From: Kel <ckelll@hotmail.com>
Date: Tue, 25 May 1999 18:45:01 -0400
Subject: NEW: Basketball Therapy 1/12

BASKETBALL THERAPY
by Kel
Category: XRH, A
Spoilers: Dreamland, Rain King
Rating: PG
Keywords: MSR
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are folkheroes in the public domain.
            Oh, sorry, wrong universe.
            Everyone you recognize belongs to Chris Carter.

Thanks to Scetti for the basketball help.  I couldn't have done it
without you.  Thanks to my readers, Missy, Spooky fox, and Scetti.

Feedback: If you'd be so kind. ckelll@hotmail.com

Summary:  Set shortly before Tithonus, this story explores life in the
bullpen, where tedium and background checks are the order of the day. 
When Scully gets drawn into an investigation at a Maryland hospital,
Mulder gets trapped in a deadly hostage situation.

Didn't Mulder seem relaxed and well-adjusted in Tithonus?  How was
that possible?  Why wasn't he out looking for alien colonists, fighting
the future?   Read on; it will be revealed.

Now, Chris Carter would have us believe that one day Mulder came home to
find a waterbed in his previously nonexistent bedroom and barely gave
it a second thought.  "I don't know what to tell you.  I think it was a
gift," he says in Monday.  Well, I don't buy it!  Whatever happened to
the "I" in FBI?  Let's suppose that Mulder had been a little more
inquisitive.  "With every choice you change your fate."   Let's examine
what might have developed if  Mulder had chosen a different "fork in the
road."





BASKETBALL THERAPY 1/12


"Mulder.  Cigarette break?" Scully asked.  She stood by his desk,
waiting for him to wrap up his phone call.

Mulder nodded and hung up the phone.  

Mulder and Scully weren't the only ones bored witless by endless
background checks.  The whole bullpen was in the same boat.  One of the
practices that had evolved in that stultifying environment was the
smoke-free cigarette break.  It wasn't fair that only smokers got
breaks.  A strictly enforced rule in the bullpen was that for every
three cigarette breaks you took, you had to make a pot of coffee.  That
led to many fascinating bathroom breaks.  Jerry Luskin, a
rumpled-looking agent who was counting the years to retirement, was the
self-appointed enforcer.  He made a couple of check-marks on a Post-it 
note when he saw Scully and Mulder walking out.

There was a room provided for cigarette breaks, but of course it was
horribly smoky, so Mulder and Scully used the stairwell.  They went up
to a mid-flight landing.

"I have to work tomorrow," Scully said.  "Nothing big.  I'll be done by
five or six."  

"Damn," said Mulder.  "What are you doing?"  There was no point in
pretending he wasn't disappointed.  Saturday was their day together.  

"Alice Cardin asked me to assist on the insurance fraud task force. 
They've found a hospital in Maryland with some suspicious patterns and
they want to sweep through tomorrow.  Go through the patient charts and
the billing records, see some patients," Scully said. "Plus one
post-mortem exam, but just a superficial one."

"I can see why she needs a doctor along with all the bean-counters,"
Mulder said.  This was tolerable, he thought.  Scully would be back by
night and it didn't sound dangerous.  "But why can't it wait until
Monday?"

"Cardin likes hitting them on the weekend.  She says she gets less
interference," Scully answered.  "So I'll see you Saturday night."  She
leaned in for a sultry whisper.  "Wear something... casual."  She 
turned to descend the stairs.

"Scully, wait," Mulder said.  "If we're losing out on Saturday, I want
you to come over tonight.   I won't keep you up late, and I'll even make
you breakfast."  

Normally they spent Friday nights apart these days, and it seemed to be
a good way to keep the romance running hot and heavy.  Scully used the
time to take care of routine maintenance.  Mulder usually ended up at
the Lone Gunmen, although somehow last Friday he'd found himself
helping  Jerry Luskin spackle his new rec room.   

Mulder and Scully saw each other virtually every day and if they didn't
take a break, Mulder sometimes felt that Scully let their working
relationship carry over into their private time.  She'd  talk  to him as
if she was giving instructions to an underling.

Like now, for example.

"We'll waive the Friday rule, but I want you to come to my place.  Bring
food; I'm not cooking.  No sunflower seeds in bed-even if I'm asleep.  I
have to be out the door by eight in the morning, and I'm holding you to
that breakfast," Scully said.  

"Yes, mistress," said Mulder.

"Oh, and no fancy stuff.  I have to be asleep by midnight."

Their return to the bullpen was greeted with cheers.

"You make the coffee!" Jerry Luskin announced happily.  "And it's the
third pot!"  Another bullpen rule.  If you got stuck making the third
pot of coffee, you had to wash it first.

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

Mulder brought a pizza over to Scully's that evening, but they never got
to it.  And Scully was sound asleep by eleven, although the little smile 
on her face made it hard to tell.  

Mulder awoke early the next morning with a feeling of contentment and
expectation, probably because Scully was  clinging to his leg and
nibbling her way up his thigh. By six o'clock he was so stupefied with
bliss that you could have sold him season tickets to the Ice Capades. 
After stretching and scratching to his heart's content, he ambled out of
bed and reheated last night's pizza.

"My name is Fox and I'll be your waiter," he told Scully as he brought
her a slice.

"You're out of uniform, you naughty waiter," Scully said, reaching for
the plate and turning on her side to face him. Mulder got back in bed to
eat his pizza.

"This is my uniform," he said.  "Demeaning, isn't it?"

"Nonsense," Scully said.  "It's exquisite.  All-natural materials.  Just
feel the quality." She put down her pizza so she could torment him.  

"Don't grope me when I'm eating," he complained, turning away from her,
but when she relented he ambushed her and started countergroping.

"No fair!" she shrieked as the grope session turned into a tickle
tournament.  She managed to defend herself for a while and even got
Mulder to squirm and snort a little, but soon she was stretched out on
her back, and he was hovering over her. Mulder licked his lips. She was
so full of life and pleasure, and she was totally his.  He started 
sucking on the soft skin of her throat.  Her shrieks turned into moans.

"Mulder... Mulder... Mulder..." She undulated against him as he
continued 
to nuzzle her. 

"Okay?" he asked her.  

"Nice," Scully murmured.  Last night had left her feeling as if she were
beyond everything, safe  with Mulder in a universe of contentment and
peace.  She had awakened this morning full of well-being and given
Mulder the best wake-up call of his life.  She was still filled with the
afterglow, but Mulder's warm mouth was making her warm again.  Lazily
she brought her arm up across the back of Mulder's neck so she could
check her watch.  Damn!  If she didn't get going in the next ten
minutes, she was going to be late.

"Mulder," she said, "love of my life, flame of my heart... You have five
minutes."  Five minutes wasn't much.  Whatever would happen, would
happen.  Whatever didn't happen would happen later. 

Five minutes? Mulder thought.  The spirit was willing, the flesh was
strong, but this was not going to work.

"Scully, you light the darkness and turn chaos into clarity, and I love
you more than life itself," he said.  "But Scully, a galleon of pirates
couldn't make you come in five minutes."  A pirate ship, he thought. 
Maybe tonight.  The pirate king and his feisty captive.

"Four minutes," she said, and she sucked on his lip for a second before
covering his mouth with nibbling kisses and arching her pelvis toward
him. A pirate ship? Promising.  Mulder with a big gold earring and a 
cutlass in his teeth? No way. Mulder in the brig in chains?   Better.  
Mulder, the naïve cabin boy, waiting to be schooled in the ways of
love?  Yes!

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

Scully was zipping around the room getting ready, and Mulder was staying
in bed to keep out of her way.

"Scully, you didn't..."

"I know, Mulder, it's okay.  There's always tonight."  She kissed him
and raced off to work.

"...eat your pizza," Mulder finished.  He got out of bed, now that it 
was safe.  This would still turn out to be a good day.  Scully had to 
work, but it was real work, something she could do well and feel good 
about. She would be assisting the insurance fraud division in an
investigation.  The Chesapeake Medical Center in Winthrop, Maryland,
seemed to have a suspicious pattern of outrageous costs and lengthy
stays. It wasn't the X-files, but it was important and meaningful, a
welcome change from all the pointless background checks.

This was a strange interval in Mulder's life.  He was doing things he
had never had much time for, like having sex and sleeping, and he was
happy.  He knew it was the calm before the storm.  The alien colonists
were out there and the invasion was coming.  Somehow he felt that when
the time was right, he would be back in the fight.  He didn't feel the
need to pursue the conflict; he felt that inevitably he would be drawn
into it, and that whatever he did would lead him there.  

Mulder got dressed for his run.  Later he would straighten up at
Scully's, pick up  groceries from some of the fancy little specialty
markets in the neighborhood, and then head back home to get ready for
tonight.

Mulder liked running in Scully's neighborhood. It was a change from his
own, and the hills made it a real challenge.  His circuit took him past 
a playground with a couple of underused basketball courts, and he paused 
by the fence to watch four aging preppies go at it under one hoop.

Mulder couldn't watch a game like this without sizing up the players
against his own ability.  In this case there was no comparison.  He
could take on the four of them and probably beat them. 

"Hey, bozo, you want some court time or you just a spectator?" The nasal
whine came from a guy sitting on the ground on the other side of the
fence.  He sounded like a bratty kid, but he was probably around
Mulder's age.  His straight black hair was brushed forward, and there
was something odd about his clothing; his tan-colored windbreaker had a
crisp, starched look and even his blue jeans were neatly pressed.   He
got to his feet and addressed Mulder again.

"You wanna run?" he asked Mulder, and without waiting for an answer, he
was pushing himself into the game.  "Come on, guys, me and him, three on
three, let's go."

The other players frowned and looked at each other.  They'd probably
been playing together for years, Mulder thought.  They acted as if they
owned this court. Their shirts and shorts sported various logos: Polo, 
Lacoste, Adidas. Mulder came around the fence.

"Georgetown, huh?" one of the players asked Mulder, reading his shirt. 
"Play ball there?"

"No," said Mulder.  "Kentucky."  Kentucky was one of many places where 
Mulder had played basketball.  He'd also played in North Carolina
and Syracuse, and, for that matter, Georgetown too.  

"Kentucky," the player sneered.  "Scott, do you want Kentucky?"

"Skip, baby, you take Kentucky," Scott said.  Mulder looked like a
better player, but Scott definitely did not want to play against the
pushy interloper.  Scott had seen him play. "We'll take Bobby Z."  

Bobby Z.  The guy had the right kind of name and the right attitude,
Mulder thought.  Let's see if he can play.
 
"Yes!" Bobby shouted.  He flung his jacket to a spot off the court, and
ran to high-five his new teammates, neither of whom would participate.

Mulder couldn't remember the last time he'd been with a bunch of guys
who needed to be beaten so badly.  He'd played with crackheads who
showed more sportsmanship.  The four cronies played in sullen silence,
but Bobby Z was doing play-by-play.

"A costly offensive foul by Kentucky," he said as he charged into Mulder
sending both of them down onto the blacktop.  Mulder hit the ground
more than once, but he spent a lot of time scoring as well.  

"A reverse lay-up," Bobby intoned in an announcer's staccato, as Mulder
sank another one.  "A cheap shot favored only by bozos and cheaters."

The game was brutish and short.  When Bobby bowled Skip into the
pavement, Mulder came up with the ball and passed it to his other
teammate, who dunked it triumphantly.  

"Game," said Skip, blotting his bloody knee with a tissue.  "Fifteen
points.  That's it."  He hobbled to the fence and stuffed the ball in
his gym bag.  

"Whaddaya mean, that's it?" Bobby asked in disbelief.  "Fifteen points? 
What kind of game is that?  You chickenshit bozo!"  

The foursome got their stuff together and left the court without a word,
ignoring Bobby's continuing tirade.  Bobby turned back to Mulder.

"Come on, shithead, let's go get a soda," he said.

"Been a pleasure, Bob," Mulder said, turning to leave.   Bobby grabbed
him by the arm, his hand finding the most skinned and battered spot on
Mulder's generally banged-up body.  The guy had a way of invading your
space even when he wasn't playing ball.  He was close enough that Mulder
could read the writing stamped on his shirt.

"Property of Chesapeake Medical Center. If worn off the premises of
Chesapeake Medical Center, THIS GARMENT IS STOLEN."  

Bobby was wearing a scrub top from the very hospital where Scully was
doing her investigation.  Coincidence?  Not if you believed that all
things were interconnected.
 
"Free soda," Bobby said.  "The corner deli.  Come on."  

This guy needed his medications adjusted, Mulder thought.  

"Chesapeake Medical Center," Mulder said.  "I think I've heard of it."  

"Don't know what you heard.   Don't want to talk about it."  He was
still hanging on Mulder's sore arm, trying to guide him toward the deli.

"I want to talk about it," Mulder said.  He tried to make eye contact,
but Bobby was bouncing around him and bobbing his head like a pigeon.

"Okay, okay, we'll talk about CMC," Bobby said.  "We'll go to the deli
and talk about CMC."

"You work there, Bobby?" Mulder asked.  Bobby was putting on his tan
jacket and zipping it up over the scrub top.  

"I used to. Now I'm on suspension. 'Take some time and get help with
your problem.' That's what they said."  Mulder and Bobby were outside
the deli.  Bobby adjusted his collar before opening the door.

There was a line at the deli counter, but the gray-haired woman at the
cash register abandoned her post to greet them.

"Robert, you brought a friend!" she exclaimed.  "That's lovely.  Come,
sit."  All the tables were occupied, but she whispered to a customer
seated alone at a table for two, and he moved to share a table with
another loner.  "Amy will be so happy, Robert.  I'm going to bring your
lunch."  She beamed at Mulder, then hurried to the back of the store.

"My mother-in-law," Bobby explained.

"She seems very nice," Mulder said.

"You'd think so.  But she took their side when I was suspended."

"What happened, Bobby?" Mulder said.  "How did you get suspended?"  He
leaned forward a little, waiting for an answer.  Bobby stared at him,
unblinking.

"Yeah, I can tell you," he said.  "You know."

"What?"  Mulder was questioning his own judgment at this point.  Here he
was having lunch with a lunatic because he had noticed the guy's shirt.

"You've seen things that other people are afraid to see, or afraid to
admit.  You don't have to answer."  Bobby stared at Mulder, but not at
his face.  His gaze would fix on his shoulder, or the top of his head.

"Yes," said Mulder.  "What did you see, Bobby?"

"I saw a man divided, repelled from himself.  I saw what was good and
what was bad."  Bobby's gaze finally met Mulder's, and Bobby was
startled.  "Oh," he said.

"Oh?  Oh, what?" Mulder asked.  

"I don't mean bad like what you've seen.  Just kind of everyday evil. 
You're kind of scary, you know that?" Bobby said, turning away.

"Bobby, about your problem?  You are getting help?" Mulder asked.  

"Yeah, I'm getting help.  My therapist.  Gonna help me fit in.  Don't
tell everyone what you see, save it for people who can understand.  Get
some exercise every day.  You're a doctor-remember to talk like one. 
When you don't understand, ask someone you can trust. Watch your
language, you're a professional," Bobby recited.

"You're a doctor?" Mulder asked.  It was hard to imagine anyone putting
their lives in this man's hands.

"General surgeon," he said.  "I'm a good doctor.  Just not that good
about holding hands and telling people they're going to live forever."

The mother-in-law brought a loaded tray to the table and started to
serve them.  

"For you, a roast beef sandwich, potato salad, ice tea, and sunflower
seeds.  And here's a tuna sandwich you should take home for your pretty
friend," she said to Mulder. "Robert, I made you a turkey sandwich.  Amy
thinks red meat makes you hostile.  I'll bring the rice pudding when
you're done."

Robert looked uncomfortable.  Mulder was thinking that he'd never be
able to come back here, even though it was the closest deli to Scully's
place.  The mother-in-law went back behind the cash register.

"I get in trouble for what I see.  I get in trouble for what I don't
see," Bobby said.  "I can see the molecules in the air.  Can you see
them, Kentucky?  I see them all the time, except when I'm doing
surgery.  That's why I like surgery, it all goes away.  It's just me and
what I'm fixing."  

"Bobby,  I heard about something strange at CMC.  I heard some patients
were stuck with bigger bills than they were supposed to.  You know
something about that?"  Mulder wasn't expecting an answer.  If he'd
understood how bizarre Bobby really was, he wouldn't have followed him
to the deli.

"Oh, you're funny.  You're a funny guy.  This is a trick, isn't it? 
You're from the professional conduct committee, and you're testing to
see if I'm going to say something negative about another surgeon.  But
it wouldn't be professional, would it?"  Bobby stood up so suddenly he
knocked his chair over and rattled the little table.  Without another
word to anyone, he was out the front door.

Mulder was sitting at a table full of food he hadn't ordered with a
lonely five-dollar-bill in his sock.  Not that the gray-haired woman was
going to charge him for all this, but it would have been so much cleaner
and simpler if he could have left the money and walked out the door.  He
pulled Bobby's chair upright.  Bobby's mother-in-law came over with a
tray to clear the table.

"I'll wrap this up for you," she said. 

"Thank you," said Mulder.

"It's not so easy being Robert's friend," she said  "You'll get used to
it."

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

Scully spent the morning at Chesapeake Medical Center visiting patients
and reviewing their charts.  She spent the afternoon in the medical
records department.  At two o'clock she carried a stack of charts down
to the billing department to meet up with ASAC Cardin.  

ASAC Cardin's team was investigating the Maryland hospital for evidence
of insurance and Medicare fraud.  The Chesapeake Medical Center had
fallen off the bell curve repeatedly when investigators had run a quick
scan of charges  at a thousand comparable facilities.  For most patients
undergoing most procedures, expenses were roughly typical, but for an
unlucky few, a stay at CMC was unusually long and costly.  Chart reviews
would probably reveal any scam, but Scully would also be conducting
exams on several  living patients and one dead one.

Alice Cardin was an accountant by training.  Her goal at Chesapeake
Medical Center was to uncover fraud, nothing more.  Nevertheless, she
was disturbed by what she saw.  She had taken over someone's desk in the
billing department, and Scully sat across from her to go over their
findings.

"Agent Scully, I keep noticing the name of a particular doctor.  Are you
finding that as well?" Cardin asked.

"Yes," said Scully.  "Dr. John Newbold seems to have more than his share
of very unfortunate patients."  

"That's the one," Cardin confirmed.  "What is he doing to these
people?"  Cardin was some fifteen years older than Scully.  She
performed her job without flair, but with dedication and honesty.

"It's hard to tell from these charts, but I see a few areas for
concern," Scully said.  "First, he performs a wide variety of
procedures, including some that are usually handled by specialists.  And 
he operates on very high-risk patients. Look at this."  She opened a 
chart, looking for the right page.  "This patient saw two surgeons 
before Dr. Newbold, and they both refused to do the surgery.  Newbold 
saw the patient and scheduled her surgery for the next day.  The patient 
barely survived the surgery and died four months later, after many 
complications.  It's bad medicine, but it's not fraud."

"He's operating on people who should not have operations, and performing 
operations he should not be doing," Cardin summarized.  "What else?"

"Well, his patients appear to have an unusually high infection rate. 
And it seems that he is slow to recognize and treat infection," Scully
said. Scully had found a description in a nurse's note of purulent
drainage from a surgical wound, ending with the phrase, "notified Dr. 
Newbold, no new orders at this time."  Two days later Newbold's own note 
stated that the wound was clean and dry, and that a positive culture of 
the drainage was due to contamination of the specimen.

"Agent Scully, aren't there ways for the medical profession to deal with
a doctor like this?" Cardin asked.

"There are supposed to be," Scully said.  "This seems to be a case where
it's not working.  Agent Cardin, you're an accountant.  Dr. Newbold has
a fully booked OR schedule.  He's bringing in a lot of income to this
hospital.  I think that makes him untouchable."

Agent Cardin shook her head ruefully.  "Well, then, why don't his
patients sue him?" she asked.  "Somebody should stop him."  Scully
shrugged helplessly.   

"I have one more patient to see," Scully said.  "I think she's the one
who got your attention in the first place. She died yesterday morning."

"Rose Tarses.  The woman who spent ten months in intensive care," Cardin
said.   "I almost feel as if I know her, because I've been following her
health care charges so long."

"I'll do a noninvasive examination just to confirm that the procedures
on the record were in fact performed.  I'm going to need help, to turn
and move the body," Scully said.

"I'll try to get the administrator on duty to find someone for you. 
Otherwise I'll have to send down one of my people."  She smiled.  "I
don't know if any of them can handle it."  

"I understand," Scully said.  "I don't think I could handle all those
ledgers."

The administrator pulled a nurse's aide away from her normal duties to
help Scully in the morgue.  Scully and the aide had to wait by the
morgue door for someone from security to come and unlock it.  

Bridget O'Brien, the aide, kept looking at her watch.

"I have so much left to do upstairs," she said.  She was a tall woman,
with a noticeable resemblance to Scully's mother, but grayer and
thinner.  She retained the trace of a brogue. 

 Scully asked her where she worked, and as it happened, she was from the
Surgical Intensive Care Unit, the last earthly domicile of poor Mrs.
Tarses.  Bridget knew Mrs. Tarses  well; she'd been taking care of her
for almost a year.  She had been one of the two who had prepared her
body for its last ride.  She was surprised that Scully was asking about
her.

"But I don't understand," Bridget said.  "The FBI is investigating her
death?  Dr. Scully, that woman needed to die.  They coded her for an
hour, Dr. Scully.  Now that was a crime."  

Scully had read the chart.  She knew Mrs. Tarses had been admitted for 
gall bladder surgery.  The OR course was rocky, but she had survived. 
She'd developed a life-threatening arrhythmia  in the recovery room, but
she was resuscitated successfully.  *Successfully*.  So successfully
that she spent the rest of her life on a respirator. She'd had half a 
dozen major complications.  Scully's exam of the body would be nothing 
more than confirming that the interventions required to  deal with each 
of them had actually been implemented.

It would be a morbid countdown: Tracheostomy? check.  Colostomy? check. 
Repair of decubitus ulcer? check.  Hemodialysis catheter? check. 
Jejeunostomy tube? check.  What quality of life could Mrs. Tarses have
possibly had?

"Tell me about her, Ms. O'Brien.  What do you think it was like for
her?"  Scully asked.

"I've thought about that," Bridget answered.  "She was awake, you know. 
She was aware of things until the last two or three days.  She knew
where she was, but I think she lost track of the time.  I worked this
Thanksgiving, and I told her, Rose, it's Thanksgiving Day. What a look
she gave me!  I knew she was trying to figure out how long she'd been
there.  She hated to be moved and turned, and she would stiffen up and
try to resist, but we had to turn her, poor thing." O'Brien shook her
head sadly.

"You don't think they should have coded her, Mrs. O'Brien?" Scully
asked.

"They had to try, Dr. Scully, she was not a DNR.  But she should have
been.  The family met with Dr. Newbold about it a couple of times, but
he managed to talk them out of it.  He would tell them that they had to
be patient, given him another month and Rose would walk out of there. 
They never understood how far gone she was.  I said to her daughter one
day, 'I'm going to change the bandages on her bedsore.  Would you like
to see it?'  'Oh no,' she said, 'I will be back later.'  I've seen many
deaths, Dr. Scully, but this was the slowest."

The security guard arrived at last, a paunchy, older man with a giant
key ring. He greeted Mrs. O'Brien with a friendly wave.

"They have you working the Eternal Care Unit now, Bridget?" he asked,
sorting through his keys.

"Open the door, Jack," she said.  "The sooner we get in the sooner we
get out."

"Going to check on Double-oh-seven's handiwork?" he asked Scully. 
"That's what they call him, you know.  Licensed to kill."

"Do shut up, Jack," Bridget said.  "Or should we tell the FBI lady about
your videotapes?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Jack.  "Don't you start
making up stories about me." He unlocked the door and pushed it open for
them.  "Call me when you're ready to lock up," he said, and he swung his 
key chain as he walked away down the corridor.

"He's whistling in the dark," O'Brien said.  "Afraid of the morgue. He
believes in ghosts."

#####

Subject: NEW: Basketball Therapy 2/12 XRH, A

It was dark in the morgue, and Scully felt a blast of frigid air as 
Bridget O'Brien walked through the metal doorway.  O'Brien found the 
light switch and turned it on. Scully followed her in.

There were a dozen gurneys with unpadded metal tops.  About half of them 
bore human remains, either wrapped in white vinyl or zipped into black 
bags. O'Brien found a bound book on a side counter and read the entries.
 
"Here she is, number three."  

Scully and O'Brien put on gowns, caps, gloves, and masks.

"I believe I'd like some goggles," O'Brien said.  "I believe you would
too."  She looked around and located a box of disposable goggles.  "Put
these on," she said.  "And let's double-glove."

Scully was prepared for a strong odor when she zipped open the body bag,
but not the particular odor that rose from the bag.  It was not the
smell of death, horrible as it was, but the smell of illness and decay. 
The overwhelming component was the smell of stool.  Stool, blood, and
raging infection.

Scully looked at her patient, a dark-haired obese woman with lips drawn
back to reveal a single tooth.  Two gauze pads coverer her eyes.  Scully
lifted them, revealing two bulging, yellow open eyes.  She replaced the
gauze.  

The tracheostomy was there, an eroding hole much larger than the
tracheostomy tube within it.  The yellow exudate in and around the
site... was it pus, or sputum, or both?  The hemodialysis catheter was 
in place, and the insertion site appeared clean.  The jejeunostomy tube 
was in place and closed with a pair of small Kelly clamps. There was a
lumpy, healed scar down the center of the abdomen, and a clean new
incision, held shut with thick blue sutures.  A colostomy bag, bloated
with gas, was in place over the lower left quadrant.  

"I need to check her back," Scully said.  To confirm that surgery had
been done to repair a bedsore over Rose Tarses's sacrum, Scully and
O'Brien would have to turn her.

O'Brien pointed to the colostomy bag.

"We shall have to let the air out," she said.  "If not, it will burst or
come open when we turn her."

Scully nodded.  "I'll do it, Mrs. O'Brien," she said.  "You can step
back."  Holding her breath, Scully opened and edge of the "Tupperware"
style coupling and flattened the air from the bag with her gloved hand. 
Then she resealed it.  O'Brien felt along the edge to confirm that it
was closed.  Then they breathed.

The two women managed to tilt the dead patient on her side enough for
Scully to get a look at the bedsore repair.

"Oh, that is beautiful work," she said.

O'Brien didn't answer, but she reminded herself that Scully was after
all a doctor, and could find some intellectual form of beauty in the
mangled and patched body of another human being.  They gently lowered
Mrs. Tarses onto her back again, and Scully started to zip up the body
bag.

"Surely you want to see her hand," O'Brien said.  

"Her hand?"  Scully asked.

"Her poor hand.  They gave her an A-V graft on her arm, but something
went wrong. They had to take it out," O'Brien said.

An arteriovenous graft, or A-V graft, is used for patients who require
long-term dialysis.  It provides a place for the patient's blood to be
diverted to the dialysis machine.  Apparently there'd been some problem
with the graft, because Mrs. Tarses had a different, more temporary
device in place, the hemodialysis catheter.

Scully knew that A-V grafts carried a risk for infection and blood
clots.  Either of these events could have compromised the hand, causing
swelling, or perhaps some ulceration or redness.  She pulled back the
zipper again and spread open the black bag.  Mrs. Tarses's right hand
looked swollen but roughly normal.  Her left hand was wrapped in gauze.

"I always kept it covered," O'Brien said.  "She saw it once and it made
her cry."

Scully started to unwrap the hand. O'Brien must have used a whole roll
of gauze, Scully thought.  She could see the gradations of color leading
to the hand, from the pasty white of the forearm to the dusky red wrist
darkening to a purple.  Then the gauze fell away, and there was the
hand, black and wrinkled with gray fingernails. A dead hand.  

Scully looked at the nurses' aide.

"A very slow death, Mrs. O'Brien," she said.  "One piece at a time."

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

The care and feeding of Dana Scully presented unique challenges, but
Mulder was ready.  

The first challenge probably wouldn't come up today, but Mulder was
prepared for it just in case.  It was that "smell of death" thing.  If
Scully had to deal with remains that were badly decomposed, for example,
the smell would continue to haunt her all night.  Never mind that she'd
shower, shampoo, gargle, and change her clothes before leaving the
autopsy facility, she'd still come home sniffing and swearing she could
smell it on herself.  

By accident one day she discovered the healing power of onions. She was
peeling an onion and  the offending fumes stared the waterworks going. 
Teary eyes and a runny nose seemed to help flush the putrid molecules
out of her sinuses.  After that she experimented with other irritants;
jalapenos were effective, and a strong salsa worked almost as well.

The second problem was one that Mulder understood completely.  No one
wants to view a corpse and then come home and face a similar vision on
the dinner table.  Meat was problematical and organ meats were right
out.  Not that he'd be likely to serve up a pot of tripe anyway, but it
was something to keep in mind.

The third consideration wasn't related to her vocation but to her
obsessive dietary practices.  It was confusing, because sometimes Scully
would eat anything, from fried mozzarella to Ben & Jerry's Phish Food. 
Then other days she'd glare at him and sulk because he'd thoughtlessly
bought the noodles with three whole grams of fat.  And yet, fat-free
cream cheese was forbidden, it had to be lite cream cheese.

Mulder's preferences were equally complicated, although he didn't see it
that way.  ("No, Scully, I said  Skippy Super Chunk, and I wanted grape
jam, not grape jelly.")

Anyway, Mulder had figured out the Ultimate and Perfect Dana Scully Post
Post-Mortem Repast: Curried shrimp with roasted chili peppers.  It was
all ready now, simmering gently on the stove.  Chardonnay was chilling
in the refrigerator.  The Pouilly-Fuissé was still sitting in the liquor
store, and for $38.00 a bottle, it could sit there forever as far as
Mulder was concerned. He started to boil water for rice when the phone
rang and he answered it.

"Hey, Mulder."  It was Langley's voice.  "We missed you yesterday. You
coming for dinner tonight?"

"No," said Mulder, measuring the rice.

"He must be working on his expense vouchers," Byers said in the
background.  "I've been trying to figure out how they continue to incur
expenses without leaving the office."

"Hemorrhoid cream."  That was Frohike.  "All that sitting,"

"You know, fellas, if this is dial-a-joke, you're supposed to wait for
me to call you," Mulder said.

"Okay, man," said Langley.  "I just wanted to know if you were coming
over or if this was your day to mooch off Scully."  

"I do not mooch off Scully," Mulder asked.

"No, Mulder, not her in particular," Langley said. 

"Mulder, didn't Cab Calloway write a song about you?" Frohike piped in.

"That was Minnie the Moocher," Byers corrected him.

"Later," said Langley, and hung up.

Those guys could be so annoying, Mulder thought, but in this case they
had a point.  Scully was always doing things for him.  She made it so
easy from him to mooch, but he didn't want to.

Mulder poured the rice into the pot and replaced the lid.  He thought
about giving Scully a call to get a better idea of when to expect her,
but he wanted her to be surprised.  She'd realize he was planning
something if he made the call.  It would be nice if she called him.

The eggplant he had roasted earlier was cool now, so he peeled it, 
split it, and scooped out the seeds.  The eggplant was going to be the
base of a new version of his Post Post-Mortem Vegetable Dip, totally
fat-free, and guaranteed to blow your mind, or at least blast out your
sinus cavities.   He took out the huge horseradish root, cut off a
chunk, and scraped it off.  He sliced it up and tossed it in the food
processor.

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

Scully had used two kinds of pre-surgical antiseptic, the ones that come
loaded into a disposable scrub brush, and some industrial-strength
shampoo, but that other smell was still there.  She knew from experience
that Mulder would not be able to detect it, which was remarkable, given
his olfactory organ. 

The women's locker room was being renovated, and Scully had "liberated"
the men's facility.  Both rooms were used by operating room personnel,
but the OR was closed today, with nothing scheduled and so far no
emergency cases.  She fixed her hair in the bathroom, thinking again, as
she eyed the urinals, that there was at least one absolute advantage to
being a man, at least on a stake-out.  Luckily she wasn't on a stake
out.  They even had two stalls to choose from.

Scully left the locker room, ready for the long drive home.  ASAC Cardin
and the others had departed over an hour ago.  There was someone waiting
by the locker room door, waiting for Scully, apparently.

"Agent Scully?  I'd like a moment of your time," he said.  He was a
trim, distinguished-looking man, probably approaching sixty, with
silvery hair.  His tweed jacket had those leather elbow patches that you
don't see much any more.  He looked like a college professor.

"Certainly," said Scully, hoping this wouldn't take too long.  "And you
are...?"

"Oh, my apologies.  I am Dr. John Newbold.  I think I can shed some
light on your investigation here."

When he suggested that they go back to his office, Scully gave up on
getting home by six.  Dr. Newbold had an impressive office, spacious and
carpeted.  He sat at his big oaken desk and she sat across from him in
an oversized leather-upholstered chair.  Dr. Newbold had a photo album
that he wanted Scully to see.

Here was Dr. Newbold getting a plaque from the hospital auxiliary.  Here
he was with Dr. DeBakey, at some convention, probably.  Now he was
posing with a little boy who was smiling and displaying a long surgical
scar.  Being honored by the Rotary.  Accepting an award from the chamber
of commerce.

Scully closed the book.  This was less interesting than Jerry Luskin's
vacation snapshots, which had driven the whole bullpen onto the
stairwell for a smoke-free cigarette break.

"Very impressive, Dr. Newbold," she said.  She stood up, hoping he would
get to the point.

"I'm sure you are familiar with my background and credentials," Dr.
Newbold said smoothly, rising from his seat.  "I thought this would show
you the human side of my accomplishments."

"Yes, indeed," said Scully, offering him her hand.  Scully had gotten a
good look at the human side of Dr. Newbold's accomplishments.  Rose
Tarses had made sure of that.

"I hope if you have any concerns about my practices, any queries about
my outcomes, you will bring them directly to me," Newbold concluded.

"Well," said Scully, "perhaps you can tell me something about Rose
Tarses."

"Rose Tarses was a noncompliant diabetic, an obese smoker with a
sedentary lifestyle," he said.

"Are you saying she was a poor surgical candidate?" Scully asked.

"Certainly not.  If I had to pinpoint the cause of her decline it would
be the efforts of certain persons on the staff here to undermine my
work," Dr. Newbold said.  He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket
pocket.

"Dr. Newbold, I need you to be more specific," Scully said.  "What did
people do to interfere with her recovery?"  

"People said things to Mrs. Tarses and her family that robbed them of
their confidence in me.  People sabotaged the sense of hope that every
patient needs to recover," Newbold said.

"I see," said Scully.  "Thank you for your time."  

Scully tried to use the long drive back to Alexandria to decompress, to
process what she'd seen and put it out of her mind.  There was no
evidence of fraud at Chesapeake Medical Center, just an incompetent,
self-righteous surgeon.  As sure as Scully was that John Newbold was
responsible for the suffering of his patients, she was equally sure that
no one could prove it.  There were too many gray areas, too much room
for honest disagreement.  She kept the windows open, hoping the blast of
air would clear her mind of the grim sights she'd witnessed, clear her
head of the tenacious smell.

Driving home to Mulder.  It sounded funny, but it felt good.  One of the
best things about coming home to Mulder was that he understood her need
for a little time and space when she got in.  He'd let her check her
messages, putter around, sit by herself, or whatever she needed.  Scully
didn't extend him the same courtesy.  Her underlying anxieties made her
assault him as he walked in the door, checking for fever or bullet
holes.  Most often he was glad to accept her ministrations, but those
rare times he tried to shake her off, she would become suspicious and
cling that much harder.  

Scully was looking forward to seeing Mulder, but she was thinking that
she'd be a lot more comfortable if she went home first.  She'd give him
a call to tell him.

"No," he said.

"No?" She hadn't expected him to be that definite. "Mulder, I just want
to change my clothes.  Then I'll be right over."

"No, Scully.  Gazebo!" Mulder said.  

Sometimes two consenting adults find themselves in a situation in which
one of them wishes to shout, "No, stop" without the risk that the other
will actually stop.  At times like this it's useful to designate some
arbitrary word to mean No. No doesn't always mean no. Gazebo doesn't
always mean a little building in the garden.

"I  know you, Scully," Mulder said.  "You'll go home, fire up one of
your marathon bubble baths, put on Vivaldi, or maybe some obscure blind
harmonica player. You'll soak for three or four hours, and then you'll
want to wax your legs or close your pores or some other mysterious
female thing."

"That does sound tempting," Scully said.  She had an avocado-cucumber
facial masque she hadn't tried yet.

"Scully, just get your ass over here.  I packed your stuff, you can
change here.  I even brought some of your weird music," he said.  He
knew he was right; if she went home first, he'd hear from her around
ten, and she'd be saying it was kind of late, how about brunch
tomorrow.  And he'd end up going over there instead.

"My weird music?  Do you know anyone besides yourself who listens to
Lothar and the Hand People?"  Actually, Scully liked that record.  It
was pretentious, but so plaintive.

"If you're not walking in my door by seven, I'm going to trash Lothar
and the Hand People.  Then I'll shave my head."  He hadn't played that
album in twenty years.  It was Scully who had discovered it and wanted
to hear it again and again.

"I'll get there when I get there," Scully said coyly.  "Probably before
seven."

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

Mulder hung up the phone and smiled.  He had her, she'd be here.  He
pulled a CD from  the handful he'd grabbed randomly from Scully's
collection and put it on the player.  Sure enough, another bluesman with
his mouth full of marbles was having trouble with his woman.  Mulder
didn't mind this music, except that it all sounded the same to him. He
could just program it to keep replaying this disc, but  he loaded
another five CDs onto the changer, in case Scully could tell the
difference.

He wanted Scully here tonight, so he could prove that he wasn't a
moocher.  But there was another reason, too. The bed.

Mulder knew about fugue states, conditions in which people would perform
acts that seemed totally out of character for them, acts that they would
not remember later on.  Of course, Mulder had bitter personal knowledge
about how unreliable memory was, and how it could be manipulated.  But
the new bed was troubling in a different way.

When he'd returned from Nevada, there it was.  Not just a bed, a whole
new bedroom.  He thought it was a prank, and he suspected everyone,
although when he found out the furniture had been charged to his own
credit card, he let his mother off the hook.  She wouldn't have known
how to do that.

Then Scully had gone behind his back and ascertained the following:
One, his fingerprints were on the charge slip. Two, the salesclerk
remembered him, could identify him in a photograph.  Three, the
signature on the charge slip  wasn't his. 

He had masked his discomfort at Scully's discoveries with a show of
anger that she'd excluded him from the investigation.  Really, he
understood why she had done it that way; she was eliminating the
possibility that he could somehow taint the evidence.

Once he'd accepted the fact that his subconscious had made him clean out
his extra room and buy a bedroom set, he had to confront the question of
why he had done it.  He had been clueless and Scully hadn't been any
help.  It was Diana Fowley who had seen to the heart of matters, and she
wouldn't have even known about the bed if Mulder hadn't accused her of
buying it.  She had found him on the staircase during one of his
cigarette breaks.

"Fox," she had said, sitting next to him on the step and taking his
hand, "maybe it means  you're ready to take someone home with you
again."  

She was right.  He thanked her sincerely for her guidance and ran back
to the bullpen to make dinner reservations and plan his campaign.  Never
again would he marvel at the density of others, because he himself had
been so thick.  It was obvious to casual strangers that he and Scully
belonged together, but he hadn't seen it until  Diana Fowley had brought
it to his attention.  He wanted Scully.  He wanted her in bed.

Seducing Scully had been a little weird, and it had taken longer than he
would have expected.  Now he understood how that nerdy Kansas weatherman
had felt.

The relationship itself was unusual. Before they had slept together,
he already knew what she looked like when the clock went off at six
A.M., and she knew about his morning breath.  They both knew that
neither of them could honestly be said to tolerate refried beans.  The
level of easy comfort they had already achieved was unchanged, and yet
the addition of sexual intimacy to their lives made everything else
seem  new and special.

Now Mulder knew why his subconscious had wanted a bed, but he still
couldn't fathom why his lousy subconscious had gotten him this
particular bed.  He'd seen waveless waterbeds, and he wouldn't have
minded one of those.  But no, his subconscious had bought him an
old-fashioned, zig-when-you-want-to-zag, get-you-seasick waterbed.  
Maybe it was punishing him for repressing it. 

Still, Mulder was determined to make use of the bed.  Ignoring his
subconscious had made him endure years of unnecessary loneliness. 
Ignoring his subconscious had put him in a disturbed frame of mind where
he literally did not know what he was doing.  His subconscious wanted
him on a waterbed, and he felt it would be wisest to go along with it.

A new CD came on.  A woman this time, her voice full of energy and joy. 
Lovin' on the weekend was a full-time job.  Nice work if you can get it, 
Mulder thought.

Mulder looked around to see if he'd forgotten anything.  He could wash
the bathtub.  It was pointless, since Scully washed it before and after
using it, but at least he could tell her he had just scrubbed it.  So he
did.  

It was a quarter to seven.  There was the click of a key in the lock. 
Mulder leapt onto the couch so he could look nonchalant when Scully
walked in.  So she could hang up her coat, open and close the
refrigerator, call her answering machine, look in the mirror, and open
and close the refrigerator again before talking to him.  

Scully walked in, put down some papers, and hung up her coat.

"Hi," she said.  

"Hi," he answered, off the couch in a second and face to face with her.

"Don't touch me," she said, waving him off.  "I reek of pseudomonas."

"I assure you, you don't," Mulder said, holding his hands behind his
back.  "Unless it smells like Altoids."

"Hardly," said Scully.  "I must burn these clothes."

"You don't have to make excuses, Sully," Mulder said.  "Feel free to get
naked any time."  He was pawing at her now, and she was all set to enjoy
it, when her thoughts flew back to the patients she'd seen today.

"Mulder, wait," she said.  "I just want to take care of something
first.  Okay?"  She took a form from the sheath of papers.  "I'm naming
you as my health-care proxy.  If something happens where I can't make
decisions about my treatment, or can't express them, then it'll be up to
you. I know you can handle this if you have to."

"Is there anything I should know?" he asked, trying not to choke on his
fears.  The cancer...?  

"No!" she said, her hand flying up to stroke his cheek.  "Honestly, I'm
fine.  It's just... I saw some things today that reminded me how quickly
that can change, or how slowly.  I'm not afraid of death, Mulder, and
you don't have to be either.  Death is normal."

"Scully, isn't that why you have a living will?  Why we both do?"  But
even as he asked the question, he remembered the problems inherent in a
living will.  There was no way to plan for every possibility.  

"It's not the same.  It's too rigid, especially for us."  She didn't
want to dwell on the details, but he knew what she meant.  No document
could predict the need for the placement of microchips or immersion in
ice water.  

"Can we sit down?" Mulder asked. Scully hesitated; she really felt
contaminated. But the brown leather sofa was probably already hosting
every known microbe, so she sat down with him.

"Death is normal, and life is normal," Scully continued.  "What's not
normal is to be stuck in between. Doctors aren't always... objective.  
A particular doctor might... make decisions based on criteria that are 
mostly about the needs of the doctor."  

"Scully, I can tell you're very concerned, but I'm really not sure what
you're talking about," Mulder said.  

"Surgeons have statistics--like ballplayers."  She managed a little
smile.  "Maybe a surgeon can't afford another death right now.  His
numbers will look better if the patient can survive long enough so the
death isn't counted as a post-operative mortality.  Maybe the patient
can live long enough to develop a new problem and be transferred to a
different service. Maybe the patient will require specialized surgery 
and the death can be counted against the new surgeon."

Mulder winced and nodded.  This was the "everyday evil" that Bobby was
talking about.  Evil deeds motivated not by evil intentions but by
callousness, by a willingness to put another person through degradation
and agony for the sake of one's reputation and finances. 

"Mulder, forget it," Scully said suddenly.  "We don't have to talk about
this now.  What are you cooking?"  She had wanted to cast off the
burdens of the day and get on with the night, but she hadn't meant to
cast them onto Mulder.  She rubbed the back of his neck, trying to
distract him.  "What did you do today?"

He sighed.

"Scully, it's okay.  Let's talk about it and get it settled.  I think
that's the best way.  But start from the beginning.  What did you find
at Chesapeake Medical Center?"  

"Long story short, all the excessive hospital stays and charges seem to
go back to one doctor.  His surgical technique is questionable, but I
can't prove anything.  All I know is his surgeries take longer than
other doctor's, and his patients require more blood transfusions.  Then
once he gets them off the table, he mismanages them some more.  He
ignores signs and symptoms until he's forced to act on them.  And when
his patients go really bad, he won't let them go.  Tells the families
they'll be okay when it's obvious that they can't survive. Won't write
the order for 'Do Not Resuscitate.'  Lets people die in pain because
narcotics might shorten their lives."  She was glad Mulder had pressed
her to tell him about it now.  Get it settled and then have dinner and
relax.

"A doctor in denial," Mulder said.  "He does the operation, then he
refuses to see anything negative that occurs.  Probably very defensive
in general.  Talks a good game, I bet.  Probably makes the families feel
guilty when they question his prognosis.  Tells them, don't give up,
Mama needs your support, you have to have faith."  

"Oh, you're good," said Scully, quite impressed.  "What does he look
like?"

"That's easy," said Mulder.  "He looks like a doctor.  He could play one
on TV. Older guy, nice voice, gray hair. Refined. Serious. Sympathetic."

"Why, that's downright... spooky," Scully said.  

"But it's obvious," said Mulder.  "He would have to look the part and
talk a good game.  Otherwise he'd be out of business."

"Why does he do it, Mulder?  Doesn't he have a conscience?"

"If he does, he manages to suppress it.  He's insecure, basically--"
Mulder began.

"That's no excuse!" Scully interrupted.

"No, of course not," said Mulder.  "What I'm saying is he's too insecure
to ever question himself, so he just keeps doing what he knows, whether
or not it works.  When someone else challenges him, he attacks.  Why
does he do it?  Because he can.  He has a medical license."

"A license to kill," said Scully.  "That's his nickname, apparently,
double-oh-seven.  You should see the graffiti, he has a toilet stall
devoted to him."  She felt herself starting to unwind.  

"A toilet stall," said Mulder, feigning awe.  "You know, anyone can have
a web site.  I don't suppose it tells you anything concrete..."

"Nothing useful.  Little sketches... 'Dr. Newbold--licensed to kill.' 
Stuff a ten-year-old might write: 'John Newbold--Psycho Bastard.'  This
isn't exactly peer review at its finest," Scully said.

"You know, Scully, we've seen this before.  Evil men, or at least men
doing evil things, who manage to protect themselves so you can't get to
them.  It always seems to bother you more when it's a doctor," Mulder
said.  

Scully's reaction was that it never seemed to bother Mulder much unless
it was part of the larger conspiracy, but they'd been back and forth
over that.

"Doctors should be held to higher standards," she said.  

Mulder was thinking that he'd settle for the same standards as everyone
else.  And that was part of the problem with doctors, present company
included.  They really did think they were different from other people.
Scully thought she should be able to take anything on and handle it
alone.  Men like Newbold thought they were above judgment. 

"Now, back to this health care proxy.  My role is to make sure your
doctor isn't a psycho bastard, make sure he's telling the truth, and?
not let them do things to you that won't... really change anything."  
He had taken her hands in his, not even aware he was doing it.

"Yeah," she said.

"I want you to do that for me too," Mulder said.  Scully swallowed and
nodded.  The voice from the CD player  broke the silence: 

"If I don't meet you no more in this world then I'll meet you in the
next one, and don't be late..."

"Scully!  This is Hendrix," Mulder exclaimed.  "I've been looking for
this one. You- stole- my- CD!"  Exaggerated outrage, huffing and puffing
and fist-shaking.

He's whistling in the dark, thought Scully.  And so am I.  

With a forceful "HAH!" she went into her Tae Kwon Do routine, hopping
off the couch to threaten Mulder with a kick and whipping her fists
close enough to his face that he curled into the couch with his arms
over his head.  With one arm across his windpipe and the other hand
grasping the back of his head, she turned him over (rather gently),
batted her eyelashes, and addressed him in her most innocent voice:

"Are you sure, Mulder?  All these blues records sound the same to me."

#####

Basketball Therapy, 3/12
by Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com
Disclaimer, etc. with part 1


Half an hour later they were side by side on the couch, balancing plates
of curried shrimp on their laps.

"This is sublime, Mulder," Scully said, practically ecstatic over the
meal.  Her hair was wrapped in a towel, and she was wearing Mulder's
Redskins jersey.  "I can't believe you cooked this."  

"My mooching days are over, Scully.  In exactly six more meals, we'll be
even," Mulder said.  Unless she wanted to count all the times she'd fed
him before they made love.  Then he'd never catch up.

"You're keeping score, Mulder?  You've been working with Jerry Luskin
too long," she said.  It was funny at work, with all the rules about
cigarette breaks and making coffee, but it was ludicrous now.  

"Do you think so?  Next time I cook, I'm going to wash the pan," Mulder
said.  

"Do you want to finish this?" Scully asked.  They traded plates, and
Scully took Mulder's empty plate to the kitchen, where she rinsed it and
placed it in the dishwasher.  She detoured to his bedroom for a quilted
comforter to take back to the couch.  She wrapped herself in it and
settled back down next to Mulder.  

"You left all the chilies," Mulder said, offering her one on a fork.

"Quite intentionally," she said, pushing his hand away.  Her
appreciation of spicy foods did not extend to eating whole roasted chili
peppers.  

"Last chance," he said, waving it at her again before he swallowed it 
himself.  Scully reached for the wine bottle, and divided what was left 
into the glasses.  She'd have to get Mulder some wine glasses, she 
thought.  His were cheap and clunky. Mulder took his plate and the empty 
wine bottle to the kitchen.

"Do you want dessert?" he asked her.

"Is there any more of that horseradish dip?" she asked.  

"There's a lot left, but there's no more celery to dip," he said. 
Mulder wasn't happy with how the dip had turned out.  Using freshly
grated horseradish had made it too strong.  Scully kept sucking it down;
Mulder was waiting for her eyeballs pop out of her head and  go flying
across the room.

"Bring it on," she said.  She could use her finger.  He brought out 
the dip and a soup spoon.

"Enjoy," he said, but he was watching her with disapproval.

"Stop staring at me!" she said.  "You just ate a peck of pickled 
peppers!"

Mulder turned back to the TV.  He'd seen this movie over a dozen times. 
It wasn't as good as "The Fly," but it was good.

"I just made that to clear your head," he said.  "You're overdosing."

"Is this really fat free?" Scully asked.  "What's in here?"  It tasted
hot and tangy, but also creamy and rich.  It didn't taste as if it was
fat-free, but Mulder knew better than to lie about important things.

"Horseradish," said Mulder.  

"Duh," said Scully.

"Vinegar."

"What kind of vinegar?"  she asked.

"Regular," he said.  "The clear one.  The kind that doesn't come in a
wine bottle."

"What else?" There had to be something that gave it that smooth, thick
texture.

"Guess."  There were only two more ingredients.  One was fat-free
yogurt, and Scully would probably get that one.  He didn't think she'd
guess the eggplant, though.  And now that Mulder was a talented chef, 
he'd be silly to give up all his secrets.

"Yogurt."  She knew that.  But there was something else.

"Yes," said Mulder.  "Now watch the movie.  The scary part is coming."

"It's just a spider," Scully said.  "What else did you put in that dip?"

"You wouldn't say that if you were an incredible shrinking woman,"
Mulder said.  "That spider is huge."

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" she said.  He smirked happily.  

"And Scully," he said, "don't bring it to the lab.  Because that would
be a misuse of public resources.  And I would feel hurt and violated."

"I don't want to get it analyzed," Scully said, tracing her finger
around his ear and down his jaw. "I want you to tell me."  A harmless 
secret, she thought.  How rare.  Suddenly Mulder grabbed her, squeezing 
her to his chest and shaking her a little.

"It's the scary spider! Scully, hold me!"  Many years ago a skinny
teenaged girl had used a similar technique on  Mulder.  Only then it was
a scary shark. 

Nice to know it still worked.  

"Ooh, ooh, scary!" said Scully, hugging him back and burying her face
against the side of his neck.

"Come on," Mulder said, hauling himself up off the couch.  He wanted to
get her in the bedroom.  He wanted to appease his subconscious.  

"Mulder," Scully said, in what she hoped was a sultry whisper, "let's do
it right here."  Mulder's couch was made for sex, one player or two. 
For years, when she'd fantasized about sex with Mulder, she'd thought
about doing it on his couch.  And now she had, they had, several times. 
Several very nice times and two spectacular times.  And she would be
happy to do it again.  But no, he wanted to take her to that torture
chamber he'd purchased, obviously while under demonic possession.

"Scully, it's better now.  I filled it up more.  Please, Scully."  It
was his pleading voice.  She'd heard it for years, usually when he tried
to convince her to consider an extreme possibility.  Come to think of
it, that was exactly what he was doing now.

"Caro mio," she said, trying again to sound exotic, "since we ate
dinner on your couch, why don't we make love on your dining table?" 
Sweet logic would rescue her.  They could use the table.  She could
throw the comforter on top of all the newspapers and magazines and junk
mail, and they could do it right there. 
 
"Yes," said Mulder.  "We can do that too.  But first..." He tugged her 
off the couch.  

By nature Scully was a good sport.  So she smiled bravely and went along
into the bedroom.  She tried to think sexy thoughts, get back in the
mood.  She thought about Mulder, and how she would do anything for him. 
Even this.

Mulder turned out the light.  The shades were drawn, and the room was
quite dark.

Good, that will help, thought Scully.  Scully hated the mirrored canopy
as much as she hated the rollicking mattress.  In theory that meant
that she hated the bed twice as much as Mulder, because he liked the
mirror. Except that he hated the mattress twice as much as she did. 
Still trying to smile, Scully sat down on the bed.  Mulder was kicking
off his shoes.

Something was wrong.  It was unlike Mulder to want it dark.  It was
unlike Mulder to undress in the dark.  Scully clicked on the light.

Mulder was standing there with one cuff unbuttoned.  Scully hadn't given
it a thought before, but now it seemed significant that he was wearing
long sleeves.

"What?" he said, blinking at her.

"Take that off," she ordered him.  Maybe he'd gotten a tattoo of his
own, she thought, except she couldn't imagine him doing that.  

Mulder felt a sudden urge to go back and watch the end of "The 
Incredible Shrinking Man." Scully was sitting on his bed and ordering
him 
to undress, and it was less arousing than a cold shower.  He opened the
other cuff and took off the shirt.

"Oh my God," said Scully.  Mulder looked as if he'd been thrown out of a
moving car.  Well, not quite, now that she was over her surprise.  But
he had more fresh bruises and abrasions than a man should get from
cooking curry.

"I played some roundball this morning," Mulder explained.  

"Roundball?"  She'd always considered the term synonymous with
basketball, but Mulder looked more like he'd been playing Australian
Rules football.  "I don't care how it happened, I don't like it when you
try to hide things from me."  Scully was  appalled to find herself
talking like her mother.  

"Scully, reality check!  You play basketball on asphalt, you take some
lumps.  Get used to it!"  Mulder had dragged Scully into the bedroom,
but at this moment he had no desire to sleep or anything else in here. 
He took his pants off anyway, to show off all his bruises and be done
with it.

Scully looked him over.  She was subdued now, hurt by his outburst and
annoyed with herself. He didn't seem to be troubled by his injuries,
although he'd probably be stiff in the morning.  She would have liked to
examine his left knee; other than that the injuries appeared to be
numerous but trivial.

"Your knee is swollen," she said quietly.  "Maybe you should have a
doctor look at it."  

"No need," he said.  "A doctor did it."  A little sympathy would have
been nice, but no, she had to read him the riot act.

Scully started rethinking her situation.  What did she do to deserve
this, really?

"Damn it, Mulder, you set me up!" she said.  "You're complaining because
I made a fuss over how scraped up you are, but you had to get all
mysterious about it.  You're the one who made a big deal out of it."

Mulder sat down on the bed, but not as carefully as he should have.  It
receded and swelled.  

"Maybe I did," he admitted.  "But you weren't supposed to get angry, you
were supposed to kiss it and make it all better."  

"Next time give me the script," Scully said.  She moved toward him to
check his knee, starting off a new set of waves.  Maybe he had filled up
the waterbed, but it really hadn't helped.

She had him bend the knee, which he did without difficulty.  She
couldn't feel any clicks or rubbing and it didn't seem particularly
painful.  She was about to give her clinical pronouncement, "I'm not
impressed," when she thought better of it.

"I'll get you some ice," she said.  "And you tell me about the bad
doctor who hurt you."

He moaned and groaned loudly when she put the ice on his knee, but
finally he admitted that it really didn't hurt much at all.  And she
told him what a big man he was, how brave and macho.  He told her about
the human pit bull Bobby Z, who had hurled him around the basketball
court.  And about how they could never go back to the corner deli, or he
would have to shoot hoops with Bobby again, which might very well kill
him.  

Now that they were friendly again, Scully thought she might collect a
little smooch.  Or a big one.  She sidled closer to Mulder, grabbing
his shorts to help her maneuver through the waves.  He turned toward
her, and the rush of surf brought them together.  She put her hand
behind his head and half-closed her eyes.  They achieved a light,
teasing lip-to-lip contact, bounced apart a bit with the undertow, then
came together again.

Mulder's lips were full and hot.  His mouth was wet and hot.  Wow. 
Burning hot, literally.  Painfully, stingingly, brutally hot.  As hot as
roasted chili peppers.  Scully pulled away and stared at him.  How could
he stand it?  She wiped her mouth with her hand, but the burning didn't
stop.

Mulder was staring right back at her and gasping.  He rubbed his eyes
and sneezed.  The horseradish fumes were reaming his nasal passages.  He
thought he could feel his pituitary recoil.  

"Scully, you're a freakin' dragon," he said tactfully.

"Me? That was like kissing a branding iron!" Scully answered.  She
thought about taking  the ice pack she had brought him for his knee and
stuffing it in his mouth.  

"I have a fire extinguisher in the kitchen," Mulder said.  "Why don't
you take a few tokes?"  

"Why don't you go back to mooching?" Scully asked him.  "That was much
safer for both of us."  Mulder was getting a little too nasty, in her
opinion.  After the dust settled, she was going to share that opinion.

"That does it," Mulder said.  "Now I'll never tell you the secret
ingredient."  He wouldn't, either.  Horseradish dip was dangerous to
someone who couldn't tell when she'd had enough.

"You're forgetting something.  I have ways of making you talk, Hot
Lips," Scully said, giving him a shove that started up the waves
again.   

"My hot lips are sealed," Mulder said.  He didn't push her back.  The
waves were starting to make him queasy.

"Well, mine aren't," said Scully.  "How about a blow job?" 

Mulder was horrified.  He'd never before heard of anyone using a blow
job as a threat.  He could just imagine what it would feel like if
Scully put her caustic mouth on his poor, defenseless penis.  While
cleaning the chili peppers for the shrimp curry, he'd unthinkingly
rubbed his eye.  He could still feel the searing pain. He rolled off the
bed and stood on the nice, steady floor.   

"Come on," he said.  "We're going back to the couch."

They did.  They sat on the couch watching "Forbidden Planet" and eating
mint-chip ice cream.  Scully really didn't want any, but Mulder said she
had to have it.  And she was sure he'd never uncross his legs until she
did.

"Mulder, you don't think I would really... you know..." Scully said. 
She still thought Mulder had been needlessly insulting, calling her a 
dragon and telling her to suck on a fire extinguisher, but she was sorry 
for what she had said too.

Mulder had his spoon embedded in a big chunk of ice cream, and he was
holding it like a Popsicle and slurping on it.  

"I don't think you'd do it on purpose," he said,  "but it was a rotten
thing to say.  It was a rotten thing to make me think about."  

"I'm sorry," Scully said.   

"Scully, I want you to understand about the bed.  I bought that bed when
I didn't even know I wanted it.  Some part of me wanted that bed, but it
was a part I had buried so deep that I didn't even know it existed. That 
suppressed part was the part of me that knew I wanted you," Mulder said.

"You say it as if that's the only explanation possible," Scully said. 
"There are a dozen equally plausible interpretations.  You could have
been the subject of a mind-control exercise, or even simple hypnosis. 
You might have been drugged.  Some entity could have used your body to
carry out its own agenda."  She didn't mention demonic possession, but
that seemed possible too.  Some hateful, malevolent imp could have made
Mulder buy the bed.

"Scully, you're crazy," Mulder said.  She looked at him, raised an
eyebrow, and huffed.

"Even if your general theory is correct, it doesn't follow that the part
of your subconscious that made you buy the bed is the same part that
wanted us to be together.  Perhaps you have repressed opposing factions.
Perhaps your superego recognized that you were about to engage in
proscribed activities and it caused you to get a bed that would have a
chilling effect."  She had to pause for a breath.  

"Scully, when you reject that bed, you're rejecting me," Mulder said.

"Hold on just a minute," Scully said.  "When I'm not here, do you sleep
on that bed?"  She was a hundred percent sure that he didn't.

"Don't change the subject," he said.

"Mulder, by your own reasoning, when you reject the bed, you're
rejecting that aspect of your personality that wants you to be with me,"
she said. 

Scully knew she was right, but suddenly it didn't matter.  She put her
hand on the back of his head, her fingers in his soft hair.  He looked
surprisingly dopey with that spoon stuck in his mouth, Scully thought
tenderly.  But this was the man who had gone with her to shop for a new
vacuum cleaner, gone from one store to another, and finally back  to the
first store. This was the man who'd accompanied her to a three-hour
slide presentation on the fauna of Madagascar. Who had cooked curried
shrimp.  Who was playing her CDs even though he couldn't tell one from
another.  This man wanted to make love to her in his god-awful waterbed.

"Let's go back to bed, Mulder," she said.  She stood up and tugged on
his arm.  He looked at her quizzically.  "I won't try anything... oral.  
I won't even kiss you."  He was on his feet now.  He took the spoon from
his mouth and dropped it in the bowl with a clatter.  "I won't even
nibble on your earlobes."

"Scully... you can nibble on my earlobes," Mulder said.  Scully had her
arm across his  back, and he put his arm around her shoulder.  She was
the love of his life, he thought.  The phrase used to sound so fatuous,
but now it was a simple statement of truth.  He had picked on her,
insulted her, and forced her to eat ice cream, and here she was, leading
him to the bedroom, to the bed his inner self had selected for them.
Mulder wondered if he could make love to Scully while keeping one foot
on the floor. An old trick from his pub-crawling days. Maybe if he had a
foot on the floor, the waves from the waterbed wouldn't bother him so
much.  

I can do this, Scully was telling herself.  I'll keep my eyes shut. 
Fantasy is a powerful thing--I'll pretend we're on the couch.

Think positive, Mulder told himself as they headed to the bedroom.  One
foot on the floor.


#####

Basketball Therapy (4/12)
by Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com

Summary, disclaimer, etc. with part 1


Mulder hated the waterbed for its willful malice, the way it tossed
him whichever way he didn't want to go and turned him green with
nausea.  Scully hated the tasteless canopy with its tawdry mirror.  But
Mulder's subconscious was not to be denied.  Hoping for the best, Mulder
and Scully forced themselves to return to Mulder's boudoir.

They arrived all too soon at the waterbed.  Mulder pulled off his boxers
and kicked them out of the way.  He positioned himself on the side of
the bed, his right knee bent and his foot on the floor.  He held on to
the firm wooden bed frame with his right hand.  

Mulder seemed to have some definite plan, Scully thought, and while she
didn't know exactly what he had in mind, she found him quite alluring in
this pose.  Good enough to eat, in fact, but a promise was a promise. 
Time to get down to business.  Mulder's fixation with the waterbed was
not going to resolve by itself.  She slid her panties down over her hips 
and tossed them on top of Mulder's shorts. She climbed on top of Mulder, 
surveying him again so she could avoid all his scrapes and bruises.  The 
knee was probably bothering him now, she thought.  That was why he had 
placed himself in the position.

"Scully?" Mulder said.  "Scully, how about the shirt?"  She was still
wearing his football jersey. 

For a guy lying on his back, Mulder was certainly being bossy, Scully
thought. The big shirt felt so warm and soft.  But she wanted to make 
him happy. She balanced awkwardly on her knees as the bed rocked and 
rolled, and she pulled off the Redskins shirt.

Mulder gripped the side of the bed, taking deep breaths until the waves
subsided.  And then Scully leaned over him, and he felt her breasts
against him and her tongue swirling in his ear, and the queasiness
disappeared.  

She had promised not to kiss him, but maybe they could renegotiate,
Scully thought.  Her tongue was going to get restless confined to
Mulder's earlobes.  She slid her face against his, her cheek rubbing on
his cheek and her hair trailing down.  She looked into his eyes, but he
was not looking back at her.  He was looking at the mirror.

"Mulder, are you checking out my butt?" she asked.  Startled, he looked
at her but didn't speak.  "Mulder," she said again, whining a little. 
"Mulder, answer me."

"Scully, I can't answer that.  There isn't any answer you'll like," he
said.  Scully pursed her lips.  As if sneaking up on herself, she turned
to look over her shoulder.

Mirrors don't lie.  There it was, in all its glory. 

"Mulder," she gasped.  "It's huge!"  An enormous white ass with some red
blemish on the right cheek.  She had a freakin' zit on her butt.

Scully could be so self-centered, Mulder thought.  Why did she have to
pick this moment to obsess on her ass?  And she was rocking the bed.

When the cellular phone beeped, it was a relief.  Mulder answered it,
but even though it was on his side, it was Scully's phone.  He handed it
to her.

"Gotta go back to Maryland," Scully told him when she finished the
call.  "Someone trashed the operating room suite at Chesapeake Medical
Center."

"So?" Mulder asked.  He couldn't see how this related to insurance fraud
or the FBI.

"I'm a witness," Scully said.  "It must have happened right around the
time I left.  The police want to talk to me.  I'll drive over in the
morning."

"I'd better let you get some sleep,"  Mulder said.  He picked his boxers
up off  the floor and headed back to the living room.  "Good night," he
said at the doorway.  He would go back to the TV, or maybe a challenging
night of Minesweeper.  Once Scully was asleep, he might even fast
forward through some of his videotapes, not for the thrill, but for
research.  There had to be a lot of ways to make love on a waterbed with
one foot on the floor, but he could only think of three.  

"Good night," Scully said.  She could tell a loosing streak when she saw
one.  Maybe she'd surprise him on the couch in the morning.  He seemed
to like being surprised in the morning.

But it was Mulder who was awake first, and he whispered  in her ear and
jostled her until she was awake too.

"Okay, I'm up," she said sleepily.  "Did you make coffee?"  Anyone who
woke you up with this much enthusiasm on a Sunday morning should either
bring you coffee or  carry a leash in his mouth.

"No," said Mulder.  "We're going out for breakfast.  We're going to the
deli."  Mulder was dressed for work; he was obviously planning to go out
to Maryland with Scully after breakfast.  

There was a deli not far from Mulder's apartment, but they didn't go
there.  Mulder drove all the way back to Scully's to go to the deli on
the corner.  Nothing wrong with this deli, but she went here two or
three times every week and it hardly rated a special trip.

There was a line at the counter when Scully and Mulder arrived, but
plenty of empty tables.  Mulder took the Sunday paper and an iced tea
from the cooler and sat down at his old table, leaving Scully to join
the line.  Bobby's mother-in-law was behind the cash register as always,
and again she hurried from behind the counter to provide special
service.

She hustled Scully off the line and over to the table.

"Honestly, Mrs. Fishman," Scully said, "I don't mind waiting my turn."

"Nonsense," said the older woman.  "You sit right down and I'll bring
you something."  Moments later she was back with two coffees.  "I think
you should have the French toast today," she told Mulder, pinching his
cheek affectionately.  Then she turned to Scully.  "We have three kinds
of fat-free muffins," she said.  "How about  blueberry?"  She left them
alone to get their "orders."

Scully looked expectantly at Mulder, waiting for some explanation, but
he was reading the paper nonchalantly.  She pulled out a section and
started to read too.

Mrs. Fishman brought over their food, still beaming at them.

"Robert will be down soon," she said.  She had hurried upstairs and laid
out his clothes for him.

Bobby was along in minutes, looking as awkward in his blue suit and
white shirt as he had the day before in his ironed blue jeans and scrub
top.  He sat down with Mulder and Scully and looked at Mulder
expectantly.  

"How come we're wearing suits?" he asked.

Mrs. Fishman appeared at Scully's side once more.

"Come with me," she said.  "We'll have coffee.  Let the boys talk."  The
deli was quiet now, and Scully and Mrs. Fishman went to a table in the
far corner.

Scully knew that Bobby was the maniac who had bulldozed Mulder into the
fence and onto the ground yesterday, and she could figure out that the
deli woman was hoping for some male bonding between the two of them. 
Beyond that, she had no idea what was going on.  

"The muffin is delicious," she lied.  "Do you bake them here?"  

"No, dear, we buy them," Mrs. Fishman said.  She leaned forward.  "I
want to tell you a little bit about Robert.  So you'll understand." 
Scully nodded encouragingly. "Robert is no good with people.  He
doesn't understand them. He's a good surgeon, though.  He's good with
his hands.  He can concentrate.  When something interests him, he's like
a different person."

Robert was an extreme example, but Scully had known many surgeons like
this.  Men who loved to operate but hated any type of human contact. 
Men whose own emotions were so twisted or blunted that they were always
surprised when their patients expressed anger or grief.  

"Robert never knew his parents.  He grew up in foster homes, then in
group homes.  He talks like a tough guy, but he's no tough guy.  He's a
strange boy, and there's no place he fits in," Mrs. Fishman said.

"He had a difficult start," Scully said.

"Meeting my daughter was the only break he ever got.  I don't know if it
was such a break for my daughter.  But Amy saw something good in him. 
She got him to go to college. Then she helped him apply to medical
school.  She took him to the interviews.  Robert did all the work, but
he would never have made it without her."  Mrs. Fishman had gradually
come to understand that her daughter's marriage was in fact a happy
one.  

Scully nodded.   She was thinking that she'd have to find another deli.
There was one a few blocks away; the walk would do her good.

"When he started his practice in Maryland, I thought things would get
easier for them.  They were over a hundred thousand dollars in debt, but
they kept their expenses down and they both worked hard.  But then
Robert had a break-down.  He told people he saw a ghost, a spirit. The
ghost was up to no good, doing something  so the surgical tools
wouldn't be clean to use.  Then he said the ghost was really another
doctor. Of course it wasn't hard to figure out that Robert had done
the mischief himself."

"Where was this?" Scully asked.  

"In Winthrop, Maryland.  At the big hospital there, Chesapeake Medical
Center."

It was starting to make sense.  Mulder's new basketball pal had turned
out to be a doctor at the Chesapeake Medical Center, and Mulder had of
course seen it as another example of synchronicity.  To Scully
synchronicity meant only that at any given time, more than one event was
unfolding.  To Mulder synchronicity implied a pattern, a cluster of
forces, a significance.  This was the heart of his new philosophy.  It
was illogical and egotistical, Scully thought, but it made Mulder calmer
and more confident.  She knew empirically that Mulder's idiosyncratic
cogitations lead to the truth more often than not, so she respected 
them, even when they seemed odd.

What worked for Mulder didn't always work for Scully, but she decided to
try it anyway.

"What a coincidence, Mrs. Fishman.  I just met a doctor from the
Chesapeake Medical Center, a Dr. John Newbold," she said.

"Oh, that is a coincidence," said Mrs. Fishman.  "He's the one. That's
the doctor Robert accused of being the ghost."

"Do you have any idea why he would do that?" Scully asked.

"You have to understand, Robert believes what he says.  But I know
Robert doesn't like this doctor.  Dr. Newbold, such an important man,
this is who Robert has to pick for his enemy."   

"Dr. Newbold has a lot of friends in the community," Scully agreed.  

"Oh, yes.  You know about the Helping and Healing Program?"  Scully
hadn't heard of it. "It's for children who need surgery.  Children from
other countries, too poor to pay for the operation.  The Helping and
Healing Committee pays for them to come to CMC, gives them the surgery
for free.  Dr. Newbold does the surgery."

"It sounds like a good program," Scully said.

"Robert doesn't think so.  He says they're just doing it to build up the
pediatric surgery division, practicing on third-world babies.  He says
too many of the kids didn't live to make it home again."  Mrs. Fishman
took a sip of her coffee.  

"I'm sure that position didn't win him any friends," Scully said.  She
remembered that some of the graffiti in the bathroom referred to Newbold
as a baby killer.

"Of course not.  And then when he told everyone about a ghost?" Mrs.
Fishman turned her hands palm up in a gesture of  resignation.  "The
Helping and Healing Committee is made up of some very wealthy
businessmen, and they do a lot for that hospital.  Robert had his
privileges lifted, a six-month suspension.  He and Amy had to give up
their apartment, and they're back here with us for now.  Amy's taking
all the overtime she can get, and Robert is doing some hours at a
clinic, but they're just getting by.  They still have all those loans to
repay."

Scully nodded again.

"Robert is seeing a counselor.  That was part of their deal with him. 
He's supposed to learn to stay in touch with reality.  And he started
playing basketball.  His counselor said it would teach him to get along
with people,"  Mrs. Fishman said.  "So now you understand about
Robert."  She left the table and went back behind the counter, washing
her hands at a big sink before reclaiming her accustomed place by the
cash register.

Bobby and Mulder had finished their conversation.  Bobby was still
sitting at the table, humming to himself and drumming out some tune, and
Mulder was trying to get Mrs. Fishman to accept payment.  Scully joined
him at the counter.

"It's very simple," Scully said, interrupting their argument.  "As
Federal agents, we will be compromised if we let you give us something
for free.  We have to pay you, Mrs. Fishman.  Otherwise we will never be
able to come back."  

Mrs. Fishman shrugged. 

"Five eighty-five," she said.

"I'm glad that worked," Mulder said as they walked out.  "I didn't pay
her yesterday."

"Just can't help mooching, can you?"  

The deli was within blocks of Scully's apartment, and Mulder considered
suggesting  a little break before the long drive to the Chesapeake
Medical Center.  But they still hadn't managed to utilize his waterbed. 
Maybe a little pent-up libido would help them get that done tonight. 
Maybe he could spend all day getting Scully in the mood, and she'd be
too horny to want to waste the night contemplating her ass.  He thought
he was  pretty good at making Scully horny.  In point of fact, he was
even better than he knew.

As for his own stupid problem, his seasickness, Crazy Bobby had written
him a prescription for something.  The trick would be to get to a
pharmacy without Scully finding out.  

When they got in his car, Scully put her hand over his as he was about
to turn the ignition.

"We have time to stop by my apartment," she said.  "I'd like to see how
your contusions are doing."

Mulder put his plan into effect.

"Would I have to undress for that?" he asked.  "Because I'd probably
need some help."  His licked his lip a little.  It was one of the moves
Scully used to drive him crazy.

That was more encouragement than Scully needed.

"Let's go up then," she said.  "I can help you." She was ready to start 
right now, in the car.

"No, we'd better take care of this business in Winthrop.  Let's see what
happened at the hospital, and what the police have on it," he said.  If
he could just keep Scully on the edge like this, she'd be his.  Even the
waterbed wouldn't stop her.  He started the car.

"How's that knee doing?" Scully asked.  She rested her hand on it.  He
started to maneuver out of the parking space, and she took her hand
back.  She never played with him when he was driving.  At least not with
his body.  

"How was your breakfast?" Mulder asked.

"I got the condensed version of the life and hard times of Robert the
antisocial surgeon," Scully said.  "What's up, Mulder?  What do you want
from those people?"

"Background, Scully.  Who's who at Chesapeake Medical Center.  I got the
condensed version of the perfidy of Dr. John Newbold.  Plus a diatribe
about why the backboards suck at the James T. Rigg School playground,"
Mulder said.  

"He's right about Newbold," Scully said.  "But a source close to me says
that Rigg School has  decent backboards, a working water fountain, and
it's never crowded.  In fact the only problem with the place is that
nobody plays there besides yuppies and old men."  

Mulder broke into a broad grin.  Comparative basketball courts was one
of his favorite topics these days, but he always thought he was boring
Scully with it.  He wasn't; she enjoyed his enthusiasm.

Mulder was as peaceful and content as Scully had ever seen him. 
Sometimes it frightened her.  Mulder was able to bide his time, keep up
with his meaningless assignments at work, and enjoy his new relationship
with Scully.  Scully was trying to do the same thing, trying to ignore
the ominous black clouds on the horizon while she did what she had
always done:  follow Mulder.

"Scully, I think we all agree about Newbold.  What about Bobby?  He must
be terrible too," Mulder said.

"Wait.  Time out," Scully said.  "I am going to Winthrop, Maryland,
because the police want to ask me if I heard or saw anything last
night.  You are going because you don't want to be deprived of my
company.  This is a local case of vandalism,  We don't have to solve it,
and even if we did, it has nothing to do with your maladjusted new
friend.  Okay?"  She wanted to take him by the chin and make him look
into her eyes, but he was driving.    

"Everything has everything to do with everything," Mulder pronounced.

"Aha.  The unified conspiracy theory," Scully said.

"No.  But everything has consequences and everything's connected.  It
really doesn't matter where you start.  Even background checks."  Mulder
was used to following his hunches and accepting insights that he
couldn't support with logic.  Right now it seemed to him that anything
he did would take him in the right direction.  He'd had crazier theories
in his life, and at least this one made him happy.

"Fox Mulder's Holistic Detective Agency," Scully sighed.

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

Mulder found the Winthrop Police Department without difficulty and
accompanied Scully inside. There was some confusion at first, with the
local cops questioning the role of the Federal agents, and even after
everything was settled there was some discussion about whether or not
Mulder should be present during Scully's interview.

"Don't worry about it," said Mulder.  "I'll wait outside."  

Sergeant Phil Wallace took Scully's statement about what she'd seen and
heard in the OR locker room Saturday afternoon.  The Winthrop police
officer was surprised to learn that she had met up with Dr. Newbold
around four.  Dr. Newbold had told the police that he didn't get to the
hospital until eight.  The interview was over in ten minutes, and
Sergeant Wallace thanked Scully for her cooperation and apologized for
being officious about Mulder.  

"We all have to work together," Sergeant Wallace said.  "Uh, I know you
guys have some cutting edge stuff that hasn't trickled down to us yet. 
I don't suppose you've found a way to lift a print from a brick?"

At this point Scully should have thanked her stars that Mulder wasn't
there and told the policeman, Sorry, can't be done. No matter what the 
Winthrop police might believe, this was hardly the crime of the 
century. It was a beautiful Sunday morning and there were a hundred ways 
she and Mulder could enjoy the rest of the day. But her inner Mulder was
nagging her, because he wanted to check out the operating room.

"No smooth surfaces, just an ordinary brick?" Scully asked. "Sorry. But 
we've made a lot of progress recently in other areas.  Would you like us 
to examine the crime scene?"  Sergeant Wallace thought that would be a 
dandy idea. Scully's inner Mulder did his happy dance.

The real Mulder seemed pleased as well.  He drove to the medical center
with the windows down and the radio blasting.

"Do you honestly think the whole town of Winthrop wants to hear
Metallica?" Scully asked.

"Metallica?" Mulder said. "This is Page and Plant.  Have some respect."

Mulder parked by the hospital in a space marked MDs only.  Scully popped
the trunk release and went to get some evidence bags.  Someone had
neglected to restock.  Someone seemed to think that evidence kits
restocked themselves by magic.

"The cops picked it over yesterday," Mulder reminded her.  "What do you
expect to collect?"

"Then why are we here?" Scully asked.  "Oh, I forgot.  All roads lead to
the truth."


#####

Basketball Therapy, 5/12
by Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1




Scully had let the police sergeant think she was doing him a favor by
joining the investigation.  The real reason she was here at Chesapeake
Medical Center was to satisfy Mulder, whose new philosophy of life told
him to follow any thread that caught his attention.  Scully decided to
take Mulder to the operating room suite first, and check in with
hospital security later, in case they were not inclined to be helpful.  

The OR suite featured ten operating rooms arranged in two rows.  Each
row had its own set of scrub sinks.  A corridor running between the two
rows contained the environmental equipment, including thermostats and
sensors and the shut-off switches for the oxygen supply. The vandalism
had occurred in the central corridor.

"You call this trashed?" Mulder asked.  The damage was limited to one
device.  A round gauge had been smashed, bending and breaking the
one-inch metal pipe beneath it.

"I see what you mean," said Scully.  "This is more of a surgical
strike."  Mulder was examining the broken gauge from different angles.

"How did he do this?" he asked.

"A brick, I gather," said Scully.  "If it is a he."  

"All roads lead to the truth, Scully.  It was Newbold," Mulder said. 
That was his strong suspicion; he wasn't actually positive about it.

"Uncle Spooky, why don't you show the boys and girls how you did that?"
Scully said.  She enjoyed his quick mind, just as she enjoyed the things
he did more slowly.

"Who found this and reported it?" Mulder asked.

"A security guard, around eight o'clock," Scully said.  "He was
following up on a complaint about the graffiti.  He found the
dehumidifier broken." 

"Is it a big deal, this dehumidifier?" Mulder asked. "Is this damage
enough to shut down the OR?"

"I think that would depend on the weather conditions.  You don't want
moisture to collect anywhere because that promotes microbial
proliferation, especially during long procedures.  I think this time of
year most surgeries could be performed safely with or without a
dehumidifier," Scully said.  

"Let's go look at the bathroom," Mulder said.  "Peer review can be very
insightful."  The men's locker room could be entered from the OR suite
or from a door outside the OR, the door Scully had used yesterday. 
Before Mulder and Scully found the locker room, they came to the booking
office, unlit but unlocked.  A blackboard listed the cases scheduled for
the week ahead.

"I give up, Scully," Mulder said, checking the listing for Monday. 
"Just what is a Schramm procedure?"

"I haven't a clue," Scully answered, "but the room is booked for the
whole day, and the patient is eight months old."

"And the surgeon is Newbold," Mulder said.  "This is the procedure he
wanted to avoid."

"Mulder, he didn't have to break something to avoid doing the surgery. 
He could have said that the surgery wouldn't help, or the child was too
weak."  Scully looked at the patient's name on the blackboard, a Polish
name that didn't seem to have enough vowels.

Mulder and Scully went next to look at the graffiti in the bathroom, but
the stall had been repainted.

"Shall we send this to the crime lab?" Scully asked facetiously,
gesturing to the metal panel.  "I'm sure they could recover the old
writing."

"I'll use my imagination," Mulder said.  "It's interesting that they got
someone in to repaint this faster than they got the dehumidifier fixed."

"I'd like to look in on the baby," Scully said.  "I wonder if they'll
transfer him somewhere else for the surgery now."  That would depend on
how sick the child was, Scully thought, whether it was safer to let him
wait or safer to risk moving him.

Mulder didn't want Scully checking on the baby.  He didn't want her to
bond with another doomed child, if that's what this was.

"I think it's time for us to meet up with security," Mulder said.  "I'd
like to see exactly when they got the call about the vandalism.  Who
knows, they might even have something we can use."  

The security officer on duty was the same old fellow who had unlocked
the morgue for Scully the day before.  They found him "resting his eyes"
in a little cubbyhole of an office near the main lobby.

Jack Gordon had grown taciturn since yesterday. In answer to Mulder's
questions, he shoved a log book at him.

The entry they were looking for was a report received at 20:00 on
Saturday, from Dr. John Newbold.  Newbold had complained about the
writing in the bathroom.

"What was he doing in the operating room at eight o'clock Saturday?"
Mulder asked.

"It's not my place to know why doctors here do what they do," he said. 

"But, Jack," Scully said, "this was double-oh-seven.  You must have some
theory why he'd be in the OR Saturday night, with nothing scheduled
there until Monday."

"Ma'am, I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention that  moniker again,
especially not where you heard it," he said in a low voice.

"Jack, I need your help," Scully said more forcefully.  "I'm not
interested in getting you into trouble, but I need you to be completely
honest.  I need you to tell us what you know.  And if you don't feel you
can do that, you might want to keep in mind that my partner, Agent
Mulder, has a strong background in videotapes, legitimate and
otherwise."

"Ma'am, I don't need your speeches or threats about being completely
honest," Jack said.  "Just go ahead and ask your questions and I'll try
to answer them."

"What did Dr. Newbold say to you last night?" Mulder asked.

"He said he wanted that bathroom checked at least every eight hours, and
he wanted it painted over as often as necessary," Jack said.  

"What did he say about the humidity gauge?" Scully asked.

"I don't think he knew about it," Jack said.  "I found it.  I went down
to look at the toilet, and then I thought I heard someone moving around
inside the OR.  I went out by the environmental controls and I found the
dehumidifier broken."

"Did you see who did it?" Mulder asked.

"No," said Jack.  "I didn't see anything."

"Did you find out who was making the noise?" Scully asked. 

"I just told you--I didn't see anything."  

"Let's go down right now and have a look," Mulder said.

"Be my guest," said the security guard.  "I don't think it's locked, but
I'll give you the key just in case."

"I want you to come with us," said Scully.  "Show me exactly how you
found the damage."

"I'm not going to do that," Jack said.

"You are obliged to provide assistance--" Mulder started to say, but
Scully interrupted.

"Have you ever seen a ghost, Jack?" Scully asked.

"Oh, lord," said Jack Gordon, "I guess that's going to haunt me
forever.  No, ma'am, I have never seen a ghost.  I don't know what I
saw, just some trick of the light." 

"Maybe what you saw was Dr. Newbold," Mulder suggested.

"You think I wouldn't recognize Dr. Newbold if I saw him?" Jack asked.

"I think what you saw wasn't human at all, Jack," Scully said.

"Or maybe you've been threatened if you say what you saw," said Mulder.

"Are you two new at this?" Jack asked angrily.  "Isn't one of you
supposed to play 'good cop'?"

Scully saw that this wasn't getting them anywhere.

"Mulder, I'm going check on the baby now," she said.  

"Why don't we try to talk to Dr. Newbold first?" Mulder suggested.  

"He's probably not here," Scully said.  "He's not operating today, and
we don't even know if he's on call.  I can go see the baby while you
find out about that."

"Newbold's here," Jack said.  "He's in his office.  Fourteenth floor."

Mulder took Scully by the arm, a gesture that Jack Gordon saw only as a
sign that Mulder was one man who hadn't been corrupted by the whole
equality thing.

"Are you going to question him about the damage in the OR?" Scully asked
Mulder as they rode the elevator up.

"I'm not going to ask him anything," Mulder said.  "You, Dr. Scully,
will ask him about the plan for young  Krzyzewski."  He pronounced it
Krazuski, which was just about correct.

Dr. Newbold greeted them graciously.  He was about to show Mulder his
photo album but Scully cut him off by inquiring about the Polish child.

"He's a very lucky little boy," Newbold said.  "He was very lucky in the
first place, because he was selected by the Helping and Healing Program
to be brought to this country to get help.  And he's lucky a second
time, because the dehumidifier is being  repaired right now. Adam's
surgery will go ahead as scheduled.  We were afraid he'd have to be
transported to another facility."

"I hear that Johns Hopkins is not bad," Scully said dryly. 

"Johns Hopkins is overrated," Newbold said.  "Chesapeake is a younger
institution, so we don't have a big reputation yet.  That's why it is
important for us to take on patients like Adam, patients with
challenging conditions that push the envelope on what we can
accomplish."  

"What's the prognosis for the child?" Scully asked.

"Frankly, it's very questionable," said Newbold.  "He was born with
multiple defects.  His abdominal cavity didn't develop properly, and
even if I can make the needed repairs, I doubt very much that his body
will be able to tolerate them."

"You think he's going to die." said Mulder.

"There's a strong possibility that he will," said Newbold.  "But you
must understand, Mr. Mulder, that he will certainly die without the
surgery."

"Doesn't it bother you?" Mulder asked.  "You're bringing a baby halfway
around the world to undergo surgery that will probably kill him."

"I've heard this before," Newbold said.  "You think he would be better
off dying at home with his family instead of all alone among tubes and
strangers.  You think we should take all the money we're spending on
Adam and use it to inoculate children in the ghetto or some other
socialist program." He turned to Scully.

"This is the problem with laymen.  Maybe you can explain it to him."

"No," said Scully, "I don't think I can."

"Do you have any thoughts on who might have vandalized the humidity
regulator?" Mulder asked.  

"This was not the first incident of vandalism at this institution,"
Newbold said.  "Were you aware of that?"  Seeing that they were not, he
continued.  "About a month ago, someone tampered with the equipment in
central sterile.  Many operations had to be postponed because the
instrument trays were coming out wet.  It wreaked havoc with the OR
schedule, and some patients had to be transferred to other
institutions."

"Did they ever find who did it?" Scully asked.

"It turned out to be one of the surgeons, a very strange young man.  I
don't think he would have been caught if he hadn't told  investigators
that he had seen the culprit.  And then he described the perpetrator: a
spirit, a 'young soul,' he called it, with a black hand."  Newbold said
the last two words in a quavering bass voice.

"A 'black hand'?" Scully repeated, echoing his melodramatics.  Of course
she was thinking about Rose Tarses.

"Black and wizened," Newbold said.  "I told him it sounded like a great
story for a campfire, but he had no idea what I was talking about." 
There was a little more to the ghost story, but Newbold chose not to
mention it.  The young doctor had said that the ghost was Newbold's
spirit.

"Was his statement investigated?" asked Mulder.

Newbold laughed.  "It was investigated by our own security division. Lo
and behold, one of the security officers has also seen the black-hand
ghost.  The plot thickens, until we discover that the security officer
has a well-documented history of alcohol abuse.  After thinking it over,
he decides he may not have seen the ghost after all."

"Did the surgeon continue to stick to his story?" Mulder asked.

"He stuck by his story, and he continued to elaborate.  Investigators
asked him how he happened to be down by Central Sterile in the first
place, and he told them he thought the spirit had been calling him. They
asked him about the spirit's motivation, and he was certain that it only
wanted to do what was right."

"What happened to the surgeon?" Scully asked.  "Is he still on staff
here?"

"He was suspended," Newbold said.  "There was no point in pressing
criminal charges, since the man was obviously unbalanced.  He was
admitted for a psychiatric evaluation and ordered into therapy.  His
status will be reevaluated at the end of his six-month suspension."

"Surgery must be a very stressful career," Mulder observed.  "Do you
think it was stress that pushed the young surgeon into a break-down?"

"I couldn't say," said Newbold.  "As I mentioned, this man had a strange
personality.  Very literal-minded-didn't understand sarcasm, no sense of
humor, rarely took offense.  A decent surgeon, but the worst bedside
manner.  He turned down a case once by telling the patient to skip the
surgery and use the money for his funeral.  He thought he was being
nice."

"Sir, how would you turn down a case?" Mulder asked.  "How does a
surgeon explain that an operation is too risky, or that it wouldn't be
helpful?"

"Personally, I rarely turn down a case.  Everyone deserves a chance, no
matter how remote.  But the standard phrase is 'manage medically.'  It's
a fancy way of saying 'do nothing.'  You tell the patient that surgery
is too risky at this  time, and his condition would best be managed
medically."  Luckily Newbold was looking at Mulder as he answered;
Scully was barely able to conceal her contempt.  She did manage to
formulate the next question, since someone had to ask.

"If the surgeon was disciplined--suspended--his name must be a matter of
record," she ventured.

"His name is Robert Zurago," Newbold said.  "I think he's your main
suspect."

"How do you deal with stress, sir?  You must feel the pressure, too,"
Mulder said.

"I do feel the pressure, but I'm a surgeon.  It's my responsibility to
do surgery, with all the risks and challenges it brings.  Some people
feel we're overpaid.  Quite simply, they're wrong.  We deserve every
dime, not just as compensation for our training and skill, but to help
make up for the inevitable anxiety and guilt."

"Dr. Newbold, why would Robert Zurago sabotage the operating room?"
Scully asked.

"Why don't you ask Dr. Zurago?  Although he probably doesn't have any
idea himself why he did it," Newbold answered.

Scully thought that was an opportune time to terminate the interview,
but Mulder had more fawning questions for Dr. Newbold about how he coped
with the awful burden of being a wealthy surgeon.  He asked Newbold
about his hobbies, his travels, and his religious practices.  Scully
could see that Mulder's ass-kissing was proving very effective in
keeping Newbold talking, but she still hated  to watch.  She decided to
excuse herself so she could finally go to the pediatric unit and see the
sick baby.

"Where are you going?" Mulder demanded.  He wasn't done talking to
Newbold, but he could guess what Scully was planning and he still didn't
want her to do it.

"I'm going to the medical library," Scully said.  "I want to get some
material on the Schramm  procedure."  Obviously Mulder didn't want her
to see the baby, and she understood why.  She was profoundly disturbed,
though, by the way he was dealing with it.  Instead of talking to her
about his concerns, he was trying to sidetrack and distract her.  It was
this kind of behavior that made her fear that she might still have to
choose between working with Mulder and being his lover.

"I have a wealth of material," Newbold said, "but you'd probably get a
better idea if you looked at the patient himself and some of the imaging
studies."

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

Adam Krzyzewski was born with multiple birth defects, a malformed little
creature who would not survive to see his first birthday, barring a
miracle.  When the Helping and Healing Program offered to bring the baby
to a famous surgeon in Maryland, USA, Adam's mother thought she had her
miracle.  She could not go with him; the Helping and Healing Program did
not provide for that.  She kissed her son on the forehead and on both
cheeks, and then she handed him to the man from the program.  She turned
her back and walked away and kept on walking. She did not cry until she 
heard the car drive away. 

Now Adam was four thousand miles away in a metal crib.  An abdominal
binder covered most of his torso.  This external device was supposed to
support his internal organs, because his abdominal wall did not.  Dr.
Newbold opened the binder to allow Scully to examine the child.  Mulder
leaned against the wall, watching.  Watching Scully, mostly.

Scully had steeled herself for the experience, the more so because of
Mulder's protective behavior.  She percussed over the baby's abdomen,
frowning from time to time.  She didn't have a stethoscope, nor did
Newbold.  The two-dollar disposable model she found hanging from an IV
pole was less than adequate, but Scully was able to tell that the baby's
heart was abnormally large.  Breath sounds were practically absent, but
the junky stethoscope might have something to do with that. 

"He has a large, boggy heart." Newbold said.  "You can see the film from
the echo."

Scully's exam took about five minutes.  

"His liver is huge," she said.  "What are you going to do about that? 
And his stomach--what's going on there?  It seems to fold back on
itself."

"Let me show you the CAT scan and the x-rays," Newbold said.  "Then you
can see the surgical plan?" Scully refastened the abdominal binder and
raised the heavy side rail with a clank, then she and  Newbold left the
room. Adam started to cry.  Mulder leaned over the crib.

"Hey," he said, "hey, little guy..." The baby looked at Mulder, quiet
for
a moment, and then began to cry again.  His cries weren't very loud, but
as he cried he sounded more and more forlorn.

"Hey, slugger," Mulder started again.  "Hey, don't cry.  Don't cry,
Adam.   Atta boy!"  The baby quieted and looked at Mulder expectantly. 
Mulder did something he didn't do very often.  He sang.

"Jeremiah was a bullfrog..."

When a nurse came in five minutes later Mulder was still leaning over
the side rail and singing.

"Hi," she said.  "He doesn't get many visitors.  You can hold him for
his feeding."  She pulled up a chair for Mulder.  "Take your jacket off
and wash your hands."

"I'm not really visiting," Mulder said.  "I don't need to hold him."

"It's much better for him," the nurse said.  Mulder shrugged, washed his
hands, and sat down. In general babies didn't frighten him, but he felt
a little unsure because this one was sick.

The nurse draped Mulder with a couple of big waterproof pads and placed
the baby in his arms.

"Hold him up, like this," she said.  She attached a tube from a bag on a
pole to something underneath the abdominal binder and handed Mulder a
pacifier.  "You can let him suck on this while the feeding runs in."

Mulder nodded and repositioned the baby a little.

"His feeding takes about twenty minutes.  I'll be back for him then." 
Mulder was too self-conscious to sing in front of the nurse, but when
she left the room he started again, softly.

"Who's the black private dick who's a sex machine with all the chicks?
Shaft!"  Adam was enchanted.  He sucked on his Binkie and gazed into
Mulder's eyes.

The baby was asleep twenty minutes later, and the nurse placed him back
in his crib without waking him.

"Nobody visits him?" Mulder asked.

"His family is in Poland," she answered.  "Sometimes a volunteer sits
with him, or I'll hold him while I do my charting."

"How is he doing?"  Mulder had avoided looking at the child's distended
abdomen, but he couldn't help but  notice that the  baby was swollen and
jaundiced.

The baby had entered the world with a defective heart and liver and
undersized lungs.  The medications that helped him compensate were
becoming less effective and pushing him into kidney failure.  Perhaps
surgical intervention would have helped him if it had been done earlier,
helped him live long enough to be a candidate for a heart transplant. 
It wasn't going to help now.

"He's having a hard time," the nurse answered.


#####

Basketball Therapy 6/12
by Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com
Disclaimer, etc. with part 1



Back in Dr. Newbold's office, Scully scanned the sheet of lab results
one last time and  shut the chart.  Adam Krzyzewski was dying.

"Cancel the surgery," she told Dr. Newbold.  "Don't make him go through
this.  He has multisystem failure and your operation won't cure any of
it."

"This little boy traveled a long way for me to repair his abdominal
organs.  A lot of people went to a lot of trouble and a lot of expense. 
The operation will proceed."  Dr. Newbold was comforted by the patient's
numerous medical problems.  No one would be able to blame him when the
child died.

"Dr. Newbold, you said that surgeons deserved to be well paid because of
the anxiety and guilt.  I don't think that's really what you meant.  I
think you do it for the money.  I see no sign, sir, of any guilt at
all," Scully said.  Without waiting for a reply, she walked out of the
office.

Scully wanted to get out of this place.  Where the hell was Mulder?  She
checked the baby's room, but he wasn't there.  On an impulse she took
the elevator back down to the operating room suite.  The hospital's main
pharmacy was on the same level as the operating rooms, and Scully walked
right by it.  If she'd been fifteen minutes earlier, she would have
found Mulder charming the pharmacist out of a couple of  those pills
Bobby Zurago had prescribed for his mal-de-mer problem.  

She slammed through the door to the OR locker room.  A few feet away,
just inside the locker room, Mulder threw himself  back against the wall
to avoid the door as it came flying at him.

"Oh, here you are," Scully said.  "We need to talk."  She hadn't had a
chance yet to tell him about the dead patient with the black hand.  When
Dr. Newbold had mentioned the black-hand ghost, Scully had immediately
thought of Mrs. Tarses. 

"Let's talk in the car," Mulder said, taking her by the arm.  Scully
removed his hand from her arm very deliberately.

"Mulder, are you aware that you've been pushing me around all day?" she
asked.  It had started first thing in the morning, she realized, when
he'd decided unilaterally that they had to go to the deli for
breakfast.  He'd invited himself along on the trip to Maryland.  He'd
done his best to keep her from seeing the Polish child.  Now he was
trying to steer her out of the locker room.

"Scully, we need to get out of here," Mulder said.  "Don't start second
guessing me the way you used to."  He could listen to her grievances in
the car.  Who knows, maybe she even had a point.

"I'll meet you in the car," she said, her arms folded in front of her. 
"Go ahead, Mulder, I'll be right there."

Mulder was practically sick with frustration.

"Don't do this!" he said urgently.  "I thought you trusted me."  

"Why don't you trust me for a change?" She spat the words at him.  He
was still blocking her way into the locker room.  

"I trust you, Scully, let's go!"  She was going to ruin everything. 
She'd be sorry, but it would be too late.

He said he trusted her.  Well, she was going to find out.

"Mulder, Dr. Newbold is going to operate on the Polish baby tomorrow
even though it won't help.  The baby's going to die anyway and I don't
want him to have to go through surgery first.  I've got to break that
humidity regulator again."  There, she'd said it.  If he trusted her
he'd get out of her way.  If he didn't, she was going to kick him in the
balls and get past him that way.

"It's done," he said.  "Now let's get out of here."  Scully recovered
from her surprise and grabbed Mulder's arm, but before they could get
out of the locker room, they heard the crackle of a radio  from the
other side of the door.  Probably a security guard, checking for
vandalism. Turning away from the noise, Mulder and Scully made it past
a row of lockers before the door swung open and a young security guard
came slouching in.  

If they'd had a little more warning, they could have hidden in the
shower, Scully thought.  If the guard came through here, there was no
place to hide.  And he was coming.  He was trying to be stealthy--he had
turned off his radio--but Scully could hear him approach.  As quietly as
she could, she lay down on the narrow bench in front of the row of
lockers.  Mulder was on top of her in seconds, and Scully began to moan
suggestively.  Mulder was trying to put on a good show,  and Scully
groaned in earnest when he pressed her down against her gun.  Mulder's
big coat kept them both well obscured; Mulder hoped the guard would take
a quick look and reach the most obvious conclusion.

"Jesus Christ!" said the guard in disgust as he turned the corner and
found them in action.  He did an about-face, exiting the locker room
before he turned his radio back on. 

"Jack--no ghosts down here, just a couple of fuckin' doctors.  Hey, I'll
call you for back-up if there's any new graffiti," he said
sarcastically.   
 
***********************************************************************

Mulder was driving as fast as he could without risking unwanted
attention.  Neither he nor Scully spoke until they were a mile away from
the medical center.

Scully took out her flip phone and keyed in a number she read from her
notebook.

"Mr. Lovelace?" she said.  "This is Special Agent Dana Scully with the
FBI.  I'm sorry to disturb you on  a Sunday, but this can't wait." 
Scully succeeded in arranging a meeting at the man's house.  Then she
turned to Mulder to explain.

"Donald Lovelace," she said.  "President of the Winthrop Bank, and-"

"Chairman of the Helping and Healing Committee," Mulder completed her
sentence.  "You're going to tell him what's going on."

"That's right," said Scully.  "I'm going to explain the situation.  This
child has overwhelming medical problems-he can't survive, Mulder, he
just can't.  The surgery will probably kill him, and that wouldn't be so
bad.  I'm more afraid of how he'll suffer if he happens to live through
it."

"What if he already knows?" Mulder asked.  "I'm sure Newbold tried to
tell him."

Scully had seen nothing to make her think that Newbold would try to tell
his benefactors that surgery on the baby was pointless torture. She'd
noticed, thought, that once in a while, Mulder would latch onto some
gray-haired father-figure and decide to trust him.  Scully probed gently
to see if he'd done it with this dirtbag of a doctor.

"What do you think about Newbold?  In some ways he seems like a good
man..." She waited for his response.

"He's the furthest thing from a good man," Mulder said.  "He knows
what's good and he does what's evil.  I think he'd prefer to do what was
right, but what's most important to him is keeping his status and his
income.  Not getting caught. Covering his mistakes."

"I agree, Mulder.  He wants to be the guy who performs  massive
surgeries on high-risk children.  Mulder, if he didn't want to operate,
he wouldn't.  The Committee can't force him," Scully said.

"The Committee is made up of some of the most powerful men in Winthrop,
and more to the point, the biggest boosters of Chesapeake Medical
Center.  They cough up the money, they serve on the board, and they get
to call the tune."  Mulder was straining to read the street signs as
they went by.  He seemed to have some idea where they were going.

"Even if I accept your point, that these powerful men run the hospital
and that Newbold has to do their bidding, what makes you think he has
any qualms about performing this operation?  To the contrary, Mulder, he
was quite determined to proceed," Scully said.  The process Mulder used
for logic wasn't logic at all. As far as Scully could unravel it, it
seemed to be some combination of sophistry and Confucianism.  

"If he was so eager to proceed, why did he sabotage the operating room?"
Mulder asked.

"But Mulder, he didn't.  No one is even accusing him."  This was the
epitome of Mulderlogic, Scully thought.  Proof that Newbold had done the
sabotage: he didn't want to do the surgery.  Proof that Newbold didn't
want to do the surgery: he had done the sabotage.  Scully wondered if
they offered remedial courses at Oxford.

"Bobby Zurago said something.  He told me about a man divided," Mulder
said.  Sometimes working with Scully was so effortless, but today it
felt like leading a llama through a revolving door.

"Is that what he told you?" Scully asked.  "Perhaps he changed his story
when the Black-hand Ghost got him suspended."

"It's a metaphor, damnit," Mulder said.  "The blackened hand, the hand
of death."

"But I thought the ghost was the good guy.  The ghost is trying to do
what's right.  Why does the ghost have the hand of death?"  Scully
asked.  Poor Mulder, she thought.  All these weeks of background checks
had atrophied his brain. 

"You know, Scully, I've seen that smug look before," Mulder said.  "I
saw it when you told me that vampires don't exist, shortly before you
got the hots for one."

"Mulder, did you find a quarter under your pillow this morning?"  Scully
was wondering if Mulder ever expected to get laid again.

"What?" He stared at her, but only for a split-second.  He still had to
watch the street signs.  Scully was watching the street signs, too, and
Mulder was doing fine so far, according to the directions she'd gotten
from Lovelace.  But Mulder had gotten his own directions, which he
wasn't even going to tell her about, and he could watch for his own
street signs.

"The brain fairy.  She left it for you."  She smiled triumphantly.

"That's funny, Scully," he said sarcastically, but actually, it was kind
of funny. He had to have more patience with Scully. Of course it was
hard for her to understand that a person could do something totally out
of character, and then have no knowledge of doing it. "Scully, think
about it.  A man divided.  Like me.  Like how I bought the waterbed
without knowing anything about it.  That's what it is with Newbold.  He
doesn't know he did it."

"Mulder, before you go on with this, there's a much simpler
explanation.  Simpler and more logical."

"Go ahead, Scully, give me the simple and logical explanation," Mulder
said.

"I know who did it.  It was the ghost of Rose Tarses."  Green eyes met
blue eyes, and green eyes blinked first.

"Oh, good one, Scully!" Mulder said at last.  "You had me big time!" 
That sincere, serious face had totally tricked him.  She'd have to come
over for poker at the lone gunmen, she'd clean them out!

"Are you trying to drive me crazy?" Scully asked.  She used to think
Mulder believed everything, but now she knew that he believed everything
except what she believed.

"Scully, come on.  You're not serious about this.  A ghost?"  Mulder
thought about the cliché that converts become more committed than people
who start out in a particular faith.  Maybe Scully was going through
some kind of learning curve process, and she would start seeing ghosts
everywhere.  He'd be there to ride this out with her, keep her from
getting too "out there." 

"Rose Tarses had a vascular insult to her left hand.  The hand died. 
Her left hand was hard and shriveled  and black, like a piece of
charcoal.  Rose Tarses spent ten months in a living hell because of Dr.
Newbold," Scully said, her voice rising.  "Why are you so sure this
isn't her ghost trying to stop him from doing it again?"

"Because the original sabotage, when the sterilizing equipment was
tampered with, occurred a month ago," Mulder said.  "Rose Tarses died on
Friday."

"Leonard Trimble," Scully said.  "VA Hospital, telekinesis.  He wasn't
dead."

"Okay, good point," Mulder acknowledged.  In fact, a very good point.  

"Thank you," Scully said.  "I do have one, now and then.  Mulder, turn
here.  Warwick Street, that's your turn."

They found Lovelace's address ten minutes later, and neither of them was
surprised that it was an immense showplace of a house. 

"We have some time.  Drive around," Scully said.  Mulder drove on,
following the winding road, finally parking about a quarter of a mile
away.

"What time did you tell him we'd be there?" Mulder asked, consulting his
watch.

"One o'clock."

"Okay.  Fifteen minutes.  When did I push you around?"  Mulder knew he
never pushed Scully around, but she had told him he did, and he had to
find out what was on her mind.

"Did you tell me why you wanted to go to the deli?  No.  You just said,
We're going.  And Mulder, you spent all morning trying to keep me away
from the baby."  She waited for his response.

"The deli... well, it seemed like such a great idea.  And you know what 
it was with the baby.  You don't have to go looking for grief, Scully. 
There was no reason for you to see the baby."  He remembered  the weight
of the  little bundle in his arms, and the tiny fingers with the
outrageously sharp  nails grabbing his nose.  The bright gray eyes
staring at him over the pacifier, and then the drooping eyelids as the
baby fell asleep.

"Mulder, I am not the only woman in the world who can't have children,"
Scully said.  "You don't have to run interference for me.  You don't
have to protect me from babies, for heaven's sake.  And of course I
needed to see that baby.  How else can I judge whether or not the
surgery is appropriate?  But that's not even the point."

"Then what is the point?" he asked.

"The point is that if you thought I should avoid the baby, you should
have said so.  You've done that before, when you thought I wasn't ready
for something, and I've done it for you too," she said.

"Scully," Mulder said, smiling, "can you think of a single time when
either of us listened?"

She smiled too.  

"No, never, not even once," Scully said.  "However, you have to admit
that I assessed the baby without falling in love with it, contrary to
your expectations."

"With him.  It's a him, not an it," Mulder said.  "And for the record,
you never told me about Rose Tarses's black hand."

"And you weren't going to tell me about breaking the humidity gauge,"
Scully said.

"You weren't going to tell me either," Mulder said.  "And Scully, just
for future reference... I can't always read your mind, but you make it
pretty clear when you're planning on kicking a guy in the nuts."

"Got to stop telegraphing my moves," Scully said.  "I would have done
it, you know."

"I saw it coming," Mulder said.  "I would have had you on your back."

"Oh, no.  The guard would have found us like that," Scully said,
cracking up.  

"That was funny," Mulder agreed.  "I think we were fairly convincing,
despite your overacting."

"My overacting?  I had to compensate for your limited skills," Scully
said.  Then she grew serious.  "Mulder, I love you.  Now let's get to
work."

"Scully, what if we can't stop them?  What if they won't cancel the
surgery?" Mulder asked.

"The humidifier gives us another day," Scully said.

"At least," Mulder said proudly.  After technicians replaced the gauge
again and tested the system, they would realize there was a second
problem.

"This is just unbelievable, Mulder," Scully said.  "He's doing something
so totally heartless and immoral, and all we can do is sabotage the
equipment and hope for the ghost to come back."

"Or that Dr. Newbold goes into a trance again," Mulder said.  The ghost
was a possibility, but Mulder was still going with the theory that
Newbold's inner conflicts were making him sabotage the OR.

"Lovelace is not going to listen, is he?" Scully asked.  "He doesn't
care about that baby, and he's already paid to bring him here."  Mulder
was right.  The meeting with the bank president would be a waste of
time.  

"We'll try anyway," Mulder said.  "This is about how Adam is going to
spend his last days. There must be something we can do for him."

Lovelace's door was answered by a uniformed servant, and Mulder and
Scully were left standing in some kind of parlor that seemed more like a
waiting room.  There was something about the design and placement of the
straight-backed chairs that encouraged them not to sit down.

The meeting began badly and declined from there.  Lovelace had seemed
affable if insincere at first, but as the discussion deteriorated into a
shouting match, he dropped any pretense of being cordial. 

The shouting match was strictly one-on-one, Scully thought bitterly. 
Mulder was standing there playing Teller to her Penn.  Perhaps later she
could put him in a straitjacket and lower him into a tank of barracudas 
or something.

"Are you trying to tell me that an FBI agent is  better qualified to
determine patient care than an experienced surgeon?" Lovelace roared
indignantly.  "As they say, Ms. Scully, where did you go to medical
school?"

"Georgetown!" she shot back at him, but his message was clear.  Lovelace
did not want to consider the evidence, overwhelming as it was.  He was
going to assert that Dr. Newbold had opted to do the surgery, and that
therefore the surgery should be done.  

"This is all about publicity," Mulder said.  He sounded angry, but more
in control than Scully at this point.

He can talk after all, thought Scully.  

"You have to make a speech, too, sonny?" asked the banker.  "Are you
going to take this to the press?  Isn't that cute.  The press is behind
us all the way.  They've been touting our efforts for years, and I think
it would be a little too embarrassing for them to have to back up now
and say that what we're doing isn't worthwhile."

"Poor little Adam, all alone in a strange country," Mulder said.

"Well if the kid is as sick as you say, he's probably too sick to travel
anyway," Lovelace said.  "Now why don't you two just give this up?  I
don't know if I have enough connections to get you reassigned to the
South Pole Station, but I'm about ready to give it a try."  

Scully wished Lovelace would go back to shouting.  He was even more
insufferable now that he was being patronizing.

"Poor little Adam, all alone without his mother and father," Mulder
said.

"Ever been to Antarctica, Mr. Mulder?  Someone's got to scrub the
toilets down there."  Lovelace was advancing on Mulder.  If this turned
into a shoving match, Mulder was going to end up in real trouble.

"Mr. Lovelace, couldn't the Winthrop Bank dig a little deeper so that
Adam's family could be here for him?" Scully asked.  She said it mostly
to break up the confrontation between Mulder and Lovelace.  

"Maybe they don't have the money," Mulder suggested.  "Scully, maybe we
could have a fund-raiser.  Something to bring in enough money so the
bank could afford  a couple of airplane tickets."

"How about a rock concert?" Scully suggested. 

"Great, a benefit.  Are you still sleeping with Meatloaf?" Mulder
asked her.

"Oh, shut up and get out of here," Lovelace said.  "I'll ship over the
rest of the family, if that's what you want.  You could have just
asked.  You're a disgrace, you know that?  Using my tax dollars to
strong-arm me."  He flung the door open and gave Mulder a shove as he
walked by, but Mulder smiled sweetly and kept walking.

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

The drive home was something of a victory celebration, with a stop for
lunch that made Mulder realize that Pouilly-Fuisse would have been a
bargain at $38.00 a bottle.  

It was an expensive little restaurant in a wealthy little town and the
food was excellent.

Mulder was trying to refill Scully's wine glass, but she stopped him.

"One glass?" he asked her incredulously.   They had a big bottle to
kill, and she was still working on her first glass.  He shouldn't have
ordered it but he was feeling triumphant, and he knew she would love
it.  She did love it, too, all three ounces of it.

"Have some more, Mulder," she urged him.  "You can be the designated
drinker."  It was wonderful wine, and she might have a little more later
on.  She wanted Mulder to enjoy it.  She was determined to pick up the
tab on this meal because Mulder was the most incredible man on earth and
he deserved it.

"Scully, we were prime today.  Do you know why?"  He sipped some wine. 
It was really good, and it would be stupid to let it go to waste.

"Because of you," Scully said.  To her thinking, he was a hero for
forcing the Helping and Healing Committee to bring Adam's family to stay
with him.  But just as important was the way he'd worked with her to get
their mutual resentments and missed communication aired out and
resolved.  And he hadn't let Lovelace goad him into taking a swing at
him.

"Stop it," he said.  "It was you.  Scully, you're the best."

"No, Mulder, you're the best." 

It wasn't the most incisive discussion they'd ever had.  Mulder
continued working on the wine, and when the waiter served the escargots,
Mulder thought it might be funny to pantomime putting one in his ear to
remind Scully of that time at Icy Cape.  

"Mulder, you're drunk," she whispered.  The restaurant was designed for
discreet encounters and their antics, so far, hadn't disturbed anyone.

"It's just wine," Mulder protested.  "And expensive.  I can't be drunk. 
Maybe I'm--Scully, what's the French word for drunk?"

"I don't know," she said.  "They must have a lot of words for it."

"Scully, voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?" Mulder was feeling no
pain.  Mulder was feeling--what's that word?--happy.

"Mais oui," said Scully sensuously.   She couldn't blame the wine, she
was just enjoying herself.

"Yes, we may," said Mulder. 

It was a fancy, dark little restaurant in an obscure little town, so he
was sitting next to her.  Her hair smelled like chlorhexidene gluconate,
which isn't an awful smell as disinfectants go.  And she was wearing
Mulder's Clinique *Chemistry*.  He never wore it, and if Scully had
known that it was Fowley who gave it to him, she probably wouldn't be 
wearing it either.

"Sweetheart, don't drink any more.  You're going to feel like hell in
the morning," Scully said.  

"It's a long time to morning," he said, "*sweetheart*."  He said
"sweetheart" a few more times, trying to make it sound like Humphrey
Bogart.

"Mulder, eat something," Scully said.  If they were at home she would
have picked up his fork and tried to feed him.

"You know what I want?" Mulder asked.  "Mousse au chocolat. You think
they have it?"

"I'm sure they do," Scully said.  Mulder had a low tolerance for
alcohol, but he wasn't exactly turning out to be a cheap date.  She was
going to be paying for a lot of uneaten food.  Still, she signaled the
waiter and ordered dessert.  Mulder glowed with gratitude.

"I love you," he said.  "I'm not just saying that because you got me
mousse."

"I know," said Scully.  "I love you too."

"It's going to be all right, Scully.  I just know it.  I don't know
exactly what will happen, or when it will start, but it's going to be
okay."  He didn't sound drunk now.  "We have to stay together, and when
we start to fly apart, we have to do what we did today, we have to get
back in step.  We were good today, Scully.  It's just all going to fall
in place.  Like today.  And there's really only one thing that we need
to do."

She leaned toward him and kissed him, a long kiss that said: more
later.  A Rodin-inspiring kiss.  A kiss that made him forget what he was
about to say.  But then he remembered.

"That wasn't it," he said.  "That was nice, but that wasn't what we need
to do, to make everything else work out."

Scully just listened.  He was starting to talk faster, which was usually
a sign that he was going to say something  hard for him to say or hard
for her to hear.  Although he also talked fast when he was saying
something really stupid, like how he wanted a peg-leg.

"We have to make love on the waterbed."

"We will," Scully said.  She imagined herself slipping him some chloral
hydrate later, and then telling him how incredible it had been.  But
she'd never do that.

"You'll love it," Mulder said.  "I won't get seasick this time."

"Come on now," she laughed.  "No one gets seasick on a waterbed!"

"It's a common phenomenon," he said, looking a little miffed.

"Oh, dear.  Why didn't you say something?"  There was some justice in
this, of course.  Mulder hated the waterbed too.

Dessert was served, with coffee, and with a couple of complimentary 
cognacs that were the last thing in the world Mulder needed,
but he seemed to enjoy them both anyway.

"Designated drinker," he reminded Scully.  Then he tried to cajole her
into tasting his chocolate mousse.

"Mulder, it's got to be--"

"Scully, just taste it.  One bite."

"If it's that good I won't want just one bite," Scully said.  Having
none at all was easier than having just one bite.

"I won't let you have any more," Mulder said.  "I'll keep it just out of
your reach.  You'll chase me for miles and miles, trying to get the
mousse.  All your invisible flab will melt away."

"My invisible flab?" Scully asked.

"All your fat that you complain about that no one else can see," he
explained.

Scully signaled for the check, but when it came, Mulder grabbed it.

"Give it to me, Mulder," she said.  "My treat.  No arguments."

"No," said Mulder, and then as she reached for it, "no!  Scully, stop
it!  I have to pay this."

"*I* have to pay it!  I wanted to take you out.  I wouldn't have let you
run up the bill like that if I thought you were going to pay," Scully
said.  

"I have to pay, Scully, or Langley will call me a moocher," Mulder
said.  

Horrors, thought Scully, anything but that!

"Give me the check, Mulder.  Langley will never know," Scully said. 
Mulder had his wallet out.  "Mulder, if you do pay,  *I'll* call you a
moocher."  Mulder handed the check and a credit card to the waiter. 
"Moocher," Scully said.  "Moocher, moocher, moocher."

"You can't call someone a moocher for picking up the tab," Mulder said. 
"It doesn't make any sense."

"You can if it bothers him, Moocher," Scully said. 

The waiter returned to the table with the check and Mulder's plastic.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, "your card isn't valid."

"It's a new card," Mulder said.  "It has to be valid."

"I apologize again," said the waiter.  "We've been having this problem
because of the expiration date.  Perhaps you have another card, with an
expiration date this year."

"I've read about this," said Scully.  "Mulder, you've been foiled by the
year two-K problem."  She pulled out her own credit card.  "I'm sure
this will work for you," she said.  The waiter left with her card.

"Damn," said Mulder.  "When are they going to get this worked out?"

"It's okay, Mooch.  I'll take care of you."  Scully forced herself not
to tousle his hair.

"You're paying, Scully.  You don't get to call me that," Mulder said.

"But it suits you.  Makes me think of a basset hound puppy with big
eyes," Scully said.

"Oh, brother," said Mulder.


#####

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