by mldrgrl Rated PG Summary: Set during the cancer arc and I’m sorry
He couldn’t stay away. Consequences be damned, his partner was dying, and Mulder could not just walk away. He waited until the halls were quiet and an easily distracted night nurse was on duty to slip inside her room. He tilted the blinds on the inside window just enough to shield him from from view and silently moved a chair to her bedside. He had sat vigil for her once before when it looked like the end was near, and if there was a way to will her back from the edge not once, but twice, he would do it.
She had been taking off the ventilator, which he wasn’t sure was a good sign or not, considering she had a DNR on file that the hospital was well aware of. He didn’t know how to make sense of her hospital chart. That was her job and he wished he could wake her up to explain it to him. Careful to avoid the IV in her arm, he slipped one hand under her hers and covered it with his other hand. Her fingers moved between his hands, likely a reflex, but her lashes fluttered lightly and her head tipped just a little towards him.
Mulder rubbed the top of Scully’s hand and stroked the line of her thumb with his. Her eyes drifted open and shut in slow intervals, unable to shake sleep so easily. At one point she gave him a dreamy smile, took a deep breath and let out a soft sigh. Eventually, she managed to focus on him, but it was with the glassy gaze of the heavily sedated.
There is, he supposes, a certain poetic justice to it. At the very least, a measure of dramatic irony in the fact that he is dying for real this time, and the only man who could probably save him is one whose death he arranged mere weeks ago.
Then again, it’s not as though Cobra would have deigned to lift a finger to help him, not after everything. No, the end result would have been the same, regardless of whether Cobra still lived.
Still, it is inconvenient. The fix should theoretically be a simple one, only there is no one left who might be capable of pinpointing the precise nature of his chip’s malfunction. In two weeks, he’s gone so rapidly downhill, systems failing one after another, that if he bothered to look in a mirror, he would be hard pressed to recognize himself. If an answer cannot be divined in the very near term, he won’t make it through the month.
It is the very best sort of surprise, then, when he learns of the crash in Oregon. New technology, undoubtedly more recent than what they’ve already obtained, could very well hold the answers to a cure. Or if not that, to a temporary reprieve, one that could buy him more time. He needs to get whatever’s on that ship. There is only one small problem.
The group’s more or less disbanded, his recent decline precipitating the final unraveling of the project. Despite all his ego, he never would have actually believed himself to be the glue holding the whole thing together. And yet…
So no, he does not have the resources he once commanded. But there are still a handful of players, if he’s desperate enough to call them up off the bench. And he may well be desperate enough.
“Greta–” His voice is a half-wheeze, half-croak. “I need… for you to get Marita… Covarubias on the phone for me.”