A Brave New World Humility (1 of 4) by Vickie Moseley Summary: post IWTB, our two favorite agents are entering a brave new world. Will they be able to meet it? Category: MSR, MA, SA, Skinner friendship Rating: there is a racy section but nothing that has been shown on network TV Disclaimer: Chris, overall, I give you props, but there were several places I have to differ. This is my humble attempt to correct some misconceptions. Archive: yes Dedication: To Sarah, who gave me the inspiration. To Chris, who prodded me to post it. To Dawn who, even when she's not there, is always there. To my ET -- even though you've moved to different playgrounds, we're still tight. And to all (Lisa, Tash, Maureen, and all the Refugees) who have fought to keep the dream alive. Author's note: This is the beginning of a series. The first part is long and will be posted in four parts. I'll be posting new portions as they come to me (yes, I have a sequel already planned for this one). Feedback causes my muse to kick me in the behind and write more -- do what you want with that information. Feedback: vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com A Brave New World Humility (1 of 4) Our Lady of Sorrows Hospital Four days after the kiss . . . He was so bright eyed, the boy running along the beach. His sun-kissed chestnut hair with honey gold highlights was whipped in the ocean breeze, his bare feet splashed in the frothy water. His skin was a deep bronze from a full summer in the sun. His smile was as infectious as it was precocious. He laughed freely, casting a glance over his shoulder at the figure running after him in the tide. Her eyes couldn't make out the taller figure at first until the glare of the sun shifted and she saw it was Mulder. He looked so young, laughing and splashing, his pant legs rolled up to the knees but the fabric was still stained dark from the surf. There was a glint in his eyes as he chased after the boy -- a childlike exuberance that had been missing in the last years of their life together. She felt herself smile as she watched him go after the boy, both of them obviously enjoying their game. And as she watched, an enormous wave appeared on the horizon, taller than any of the ships her father had ever sailed. It was coming to shore with a speed known only to hurricanes and tsunamis. She cried out, screamed Mulder's name but the sound of the surf was too loud and he couldn't hear her. She started to run down to the shore to warn them but something was holding her back -- shaking her -- She awoke with a start. The shaking continued and she realized someone was shaking her shoulder to try and awaken her. "Doctor Scully, please, you have to get to ICU," a voice said frantically as Scully tried to clear the sleep from her eyes. She looked around and found that she was in the chapel, her rosary beads twisted in her hands. When she looked up, the face of the pediatric head nurse, Sister Elisabeth, looked down on her with worry. "Please, Doctor Scully, you must wake up. It's Christian!" the nun said desperately. Instantly alert, Scully composed herself and stood, hurrying toward the door to the hallway, half listening to the usually quiet nun prattling along behind her. "We searched the on call room and the lounge. We called your cell phone but Sister Theresa found it ringing in the pocket of your lab coat on the back of your office door. Then Father Harrigan mentioned you might have gone to the chapel and when we first looked we couldn't find you but then I decided to check the pews and found you asleep . . . " "I, uh, I thought I had my pager with me," Scully tossed over her shoulder as she hit the stairs, not even considering the elevator that tended to be slow. "Yes, we found it on your desk in the charger. It was Providence that led me to check the pews again. We were ready to drive out to your house -- " "No one answered the phone at home?" she asked, slightly perplexed. "No. No answer and we tired several times but Jimmy in the garage said your car was still there so we stopped trying." They had reached the pediatric hall and Scully turned toward the double doors leading to the PICU. When she burst through and into the patient room on the left she skidded to an abrupt halt. The room was a shambles of equipment hurriedly moved aside. A crash cart sat, recently used but no longer needed. The still form on the bed was lying under a white sheet, face covered, the simple cotton now serving as a shroud. The lone nurse trying to make sense of the carnage looked up. It was Beth, a bright 26-year old not long out of nursing school. There were tears streaming down her face. "His heart just gave out," she said meekly. "Dr. Martin was on call. He did everything he could." The young woman fought back a sob and drew in a deep breath. "His parents are down with Father Ybarra right now." Scully forced her feet to move her forward to the bed. Gently she raised the sheet. Christian's young face looked so peaceful, even with the angry scar still marring the right side of his head. The last time she'd seen him, just hours before, his face was constricted in a terrible spasm of pain that she worked so hard to erase. After seeming hours of effort, he'd finally fallen asleep and in her own exhaustion, she'd set out immediately to find strength in the chapel to continue their fight to save his life. Obviously, it was too late. Her throat closed and for a brief moment she thought she would be in need of the crash cart herself. The room closed in on her and as she looked down at Christian, his hair lightened in color, took on a honey gold bronze and his face changed to that of the boy she'd seen in her dream. She blinked twice and though her eyes were now glazed with tears, the dark haired boy's face returned. She could breathe again, but her chest was still terrifyingly tight. "Doctor Scully, I'm sorry to disturb you but Father Ybarra is looking for you. He's down in his office," Sister Elisabeth said from the doorway. The older nun gave her a look of deep sympathy and then went back to her duties. Mulder and Scully's house 8:45 pm He pulled the rental into the drive, surprised to see her loaner car in her usual spot. Mulder looked over at the small bag of groceries in the passenger's seat and wondered if half a sandwich would appease her appetite. He knew she'd be close to running on empty and he was curious why she was even home. Maybe her patient was doing better. He was tired and his head was pounding, but he felt good. How long had it been since he could say that -- even to himself? He'd accomplished something, he'd made a difference. He'd interacted with other humans and the sky hadn't fallen. He knew Scully had been worried about him. Hell, he had to admit that he'd been worried, too. Agoraphobia wasn't something he relished dealing with for the rest of his life, but how do you go out in public when you're still considered a wanted man? So when Scully prodded him to get involved, when Agent Whitney told him 'all was forgiven' maybe at the time it had seemed to fly over his head but with reflection it was a turning point. He was Mulder again. Not some weird guy holed up in a little mountain retreat but a guy who went out and did things in his life. He was alive again and he was pretty damned happy with that, even at his advanced age of 48. He bounded up the steps and unlocked the door. Stomping the light dusting of snow off his boots, he called out. "Hey, what's up, Doc?" Silence answered him. The light was on in the kitchen. Shedding his coat at the door, he moved through the dining room and toward the back of the house. What he found caused his breath to catch in his throat. An empty vodka bottle was sitting in the middle of the table. A plastic tumbler was overturned and a small amount of liquid was spilled on the surface. A red head rested on an outstretched arm, slumped over. He put out his hand to shake her awake when he saw the small pill bottle clutched in her fingers. He felt her hand -- it was warm but she still didn't move. His heart was in his throat as he picked up the medicine bottle. Oh shit. It was exactly what he was afraid it was. His prescription for sleeping pills. She'd brought it home last November when his nighttime prowling had kept her awake for too many nights in a row. Swallowing thickly on rising bile, he turned the cap and dumped the contents on the table. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely get his fingers to move the small tablets into an orderly fashion. Twenty . . . twenty-two . . . twenty-four . . . twenty-six . . .thank God! Twenty-eight. He double-checked the label to ensure his remembrance was correct. The prescription had been for a two- week supply of thirty and there were still twenty- eight in the bottle. He had taken the pills once just to get her off his back, which accounted for the missing two. So all he had to worry about was alcohol poisoning from ingesting 750 milliliters of 80-proof vodka. How much had been left in the bottle at New Years? When she moaned and her head rolled off her arm to loudly make contact with the wood surface of the table, he startled. What the hell was he doing, treating this like a crime scene? "Scully," he said, loud enough to wake her but hopefully not give her a heart attack. "Scully, wake up. Time to go to bed." " . . . innaminte," she sighed and let out a little snore. "No, now," he replied, pulling her into his arms and carrying her to their bedroom. His mind was racing with questions, but one thing was obvious. He wasn't going to get any answers from her -- not tonight at least. Halfway up the stairs to their room she roused enough to look at him. "You shaved again," she slurred. "Wanna show me your li'l something?" she whispered seductively. "Maybe when you've slept a while," he smirked. Scully had always been a happy drunk. It was usually the reason for the altered state that was the problem. "You have a boo-boo," she suddenly noticed, bringing her hand up to clumsily poke at the stitches on his forehead. The patch of abused skin was still tender and he couldn't stop the wince her touch provoked. She pouted at him. "I can't touch you, Mulder. I'll kill you. I don't want you to die, too," she said, burying her head in his shoulder. "They wouldn't let me touch you in the ambulance either. They knew . . . they knew I'm a killer. Everything I touch dies or goes away," she trailed off as she sank back into drunken slumber. Once next to the bed he pulled off her shoes and clothes, wrestled her near comatose body into her satin pajamas and tucked her into their bed. He glanced at the alarm -- it was just 8 o'clock. He'd been exhausted when he'd arrived home but now he was wired and worried. Leaning over and kissing her tenderly, he made sure she was on her side in case she got sick to her stomach and quietly went back downstairs. The sandwich he'd picked up at the deli counter of the grocery store was not at all appealing when he went back to unpack the meager provisions. He tossed it in the refrigerator, along with the butter and eggs he'd purchased and the carton of that new yogurt she'd become addicted to. He considered the stuff a biology experiment and placed it on the lowest shelf so it wouldn't invade anything he consumed. Once he had the groceries put away, he looked back at the table. His sleeping pills were still scattered on the tabletop. With one sweep of his hand he collected them all and washed them down the kitchen sink. He crushed the amber bottle before lobbing it in the trash compactor. Picking up the empty tumbler, he saw a piece of paper lying under the bottle. It was a printed out email. That he might be invading her privacy never entered his mind. Their shared flight and subsequent cohabitation had blurred a lot of lines that had previously been in bold black borders. He scanned the message and the sender and his heart sank. It was from the hospital administrator, Father Miguel Ybarra. Scully was being notified that the hospital was holding an inquest into the death of Christian Fearon and her actions as his personal physician were being called into question. She was to appear before the hospital board in three days for testimony. She'd never told him the name of her patient, but when he'd been trying to find her last week one of the nurses suggested he try the boy's room. It didn't take an FBI agent to realize that this boy was the patient that had her so tied up in knots. He was a good looking kid, even sleeping off a major surgery. But the kid was dead now. Mulder bit his lip. That was what she was mumbling about. She considered herself the boy's killer. She used a radical treatment on a terminally ill child and the result had been his death. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place -- the empty vodka bottle, even the sleeping pills. He knew Scully -- suicide was the farthest thing on her mind. But as a reaction to crushing, soul-wrenching pain . . . he knew the feeling well. The faint sound of coughing echoing through the small house got his attention. He hurried up the steps but by the time he arrived, the damage was done. She had vomited and was soaked to the skin, not to mention their bed was in ruins. Sighing deeply, he cleaned her up, got the bedding changed and put her back in bed. She didn't seem to know what was going on and fell back to sleep almost immediately. Once he had started the soiled sheets and blankets in the washing machine, he dragged himself up the steps one more time and set about keeping watch over her. He sat on the bed, his back against the headboard and reached over to lightly stroke her hair. It was a long night and he was far too worried to even think about sleep. 7:45 am Mulder felt himself falling and managed to grab the edge of the nightstand before he landed on the floor. His back was killing him, his legs were a buzz with pins and needles. Something had woken him. He heard the shower going and rubbed his hand over his tired eyes, glancing at his watch and then the alarm clock. At least she was finally awake. It had been a long night. She hadn't gotten sick again, but he didn't dare fall asleep in case she had. His last conscious thought had been as the sky started to lighten, somewhere near 6 am. He'd passed out for about two hours. He was way too old for that all night shit. The door to the bathroom opened and Scully emerged in a cloud of steam. She tied the knot on her silk robe and stepped over to the dresser. "Good morning," he said quietly, finally trusting that his legs would hold him, he rose to his feet. "Can I interest you in a large glass of orange juice and a four-aspirin chaser?" She looked over at him. "Where were you? I came home and you were gone." Her voice was accusing, her eyes showed her hurt. He licked his lip. He had been so anxious to share his day's adventures with her when he'd arrived home. Now he wondered if it were the best time to tell her. "I was out . . . for a while. Let me get that juice," he said abruptly changing the subject. "You get dressed. Want some toast?" "I'm not sick, Mulder," she growled. "I don't need toast and I don't want juice." She closed her eyes and leaned against the dresser, seeming to need its solid presence to keep on her feet. "I could use a cup of coffee. Strong." "Coming up," he nodded, going downstairs to the kitchen. He busied himself with the coffee, then moved the now clean sheets over to the dryer. She entered the kitchen and pulled down her favorite mug. With shaking hands she filled it to the brim and took a sip. "You could use a little more grounds next time." "I didn't want it to get up and walk off, Scully. I tend to like my coffee as a liquid, not a solid," he replied. Her stare would have frightened a weaker man, but he was made of sterner stuff. He sat down at the kitchen table and tapped his fingers on the surface nervously. "So, want to tell me about what happened last night?" He was talking to thin air. She had already stalked out of the room. "I saw the email," he said as he followed her. She was sitting in the living room, staring out the front window. "I'm sorry about Christian." She pursed her lips and nodded. He sat down beside her. "Scully, you did what you thought was . . ." She jumped up, spilling coffee on the sofa and the rug. "Don't say it, Mulder. Don't you dare say it," she spat out. "Scully -- " "Don't placate me, goddamn it! I don't want your pity and I sure as hell don't want you to sit there and psychoanalyze me! Just . . . just leave me alone, all right? Just leave me the hell alone!" She stomped up the stairs to their bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. He jerked when he heard her turn the skeleton key in the lock. "Good thing we have a spare bathroom," he muttered and slunk off to the front bedroom that he'd converted to his office when they'd first moved in. His cell phone rang just as he sat down. "One sorry son of a bitch speaking," he said bitterly. "Mulder? It's Skinner. You were supposed to call me first thing this morning," his former boss intoned over the phone line. "Yeah, sorry about that, Walt. I was, uh, I didn't get much sleep last night. I overslept." "Well, I talked to Budget and to Contractual Resources. I got the way cleared to hire you on contract but I've been told you need that concealed carry license. Will there be any trouble getting it?" "No, that's what I did yesterday. It's pretty straightforward. I filled out the paperwork right at the office. I should hear back in two to three weeks, assuming my name is no longer on your ten most wanted." "It never was, Mulder. It was always a smoke screen. You two have been hung out to dry for six years. I'm sorry about that but you were safer where you were." Mulder licked dry lips. "Yeah. I'm sure it would look that way from the outside," he said evenly. "So I'm not being blamed for Whitney's death?" "She was killed in the line of duty by an alleged serial killer currently in custody. You're responsible for his apprehension and arrest. I won't say the Director wants to pin any medals on you but no one blames you for ASAC Whitney's death." "Not even Drummy?" Mulder retorted. "I can't speak for Agent Drummy, Mulder. And if I were you, I wouldn't really concern myself with what he thinks, anyway. He should have responded when Scully called the first time. I've got OPR looking into his actions on your behalf, or lack thereof." "Great. My enemies list was getting too short," Mulder sighed. "Is Scully still at the hospital with her patient?" Skinner asked, wanting to find a safe subject. Little did Skinner know that he was just walking into an adjacent minefield, Mulder thought. "Uh, no. She's home. Sleeping." "Well, tell her I said the offer is open for her as well. I know she likes her new career as a doctor, but she made one hell of an investigator -- as you well know. The Bureau would be happy to have you both on contract." "Yeah, I'm sure it would get a paragraph in the next annual report," Mulder quipped. "Look, Walt, I'm . . . uh, I need to get going. I have some things to do to get my life back now that I'm officially 'unwanted', so if there's nothing else . . . " "No, I have nothing else. Do you think we could get together for lunch tomorrow? My treat -- Jimmy's. About 11:30? We can hash out some of the details." "Sure," Mulder replied, thinking feverishly. I might even be staying with you, he mused, if Scully doesn't unlock the damned bedroom door. But that was definitely a subject he didn't want to discuss. "Thanks, Walter -- for everything." "I'm happy to help, Mulder." He put the phone back in his pocket. Contractual consultant to the FBI. Not at all what he thought he'd be doing when he considered rejoining the free world. Walter had made the inquiry and Mulder had jumped at the chance. There was a fairly good chance he would be able to make a decent living, not that they would need money now. Their 'emergency funds' had just about run out when Scully had gotten on with the hospital, but now the rest of his inheritance from his mother and father would be available and basically they were set for life. So why did he feel like the world was ending? He looked up when the door to the office opened. "Is this seat taken?" she asked meekly. Her face was stained with dried tears but her eyes were clear. "Not at all," he replied, patting his lap. She hurried across the room to accept his invitation and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I'm . . . ah, I'm sorry I've been such a bitch," she murmured as she curled in his arms. He stroked her back gently. "I'd say you were the picture of restraint. I would have trashed the living room furniture by now," he said quietly. "We can't afford to replace it. I don't have an income," she said, pulling back to look at him. "On the contrary, Doc. My funds are now available. Quite a tidy sum, if my old man's banker is to be believed. We have full access now." She nodded. "Good." "Scully, I'm really sorry," he said sincerely. "I know you are. I am too, Mulder. I am too." "Can you talk about it?" he asked, almost afraid of her reaction. She shrugged. "I thought we were in the clear. Then night before last he had a reaction to the treatment. He was in such incredible pain. I finally got him through that part, he fell asleep and I . . . I went down to the chapel just to regroup. I must have fallen asleep. I woke up when Sister Elisabeth came looking for me. When I got to his room -- he was already gone, his heart just . . . quit working. I wasn't there. His parents . . . his parents were with him, but I wasn't," she choked out. "Scully, you were his doctor. Yes, I know you think you should have been with him, but you had done everything you could," Mulder assured her. She chewed on her lip. "Apparently, I did too much," she said. "You saw the email. Father Ybarra was upset with me for attempting the treatment. I went against the board. If my actions in any way led to that boy's death -- " "Scully, stop this. That's what an inquest is for, isn't it -- to determine what happened? Don't buy trouble. I know you only had that boy's best interests at heart." "I heard you talking," she said, clearly changing the subject. "To Walt. He, uh, he asked me if I would like a job as a consultant with the Bureau," Mulder said, chewing his lip. "Contractual, of course." Her smile was weak at best. "That's what you want, isn't it? To go back, to do it all again?" "Not all of it, no. I could use a few less ass- kickings, if possible." He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth for a second. "Scully, I'd have to have a concealed carry license to do the work. It's the only way the state of Virginia will let me carry a back up gun." "You'd have a gun again," she commented, standing and walking to the window. "Yeah, but this time when I lose it, I'll have to go out and buy another one," he answered flippantly. "Are you . . . are you okay with me doing this?" "It's your life, Mulder," she said with a shrug. "I thought it was our life," he murmured. She turned from the window, arms crossed. Her face crumbled and she started to cry. "I guess I was hoping . . . I mean, I thought that when it was finally over -- " "Scully," he said, rising and going over to enfold her in his arms. "I know you love being a doctor. You can still be a doctor." "No, Mulder, I don't think I can," she said, her voice muffled in his shirt. "I don't think they'll let me." She pushed against him and wiped her eyes. "But you, you want this. You've been lost here for too long. You need this." "We're still here, Scully. I'm not leaving this house, I'm not going to leave you behind just so I can . . . can chase monsters in the dark." She looked up at him and tried to smile, but her heart wasn't in it. She brushed his cheek with her fingertips. "I'm tired, Mulder. I'm going back to bed." "Want some company?" he asked hopefully. "I think I need some time . . . alone," she said, her chin trembling. He nodded in understanding and watched her as she closed the door on him again.