doubt and hesitance. Mulder, who had been quietly watching the
proceedings, suddenly begins to struggle to sit up despite his
restraints.

His partner notices his predicament and asks if the straps can be
removed. The question becomes rhetorical when I don't answer fast
enough for her liking and she begins to undo them herself.

"Wait," I say, despite my earlier belief that Mulder is not
dangerous. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea. His actions have been
unpredictable lately."

"He'll be fine," she replies confidently and continues with her task.

Mulder apparently has no problem letting this person speak for him.
He watches as she carefully pulls the nylon from the rings. Their
eyes lock and he silently communicates his gratitude.

Skinner, on the other hand, is getting impatient. "Agent Scully," he
says in a tone that demands she continue with her explanation.

With Mulder freed from his bonds, she once again turns to her
superior, backing up so that she can see both men simultaneously.

She takes a deep breath before she speaks, as if trying to build up
the courage to say what needs to be said. "Sir, I don't know how to
explain it, but I believe that Agent Mulder was somehow under the
influence of the actions of our perpetrator - Jack Devereux. I think
that Mulder became so entangled with Devereux's thought process that
he was acting out exactly as Devereux himself."

I'm completely lost, but Skinner seems to have an inkling of
understanding. "So Devereux was forcing Mulder to do these things? To
act out aggressively? Like Modell?"

Scully shakes her head. "No. Modell seemed to have the ability to
push his will onto his victims, to make them do what he wanted. I
don't think Devereux possesses the same ability. It's more like
Mulder was mirroring or copying Devereux's actions. Doing exactly
what Devereux was doing at exactly the same time. So if anything,
it's more like the case with ...."

"Patterson," Mulder says with a weird mixture of dread and amazement.

The redhead turns her head toward her partner and nods. "Yes, only in
this case you were not only thinking like the man you profiled, you
were becoming him."

I feel like I'm watching a tennis match as my eyes travel from Scully
to Skinner and back. I'm waiting to hear what he has to say to this
ridiculous notion. As much as I want to believe that Mulder is not
sick, this scenario is just a little too farfetched.

Skinner removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose as if
he is trying to ward off the beginnings of a headache. "How is that
possible, Scully? Are you suggesting that Mulder and Devereux formed
some type of psychic link?"

Scully seems hesitant to answer. "I..."

"Why not?" Mulder pipes in. "After all the cases that we have shown
you that demonstrates similar abilities, why would this be any
different? Because it's Scully's theory and not mine?"

"Mulder," his partner chides gently before turning back to Skinner.
"Sir, as I have said, I can't explain it, but for the moment, I have
no other reasonable explanations."

Skinner shakes his head. "I don't know. I understand your concern for
Agent Mulder..."

In an instant, the feisty agent who walked into this ward only a few
minutes ago returns with a vengeance. "Sir, if you think that I
concocted this fabulation to protect Agent Mulder, you are mistaken.
If I truly believed that he was a danger to society or to himself, I
would be the first in line to see that he gets help. But that's not
the case. The biggest threat we have right now Jack Devereux, not
Mulder."

An errant lock of hair falls over her eye and she angrily pushes it
back behind her ear, death stare laser-locked on her boss.

I feel like I should be ringing a bell to sound the end of round one
and giving Scully a congratulatory slap on the back. But before any
of us can figure out where to go from here, we are swept into the
most bizarre chain of events I have ever witnessed.

For no reason and totally without warning, Mulder utters a shocking
statement. "He's dead."

No emotion, no feeling behind it, just a simple statement of fact.

Scully shakes her head sadly and reaches for Mulder's hand. "No,
Mulder. He's not. We thought we had him cornered in an abandoned
house tonight, but he slipped past us. He's still out there."

Mulder closes his eyes for a moment, then looks beseechingly toward
Skinner. His superior also shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Mulder. We
spotted Devereux before he was able to stab his victim, but when we
called his name, he stopped and then ran. Agent Sims got off a single
shot that nicked his hand, but when the confusion cleared, he was
gone."

I have to close my eyes as my mind flashes back to the scene in this
very room only hours earlier. Mulder raising the sharp object over
his head, me calling out his name, the look of confusion in his eyes
immediately following. It is uncanny and way too weird for my liking.

Mulder seems undaunted by the news. "He's dead."

Scully squeezes his hand a little tighter, as if trying to bring him
back to reality. Come on, Mulder. Not now, her eyes are begging.

The tension in the room is as thick as a New England fog and we all
jump when someone's cell phone rings. Skinner fishes in his pocket
and pulls out the tiny phone, placing it to his ear with a gruff
greeting. He listens for a moment, his eyes widening with each
passing second. When the conversation is apparently over, he returns
the phone to his pocket.

"Jack Devereux is dead."

***********************

I'll be the first to admit that I am still confused; about Mulder,
about this case that these agents have been working on, and about the
connection between the two. Is it possible that Mulder and this man,
Devereux, did have some kind of supernatural bond? Is Mulder
suffering from a sort of psychosis or was he subliminally acting out
the part of his nemesis? I can't even begin to guess.

Whatever the case, Agent Scully seems firmly convinced that her
partner is out of danger. She, with a strong backing from Skinner,
has insisted that Mulder be released from the facility. Not that easy
under the circumstances.

There were no formal charges raised against Mulder, in either the
attack on his partner nor anything that happened here at the center,
which will help his case considerably. But convincing others that
Mulder should be set free, will be another matter entirely. This
facility has a moral obligation to uphold.

Scully, apart from her role as FBI agent extraordinaire, is also a
medical doctor, and she has used those credentials to call in a small
army of top notch psychological professionals. Mulder will be given
the most thorough evaluation of his life. He'll probably hate every
minute of it, being a man of intense privacy, but to please his
partner and his superior, I'm sure he will cooperate.

Although my shift relief punched in an hour ago, I still can't
convince myself to go home. I'm bushed, but I *have* to know what's
going on in this strange little saga. Somehow, I feel as if I am a
bit-part player in this drama and it's now my right to take the
curtain call. I'm determined to see it to the end.

I'm sitting at a table in the deserted break room, nursing my first,
and probably only, cup of coffee of the day. I've got enough
adrenaline left to keep me awake, so I don't want to add fuel to the
fire by getting a caffeine rush. But some habits are hard to break
and morning coffee is a must.

I am unconsciously running the little twizzle stick around the rim of
my mug, thinking things through in my head, when the I get the
unmistakable feeling that I am not alone. I look up to see an
exhausted Agent Scully standing in the doorway.

"Mind if I join you?" she asks, while simultaneously lowering herself
into the chair across from me. She rubs her bloodshot eyes and lets a
tiny sigh escape.

"Coffee?" I ask, suddenly remembering my manners.

She wearily nods her head. "Cream, so sugar. Thank you."

As I busy myself with the preparation of her drink, I watch her out
of the corner of my eye. This woman is an enigma to me; her
reassuring and overwhelming concern for Mulder now, compared to her
identity as the apparent self-designated persona non grata just a few
hours earlier.

I set the mug in front of her and she gratefully accepts.

"Can I ask you a question?" I ask somewhat hesitantly, unsure of how
I will be received.

She looks up at me with suspicion, but opens her hand in a gesture
for me to continue.

"I don't mean to butt in, but where have you been for the past week?
Mulder spent the majority of his waking hours waiting to hear from
you, yet..... nothing."

My accusation evidently hits a nerve, because her eyes momentarily
well with tears before her control snaps back into place. "I did what
I thought was right, under the circumstances," she murmurs.

"I knew Mulder was in trouble, that something definitely wasn't
right. I was scared for him, so I had Skinner make the arrangements
to move him here, to this facility. I thought that maybe he would be
safe."

"You?" I blurt without thinking. "You were the one that got him in?"
The pieces were slowly beginning to fall into place.

She nods and takes a sip of her coffee before continuing. "As I was
being taken to the hospital, I was thinking about what had happened.
Mulder just wasn't himself. His behavior was so out of character that
I knew there must be an explanation; a plausible, rational
explanation. But......"

'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however
improbable, must be the truth.' I say silently to myself. I nod,
letting her know I understand.

She smiles. "I know how it sounds."

I have to agree with her there, the whole thing does seem a bit out
there.

"After I was released from the hospital," she subconsciously rubbed
at her left shoulder, "I jumped right back into the investigation. I
knew there was a connection, I could feel it, but I also knew that I
was the only one. If I didn't throw myself into this case, Mulder
would be finished. They would write it off as a mental breakdown,
lock him up and toss the key."

"But why here?" I ask, wondering why she would willingly place her
partner into a more permanent setting rather than a psychiatric ward
at a hospital.

A grimace crosses Scully's face and I get the feeling that she thinks
I am asking too many questions. "There are many factors involved, I
can't explain it all, but I knew he would be safer here."

I'm not completely satisfied with the answer, but before I can fire
off another round of inquiries, we are interrupted by an orderly.
"Excuse me, Dr. Scully. But the doctors would like to see you in Mr.
Mulder's room," he explains apologetically.

As she gets up, I realize that I am as filled in on the situation as
I am probably going to get. The secret life of a federal agent will
remain just that, secret.

Before Scully leaves, she stops in the doorway and turns to face me.
"I appreciate all you've done for Mulder."

I nod in acceptance of her gracious words. What else could I say?

***********************

An hour later, the paperwork is complete and Mulder is a free man.
Apparently, the shrinks Scully called in agree with her assessment of
the situation and have deemed Mulder to be mentally sound.

I've been hovering around the nurse's station, hoping to get a
glimpse of the extraordinary pair before they leave. My fingers
nervously tap out the 'William Tell Overture' on the counter, a habit
I picked up as a child, and one that seems to annoy my co-workers as
much as it did my mother.

Suzanne shoots me a dirty look and I stop.

"Why don't you head home?" she says, glancing up at the clock. "We
can handle things from here."

She knows how long I've been here and how tired I must be. I smile
and nod. "I will. I just...." My voice trails off as I spot Mulder
and his partner making their way down the hall.

My former patient's entire appearance has changed. Neatly dressed in
a fitted suit, his eyes clear and bright, I almost didn't recognize
him. He seems different, confident and self-assured. Definitely not
the man I saw throughout this past week. And I realize with a small
amount of sadness, that he doesn't need me any more. Everything that
he needs is walking at his side.

A slight smile graces his lips in recognition as he passes by the
nurse's station, but that is all.

Scully holds out Mulder's release papers and I accept them with a
quick nod. "Thank you," she says, but her eyes tell me she means it
for more than just taking the papers.

"You're welcome," I answer and hope that she understands as well.

I watch as they continue down the hall, Mulder leaning down to
whisper something into his partner's ear. Apparently what he said
surprised her, because she stops and stares up at him. He smiles and
opens the door for her, guiding her out with a gentle hand on her
back.

I shake my head, a tiny chuckle finding its way out of my mouth.

I grab my things, more than ready to get some deserved shut-eye, when
the phone rings. Suzanne's not at her desk, so I answer for her. It's
a message from the front desk - there's a new patient for bed 5A.



end