Title: UNFORESEEN
Author: Jean Robinson (jeanrobinson@yahoo.com)
Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property 
of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television 
Network. No infringement is intended. 
Rating: PG
Classification: V
Archive: Please ask permission.
Spoilers: FTF
Summary: You may not be ready for everything.
Feedback: Adored at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com
Author's notes at the end 
*****************************

UNFORESEEN
By Jean Robinson


"Mulder. . . something's wrong."

Understatement of the year, Agent Scully. Too bad you 
won't win any awards for that blindingly obvious 
utterance. Because you're lying on the floor in the 
hallway of your partner's apartment building, dying.

I can't breathe. Oh, my God, I can't breathe!

It's only been seconds since I went down, I know it has, 
but it feels like forever. It feels like I've spent my entire 
life staring up at the ugly ceiling fixture in this poorly lit 
hall. And the idea that that horrible chrome and glass 
globe may be the last thing I ever see again is making me 
absurdly angry.

Mulder first thought I was joking or afraid, that I was 
trying to get away from him and what had almost 
happened between us. Then he thought I was reacting to 
the bee sting. He could have dealt with that; anaphylactic 
shock is life-threatening, but at least it's normal. This is 
not normal. I knew that the moment I told him 
something was wrong; that was why I continued to spout 
out my symptoms like some deranged first-year medical 
student until I couldn't speak anymore. I was trying to 
get his attention, trying to get him to understand that 
when I said, "Something's wrong," I really, really meant 
it.

I can't breathe. Why did they have to do this?

You people, you secret government, secret military, 
secret everything agencies who seem to be behind all the 
cases Mulder and I are sent to investigate, I want to tell 
you all something. You have done the most heinous 
things imaginable to me and to my partner in the last five 
years, and we still don't know why. You hear that? We 
=still= don't know why you are doing this, and what you 
plan to do, or what you want from us. But I give you my 
permission to do them to me all over again if you'll just 
let me breathe right now.

That's how desperate I am. I'm willing to sell my soul for 
oxygen. I would give these people a second chance at 
killing another family member for a mouthful of air. I 
would let them take me away for three more months and 
implant another chip in my neck to feel my lungs inflate 
all the way just once more.

I have sunk that low.

Mulder's back, kneeling next to me. He looks devastated. 
He knows. He knows that I'm not going to survive this, 
that no matter what threats he made to the 911 operator, 
I'm not going to be alive when the ambulance gets here. 
Whoever the men are that engineered this virus, they did 
a good job. I can't breathe and I'm going to die.

Now I wish I wasn't a doctor, because I know exactly 
what is happening to my body as oxygen deprivation sets 
in. My cells are dying off one by one, my systems are 
shutting down. I don't understand why I'm even still 
conscious, except that I know my brain doesn't want to 
give up yet. It's going to fight. Because I don't want to 
die. Oh, God, I don't want to die.

I can't feel my extremities anymore. Mulder is holding 
one of my hands in both of his, and the only reason I 
know it is because I can see it. I can feel it when he 
moves one hand to stroke my face and smooth back my 
hair, and I'm glad of that. It's comforting. It's nice to be 
comforted while you die.

He's talking to me – or maybe just to himself, I don't 
know. I can't hear very well now, but I can make out his 
words. "Hang on, Scully. Hang on for me."

I'd like to try. But I can't breathe, and I'm so frightened.

I must be losing consciousness. It's getting darker.

What's he doing? No! Mulder, don't! Don't shake me, I 
can't breathe! Mulder stop shaking me I can't breathe I 
can't breathe!!

I must have started to close my eyes and scared him into 
action. I know why he did that; at Quantico they teach 
you how to get what you want. How to conduct an 
investigation. How to get information out of a suspect. 
How to protect your partner, how to prevent them from 
leaving you. You simply refuse to let them go. You tell 
them what they want to hear, you make them promises 
you don't intend to fulfill, you make up lies to bind them 
to you. Things like, "I need you," "You make me whole," 
and the biggest lie of all, "I love you." He said almost all 
those things to me or demonstrated them in his actions 
no less than five minutes ago, and I, the known skeptic 
who received exactly the same training he did and knew 
precisely what he was doing, was starting to believe him. 

Now he's uttering them again, but for an entirely 
different reason. He's trying to give me a reason to live. A 
purpose to keep fighting, to not succumb to the darkness 
that beckons so temptingly.

So far, it's worked. I'm awake again, or at least semi-
alert, and he's stopped jostling me. Now he's the one who 
is shaking. "Don't, Scully," he begs. "Don't let go. You 
have to hold on for a few more minutes."

Minutes? I don't have minutes left. I hardly have 
anything left. I'm dying.

Five years together and the time he decides to kiss me is 
when I've announced I'm leaving him of my own volition. 
Leaving him and leaving the FBI, that is. I don't recall 
ever saying I wanted a permanent vacation from life 
itself. And God knows what would have happened if the 
bee hadn't intervened, because I certainly wasn't making 
any moves to stop Mulder, despite what he might have 
thought. Now God will be the only one who will ever 
know. Maybe He'll tell me when and if I make it to the 
afterlife.

To top it all off, I have to suffocate to death. How 
grotesquely ironic. We miss out on our first kiss, and 
now I'm flat on my back making inappropriately 
sensuous little gasps as I strain for air. I have to die 
sounding like a bitch in heat.

I would agree to act like one, too, if it would help me 
breathe.

Thankfully Mulder doesn't seem to notice. He's relieved 
that I'm making any noise at all. As long as he can hear 
me, I'm still alive. That's all he cares about right now.

I want my mother. If she were here I know she could 
help. That's what mothers are for. I was a terrible 
mother. I should have known how to help Emily. I should 
have been able to heal her, cure her. Instead I let her die 
and now I'm dying, too.

I can't breathe. I just can't breathe.

Mulder's looking away from me now, toward the end of 
the hall. Does that mean the ambulance is finally here? 
I've survived that long? How is that possible? I should be 
brain dead. I should be in cardiac arrest. I should 
definitely not still be alert, heaving in non-stop 
respiratory distress. The human body just doesn't permit 
this kind of self-torture.

It is the medical squad. They're yelling things at me, and 
Mulder is yelling right back at them that I can't answer. 
Two of them, men. I should feel relieved, but I don't.

I realize why almost at once. They slide an oxygen mask 
over my face. That's it. They know what's wrong with me; 
they just said it out loud – constriction in the throat and 
larynx. And they give me an oxygen mask? I can't 
breathe! Don't tell me my passages are open! My throat is 
swollen shut! The last thing I need is an oxygen mask! I 
need an airway! I need to be intubated! For God's sake, 
get out a penknife and do a tracheotomy, I don't care! Do 
something, because otherwise I'm going to die!

Who are you?! I know you're not paramedics! Who are 
you? Who sent you? I can't breathe, did they tell you to 
just let me suffocate?!!

Mulder's not a doctor. He can't see that they haven't 
really done anything to help me, and I can't telegraph my 
panic to him with my eyes. I've already panicked, and 
he's seen that expression. I've seen his, too. I've seen his 
real panic face, not that fake mask he wore in Dallas. I'm 
looking at it right now as he delivers me unknowingly 
into the hands of the enemy. And I realize that I can't 
keep my eyes open any longer; consciousness is fading 
fast and the real darkness is truly falling.

The cool air brushing my face signifies we're outside now, 
running for the vehicle. It's then that it starts to dawn on 
him, I think. I can hear his voice behind me, raised in 
fear, describing my collapse, trying to make them 
understand what they're dealing with. Suddenly he's 
wondering why, if these people are trained professionals, 
am I still unable to inhale. Why I'm still gasping like a 
beached fish underneath this insidious clear plastic 
mask. If they answer him, I can't hear it.

Mulder, help me! Don't leave me with these people! 
Mulder, I'll investigate anything you want for the rest of 
my life but don't let them put me in that van!!

He tried. He really did. I manage to open my eyes one last 
time and I see the expression on his face as they lift me 
inside the sham ambulance and slam the door, 
separating us. I hear him again at the driver's window, 
screaming hoarsely that they have to tell him what 
hospital. Of course they aren't going to tell him, because 
we all know I'm not headed for a hospital.

I am prepared to die. I am prepared to undergo whatever 
else these people wanted to inflict on me in the name of 
their grand project. After the last five years with Mulder, I 
am prepared for anything.

Except the sound of that single gunshot.


End


Author's notes: Yes, I took a creative liberty with the 
scene in assuming Scully was actually conscious. Please 
don't begrudge me my small flight of fancy. ;-) Thanks to 
Marguerite and Jill for providing encouraging editorial 
commentary for this tale.

Feedback adored at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com