Voices

by Leyla Harrison



Disclaimer: Insert standard disclaimer here.  The characters of Mulder, 

Scully, Skinner and Margaret Scully aren't mine.  Blah, blah, blah.  

They're the creation of Chris Carter.  Blah, blah, blah.



Rating: PG-13.  It could be construed as a Mulder/Scully romance, but 

there's nothing really overt.  



Some references to earlier events in all three seasons, but nothing that 

gives anything away.



*****



SCULLY'S APARTMENT

6:45pm



Scully unlocked the door to her apartment, her purse slung over one 

shoulder and her suitcase in her hand.  She pushed the door open and 

dropped the suitcase and her purse down by the door, then shut and locked 

the door behind her.



It was sunset, and although the evening was just beginning, Scully had 

been awake for the last sixteen hours and she was exhausted.  The remains 

of the reddish sunlight filtered in through her living room window and 

she stared at it for a few moments, then looked down at her suitcase.  

She really should unpack tonight.  She never came home from a case 

without unpacking, first thing in the door.



But her bedroom was calling her.  Her bed, perfectly made as she had left 

it six days ago, with fresh sheets on it, was beckoning.  Scully slipped 

off her shoes and left them by the door with her suitcase and purse and 

headed for the bedroom.



Once inside, she slung her trenchcoat and suit jacket over a chair in the 

corner and surveyed herself in the mirror for a moment.  Her hair was 

still pretty much intact, and she looked just like her normal self, but 

the dark circles under her eyes were evident from a distance.  She was 

exhausted.



She pulled the ribbed shirt off and tossed it on the chair, unzipping her 

skirt and aiming it in that general direction as well.  She pulled open a 

drawer and removed a white t-shirt, a soft cotton t-shirt that Melissa 

had brought back for her from Santa Fe when she had been there years 

before.  She unhooked her bra and released her breasts, which felt heavy 

and sore.



Scully knew that she was going to get her period any day now.  She could 

feel it.



She pulled the t-shirt over her head and removed her stockings, then 

rummaged around in the drawers again for a pair of sweatpants, gray ones, 

ones she had been wearing since she was in medical school.  It was the 

most comfortable outfit she owned, although she rarely slept in it.  But 

Scully wanted to be as comfortable as she could.  She was exhausted.



There was a little bit of warm sunlight coming in through the bedroom 

window.  Scully went to the window and pulled the shade down, darkening 

the room.   Then she pulled back the blanket and the sheets and crawled 

into bed.



God, she thought, this feels so good.



She was asleep moments later.



*****



Within about twenty minutes, Scully was deep in stage four sleep, the 

deepest sleep possible.  An EEG reading would have read large amounts of 

delta waves in her brain.  A few minutes later, she slipped into REM 

sleep.  Her brain waves were almost identical to that of being awake.  

She was in what is commonly called paradoxical sleep.  REM sleep is 

characterized as paradoxical sleep because heart rate, respiration, brain 

waves and sexual arousal are all increased dramatically.



Scully was in the state of sleep where dreams occur.



And she was dreaming.  



She was standing at Melissa’s grave, kneeling in front of it to put 

flowers down.



During the course of her sleeping, Scully would pass from REM sleep to 

stage four a few times.  Each time, the REM sleep stages get longer and 

dreams get more disorganized.  The dreams that are most frequently 

remembered are those towards the end of the sleeping time; that is, the 

ones that are occurring in the longer REM stages and the ones that are 

more disorganized.



The next dream was also about Melissa, but this time she was in a car 

with Scully, arguing with her about the importance of opening one’s mind 

to the concept of extreme possibilities.



*****



The last dream was the most jumbled.  In it, Scully was standing in the 

front of the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building in Washington DC, in the middle 

of a terrific thunderstorm.  The wind was whipping her trenchcoat, and 

the cold rain was pelting down on her face, plastering her hair down.  A 

car pulled up, the passenger door opened, and Skinner was inside.  "Get 

in," he commanded.



"Where are we going?" Scully asked him, nervous.  She sensed that he was 

withholding something from her.  



"Scully, get in the car," he commanded again.



And then there was the screaming of an ambulance siren.  Scully looked up 

the street and saw the flashing red and white lights of the ambulance.  

She looked back into the open door of the car.



Skinner was gone.  Mulder was sitting in the driver’s seat.



"Scully, get in the car," he told her, his voice low and urgent.  "We 

need to talk."



The sirens of the ambulance were distracting her.



*****



The jangling of the phone on the bedside table interrupted the dream.  

Slowly, Scully pulled herself up in bed and looked at the clock.  

12:03am.  She had been asleep for about five hours.



She reached for the phone.  "Hello?" she answered sleepily, her eyes 

closed again.



"Dana Scully?"  The voice was female, and impersonal.



"Yes."



"I’m calling from Georgetown Medical Center.  You’re listed as 

next-of-kin for Fox Mulder.  He’s been in an accident."



Scully sat up, switched on the light and blinked rapidly, trying to 

adjust to the light.  "Is he OK?" she asked immediately.



"It would be best if you could get down here as soon as possible."



"What happened?"



"It would be best if you could get down her as soon as possible."  The 

voice repeated.



Scully hung up, not wanting to hear anymore.  She jumped out of bed and 

found socks and her gymshoes.  She hurried back into the hallway and put 

on her trenchcoat, grabbed her purse and keys, and locked up the 

apartment.



She refused to let herself feel the panic that had begun to rise in her 

chest.



*****



GEORGETOWN MEDICAL CENTER

12:30am



Scully pushed open the doors to the ER, half expecting to see what she 

had seen before: Mulder lying on a gurney with a gunshot wound; or in a 

warming tub suffering from hypothermia and a retro-virus that had no real 

known medical cause.



But she saw none of this.  Instead she saw the mostly empty waiting room 

and the small triage area.  She hurried over the nurse in that area.  

"I’m looking for Fox Mulder; he was brought in a while ago," she said, 

flashing her badge for what she knew would be a quicker response.  What 

else was she going to say?  She knew nothing about what was wrong with 

him; all she knew was that his condition was critical.  



The nurse ushered her back into the treatment areas in the back.  

Georgetown Medical Center’s emergency room was arranged in a style that 

was similar to many other emergency rooms.  Treatment rooms were arranged 

around the perimeter of the large room, with a specially allotted 

treatment room for psychiatric emergencies and one for sexual assault 

traumas.  Those two treatment rooms were actual rooms, with walls and 

doors, to shield such patients from the activity of the other patients 

and to afford them some sense of privacy.  The other treatment rooms were 

actually just cubicles, with curtains to separate one area from the 

other.  



In the center of all of the treatment areas was what was known as "the 

pit".  It was an area for doctors and nurses to make phone calls, 

document treatment, and prepare medication.  Georgetown’s "pit" was a 

nicely carpeted area, which was actually set up about two steps, so that 

it was actually above the rest of the emergency room.  This allowed the 

medical staff to be able to see all the treatment room easily from any 

point in the pit.



Scully noticed that there were two or three nurses in the pit, conferring 

with two doctors.  The triage nurse brought Scully up into the pit and 

introduced her to the doctor who seemed to be in charge.  "This is Dr. 

Young."



"I’m Dana Scully," she said, showing her badge again.  "I’m here about 

Fox Mulder."



"I wasn’t aware that this was an FBI matter," Dr. Young answered.



"He’s my partner," Scully answered.  "I’m his next of kin."



The doctor’s face softened a bit.  "I see."



"What happened?"



Dr. Young flipped open Mulder’s chart.  "As far as we can tell, he was 

driving along I-395 when his car was struck head on by another vehicle 

going about 80 mph.  The police have taken the other driver into custody. 

 He seemed to be under the influence."



Scully’s throat was dry.  A head-on collision.  A high speed collision.  

"Can you tell me what Mulder’s injuries are?  I’m also a medical doctor."



"Mr. Mulder is suffering from head trauma.  He’s got three broken ribs.  

We’ve established that he also has some injury to his right lung.  The 

chest x-ray shows that it’s collapsed.  His left lung is also punctured 

and we’ve inserted chest tubes on both sides.  He also may have some 

internal damage to his spleen and his kidneys.  We’re still trying to 

assess how serious those injuries are.  I’ve got a neurosurgeon here," 

Dr. Young indicated the doctor next to him, "who would like to take him 

up to surgery right away."



Scully nodded, her heart pounding.  The nurses were giving her a look.  

Scully glanced down at herself and realized what a sight she must be.  

She was still wearing her sweats, her t-shirt, and a trenchcoat that 

wasn’t buttoned.  She ran a hand through her hair self-consciously, which 

she knew was a mess from sleeping.



"I’d like to see him."



"We’re going to be taking him into surgery soon.  It will have to be 

short," the neurosurgeon said.  



Scully nodded again.  "He’s in six," Dr. Young said, gesturing.



Scully left the pit and went to the curtained area with a six above it on 

the ceiling.  She paused before opening the curtain.  Mulder, she 

thought, damn it, you’d better be all right.  She took a deep breath, 

trying to compose herself, and opened the curtain.



She was not prepared for what she saw.



Mulder was lying on the gurney, his eyes closed.  His face was bruised.  

A nurse was changing the gauze dressing on his head, under which was a 

nasty looking gash.  She finished up and left, leaving Scully alone with 

Mulder.



An IV dripped steadily into his right arm, along with a blood 

transfusion.  Both bags of fluid hung on an IV pole above him.  

Electrodes were stuck to his chest, monitoring his heart rate.  The chest 

tubes were in place.  An oxygen mask was covering his nose and mouth.  



His face was gray.



As everything began to sink in, Scully held back a gasp by putting the 

back of her hand over her mouth.  



He looked dead.



Tears filled her eyes unexpectedly, and although she was Dana Scully, the 

woman in control of her emotions, she didn’t try to fight them.



She stepped closer to him, afraid to touch him for fear that she would 

disturb the medical apparatus that he was hooked up to.  But she did 

reach her hand out and touch his arm.  His skin was warm.  His eyes 

flickered open, although he looked dazed.  Unsure exactly who she was.  

What was going on.  Scully tried to muster a smile.  "Hi," she murmured, 

her voice thick with tears.  "It's me, Scully.  You were in a car 

accident.  Don’t try to talk, OK?"



He didn’t nod.  He blinked.



"Are you in a lot of pain?" she asked.



He blinked again.  



Oh, Mulder, she thought.



She took his hand and squeezed it gently.  "You’re going to be fine," she 

murmured.  Mulder turned his head slightly from side to side.  "You are," 

she insisted.  "I’ve talked to the doctors.  You’re going to have to have 

some surgery, but you’ve been in tight spots like this before and you've 

always been fine--"



Mulder shook his head slowly again, then closed his eyes.



"Mulder, don’t you fade out on me," she ordered him sternly, but her 

voice cracked.  



He didn’t open his eyes.



Scully didn’t let go of his hand.



*****



Mulder was still in surgery when the sun came up around seven the next 

morning.  Scully’s legs were cramped from alternately sitting and dozing 

in the chairs in the surgical waiting room.  She finally got up and went 

to the pay phone, dialing the Bureau and pressing the appropriate buttons 

to get transferred to Skinner’s office.



She was surprised to hear his deep voice instead of his voice mail.  

"Skinner," he answered.



"Sir," she said, clearing her throat. "It’s Agent Scully."



"Yes, Scully?"



"I’m at the hospital.  Mulder’s...been in an accident."



She could almost hear Skinner sigh heavily into the phone.



"It’s not what you’re thinking, sir.  He was hit by a drunk driver late 

last night."



Silence for a minute.  "What is his condition?"



"He’s in surgery.  He’s critical."



Scully felt as if she was going to cry.  She didn’t remember much of the 

rest of the conversation.



*****



Scully?  Are you there?



Damn it, Scully, are you there?



Scully, I’m here.  I don’t know where the hell I am, exactly, but I’m 

here.



I’m in this very dark place.



You know, it’s funny, but Melissa once told me those exact words, when 

you were sick.  When you were in the hospital.



Scully, I’m so cold...



*****



Scully was finally allowed to see Mulder around eight, when he was taken 

into recovery.



"He’s not doing as well as we expected," Dr. Young told her.  "His 

condition deteriorated dramatically in surgery.  We’ve had to transfuse 

him with multiple units of plasma, but his hemoglobin is dangerously low. 

 And his blood pressure is low as well.  His oxygen saturation is low.  

Nothing we’re doing seems to help."



Scully stood by his side as she listened to the doctor talk.  Mulder did 

look worse.  His skin color told her that.  She was suddenly aware of how 

exhausted she actually was.  She had long shed the trenchcoat but even 

though she was in her most comfortable outfit, her arms and legs ached 

and she wished that she was wearing something else.



"We’re going to admit him directly into the intensive care unit."



Scully nodded.  She touched Mulder’s arm again, and squeezed his hand 

gently.  This time he didn’t open his eyes at all.



*****



She went back to his apartment. 



For a few minutes she just stood in the living room, looking around.  

Then she went to the couch and sat down.



Mulder hadn’t been home in six days, either.  But he hadn’t made it home 

last night like she had.



She thought about the last time she had seen him before the accident.  At 

the airport.



"That was one hell of a case, Scully," he had muttered.  "I'm going to go 

home and get some sleep."



"Me too," she had echoed.



"I'll see you in the morning," he had said to her.



"Drive carefully," she had said as he turned to leave.



"You too," he had called.



What irony, she thought now.



The few fish that remained in the tank were swimming around listlessly.  

One was dead, floating at the surface of the water.  Scully flushed the 

dead goldfish down the toilet and fed the others.



She looked around the room.  For some reason, she knew that she was going 

to have to pack his things up.  She knew that he wasn’t coming back to 

this apartment.



*****



She went to her mother’s house.  Margaret was understandably upset.  She 

felt as if Fox were part of her family.  She carefully watched her 

daughter’s calm and composed description of what had happened.



"Dana, honey, are you OK?" she finally asked.



Scully stopped talking and finally looked at her mother.  She thought 

about everything that she had just said, about how she had related the 

details of the accident and of Mulder's medical condition.  She realized 

that those details had nothing to do with the absolute despair that was 

washing over her.  "He’s going to die, Mom," she said brokenly.



Margaret shook her head.  "The doctors--"



"The doctors are doing everything they can.  There’s nothing else they 

can do."



*****



The nurses in the intensive care unit had brought a chair into Mulder’s 

room so that Scully could sit with him.  It was a far more comfortable 

chair than the one she had slept in out in the surgical waiting room.



Scully was just starting to doze off when she heard a soft noise, the 

sound of a throat being cleared.



She looked up.  Frohike was standing there.



His face was filled with sadness.  Scully felt an odd feeling of deja vu.



"Hi," she said, standing up.  Skinner and her mother had already been 

there and left.  She was expecting another visitor eventually, but she 

had not thought about Frohike.  



Frohike came to Mulder’s bedside and looked down at his friend.  "Is he 

really going to die?" he asked, his voice soft and sad in a way that 

Scully didn't think was possible from him.



Her eyes filled with tears, the same tears that she had not yet allowed 

herself to shed.  She nodded her head.  "I think so," she said, her voice 

low.



Frohike came over to her and took her in his arms.  It was completely and 

totally unexpected, not to mention uncharacteristic, but she fell into 

his arms.  She smelled alcohol on him.  At that moment, she didn’t care. 

 He was, under normal circumstances, someone that she would never dream 

of touching, let alone hugging.  But she let him hold her.  And she broke 

down and sobbed.



*****



Scully was alone again with Mulder.  She stared at his face, his closed 

eyes.  She concentrated on the steady beeping of the heart monitor.  



"There’s so much I wish I could tell you, Mulder," she whispered, half 

expecting him to sit up and grin that goofy grin of his, and say, got you 

this time, Scully, didn’t I?  But he didn’t.  This was no joke.  



She was standing by his side, holding his hand.  Is this how he felt when 

I was here? she wondered.  Was he this scared?  



His blood pressure had dropped, as had his hemoglobin and his oxygen 

saturation.  Scully knew that he wasn’t going to make it.  She knew that. 

 But she hadn’t given up on him.  Not yet.  Not when she still had to 

tell him how she felt.



"You know, Mulder," she murmured, "I wish you could hear me telling you 

all of this.  I wish I knew if you could hear me."  She paused.  "I have 

so much to say to you."



Her mind felt numb, from the exhaustion and from the fear and from the 

sadness.



"I love you, you know," she said softly.  "I always have.  And I know you 

would just love to hear that, wouldn’t you?"  She knew he would.  But it 

was time for the truth, and the truth was that she loved him.  She hated 

herself for not having told him sooner.  "I..." she struggled to find the 

right words, and then realized that there were none.  How could she 

explain how she felt about him?  How could she tell him how her life had 

been forever changed by him?  "I love you," she repeated.



She sniffled, wiping her eyes.  "I wish you could hear me."



*****



Scully?



I heard you.  I heard you loud and clear.



And Dana? 



 I love you, too.



I wish *you* could hear me.



*****



Scully was dozing again when she felt a light hand on her shoulder.  She 

opened her eyes immediately.  It was Dr. Young.  She sat upright in the 

chair.  "What's going on?" she asked.



"He's passed away.  I'm sorry," the doctor said softly, kindly.



Scully stood up.  The EKG had been turned off.  All the machines were 

off.  Mulder's body was still.



He was dead.



It was over.  



Slowly, the tears came.  Once they started, they didn't stop.  She 

couldn't stop crying.  Looking at him made it worse.  He was gone.  The 

most vital part of her life had been cut off.  Permanently removed.



A nurse finally helped her out of the room, into the waiting room, where 

she would have more privacy.



Not like it mattered.



I don't need privacy, she thought through the haze of her tears.  I just 

need you, Mulder.  I need you.



Always.



END