Merry X-Mas

an X-Files story by Setcheti

All characters, etc., are owned by Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions. Used without permission and no copyright infringement intended.

Fox Mulder shifted uncomfortably in the narrow hospital bed, trying and failing to find a more comfortable position. The IV slowly dripping antibiotics into his arm was aching again but he didn't want to call a nurse, knowing how understaffed the hospital was two days before Christmas. Christmas...he pushed back the remembrance of the plans he'd been tentatively making, plans to call his mother and possibly visit her over the holidays. Thank God he hadn't called her yet when he realized he was sick, thank God Scully had already left for her own family holiday when they admitted him to the hospital with double pneumonia. He could almost hear her scolding him for jumping in the water in midwinter and not having sense enough to dry off afterwards, could almost see her blush when he accused her of "playing doctor" in his warmest teasing tone.

She would be furious if she found out he was here, they both would, simply because he hadn't told anyone he was sick in the first place. Even his doctor had been upset about the absence of emergency contacts on his admission form, going so far as to leave a spare form and a pen by the bed, "in case he changed his mind." Mulder had no intention of finishing the form, doctor or no doctor; he couldn't even imagine calling anyone he knew just to say that he was sick and lonely --and a little frightened. What would they think of him if he did? And he would have caused all that bother and worry for nothing--two days before Christmas--because he was going to be fine, just fine. Ignoring the growing pain in his arm and concentrating instead on the soft hiss from his oxygen tube, he gradually drifted back to sleep.

Mulder woke feeling hot, and feeling eyes on him. Turning his head, he saw an old, white-haired man in the next bed watching him intently. "Company at last," the old man said with a smile. "You're a sound sleeper."

"Not really," Mulder muttered irritably, wondering just how long he'd been asleep. He hated for anyone to watch him sleep, and the IV now felt like a line of fire going up his arm. Maybe his fever had come back. "Does it seem hot in here to you?"

The old man pushed thick white hair off his damp forehead with one hand and nodded. "Nurse told me the thermostat on this wing was busted--the heater won't shut off. You okay, Fox?" Mulder started at the familiar use of his hated first name and looked suspiciously at his new roommate. "Oh, that," the old man chuckled. "No, you're not losing it, son. It's written on your bracelet." He held up his own left wrist, and Mulder blinked at the white plastic ID bracelet that dangled from it. All he could see of the name was , Sam T. "Now we've been introduced--although they do say that 'sleeping' together constitutes a formal introduction."

It was Mulder's turn to chuckle. "Yeah, I guess so." He stifled a cough. "So, what'cha in for, Sam? If you don't mind my asking, that is."

"Not at all." Sam patted his paunch and made a face. "Ulcer. Too much Christmas cheer, I guess. You?"

"Pneumonia," Mulder replied, and punctuated it with another small cough that he couldn't hold back. "Great way to spend the holidays, isn't it."

Sam smiled and shook his head. "My wife is used to it. Besides, I should be home for Christmas anyway." The flicker of pain in the younger man's eyes touched an old, old chord in him, and his expression softened in understanding. "You won't be going home for a while, huh? Family'll probably have to bring Christmas to you then, won't they."

"No." The word came out as a regretful sigh.

"No? Young fellow like you doesn't have a sweetheart hanging around to cheer him up? I don't believe that."

Mulder thought of Scully and smiled a small, resigned smile for all the feelings he couldn't share with her--yet. "It's true, Sam," he said. "I'm on my own."

Sam snorted. "By choice? Saw that you didn't write down any names and numbers. Afraid to bother anyone, were you? Didn't feel you were important enough to interrupt their holiday?"

"I'll be all right." Mulder glanced out the window, the frosted panes blurring slightly as an unaccustomed wave of self-pity washed over him. "They have their own lives."

"And you're part of them," Sam corrected him gently. Then his tone stiffened. "You're also one selfish bastard, Fox."

Mulder jumped as though he'd been slapped. "Huh?"

"You heard me. Cutting off everyone around you makes you feel like a real tough guy, doesn't it? 'The invincible Fox Mulder', doesn't need anyone, takes care of himself. But you forgot one little thing, Fox; you forgot that no matter how much you pretend you don't need them, they still need to be needed by you." Sam leaned back, looking away to give the other man some privacy. He waited.

He didn't have to wait long. There was a rustle, then a small groan. "Sam?"

"Yeah, Fox?"

"I...I can't reach the pen." Mulder's voice was tentative, the voice of a man trying out something new, something he isn't sure will work. "Could you..."

"Sure thing, son." Sam hopped out of bed with an agility that surprised Mulder, revealing himself to be both shorter and rounder than expected. He retrieved the errant pen and waved off the shaking hand reaching for it. "I'll do it, you just dictate. It is important that they can read it, you know."

Mulder grinned weakly. "Must be the heat, but I'm just too tired to argue with you. Anne Mulder, 555-8167."

Sam wrote, frowning. "Should have grabbed my glasses. Okay, next?"

"Dana Scully." The little sigh when he said her name made Sam hide a smile behind his beard. "She's at her mother's. 810-265-3381."

"What about her cellular?" Mulder gaped at him, and Sam shrugged. "You have one."

Mulder accepted that with a nod and gave Sam the number, too tired to be suspicious. He shut his eyes, ready to sleep again. "Thanks, Sam."

Sam's voice said quietly, "There's one more, Fox." Mulder's eyes popped open, and Sam frowned. "One more 'line'."

The eyes closed again, only partially in thought. "Oh, yeah. Frohike. His number..." Heat and weakness won out; he was asleep.

Sam smiled, writing. "I got it, Fox."

Mulder woke up because he felt an itch; but when he tried to scratch it, nothing happened. Oh well, at least the IV had stopped hurting. He twitched, and was about to drift off again when a familiar voice queried, "Fox?"

"Mom?" He opened his eyes with an effort, wondering why his voice sounded so funny. She was leaning over him, looking relieved. "Mom."

"Oh, Fox; thank God," she breathed. Anne reached over and unsnapped an oxygen mask from his face; the itch disappeared. She stroked his hair with that gentle mother's touch he hadn't felt in so long. "How do you feel?"

"Okay," he lied in a whisper. She frowned reprovingly, and he sighed. "Lousy." He chuckled, very weakly. "I never could lie to you."

"You should have called me," she scolded, "before it got this far."

"I was going to call for Christmas," he replied. He tried again to lift his arm and couldn't. An edge of panic crept into his voice. "Mom, I can't move my arms."

"It's all right, Fox." Velcro tore, and a pressure he hadn't been aware of lifted off his arms and chest. "You were thrashing around; they didn't want you to hurt yourself. Is that better?"

"Yeah." Mulder experimentally flexed his arm muscles, then hissed as a bolt of pain shot through his left forearm. Looking down, he saw a thick white bandage where his IV had been; the IV was now in his right arm instead. A little of the panic came back. "Mom..."

The door to his room opened and Scully came in, carrying two steaming cups. "Anne?" Then she saw him, and her face lit up with the smile he remembered from Alaska--the smile that never failed to give him hope for the future, their future. "So, you decided to wake up after all. Merry Christmas."

Mulder's eyes widened. "Christmas," he managed. "It's Christmas? What happened..."

His mother took his hand in hers and spoke soothingly, using the same no-nonsense tone that had calmed the night fears of a twelve year-old boy so long ago. "I told you it was all right," she said. "Your IV site got infected; and what with your pneumonia and the staff shortage on this floor, you were already delirious with fever by the time anyone noticed."

"And it wouldn't have happened at all if you'd called someone when you got sick," Scully added sternly. "Thank God you managed to get that form filled out before you were too far gone, or we still wouldn't know where you were. Frohike was the first one to get here, by the way; he'll be back in about an hour. He was so flattered that you wrote his name down, we've had a terrible time getting him to leave the hospital."

"Thank Sam," Mulder said with a smile. "He wrote the names down for me; I don't even remember finishing Frohike's for him. Sam?" He looked toward the next bed, but it was empty. "Did he already go home?"

Scully and Anne exchanged a worried look. Then Scully came around the bed and took his other hand. She touched his forehead lightly and shook her head at his mother before saying slowly, "Mulder, you haven't had a roommate."

"But he wrote it down for me; I couldn't even reach the pen." Mulder glanced over again, puzzled. "Maybe he left before you got here..."

His mother was shaking her head. "Mr. Frohike was here two days ago, and he's been here ever since. You haven't had a roommate, Fox--they wrote it on your chart. You were just too sick, too vulnerable to a secondary infection."

"Which you got anyway," Scully added grimly. "And it is your handwriting on the sheet." Then she grinned at him. "You're just lucky they could read it at all!"

"But..."

"Mulder, you were delirious," Scully insisted gently. "You have been for two days, and you're still very sick. The mind plays tricks, you know that."

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded and shut his eyes. "Thanks for coming," he murmured, feeling himself drifting off again. "I wasn't sure...it is Christmas, after all."

"It certainly is," said his mother, slipping the oxygen mask back into place. "The first one I've spent with you in over fifteen years. It's the best gift you've ever given me." She brushed lightly at his hair again. "He's already asleep, poor thing."

"He's smiling," Scully replied. "He thought we wouldn't come." She squeezed his hand, feeling her eyes dampen as she remembered the fear that had engulfed her when the hospital had called on her cellular phone; lucky thing he'd given them the number, her mother's line had been tied up by relatives all day. She sighed--he always seemed to be lucky. "Merry Christmas, Fox."

Outside in the hall, by the nurses' station, the lone doctor on call spied a neatly folded but obviously worn gown on top of a chair. Intending to find a way to place some blame for such clutter--and in the process to vent some of his own anger at having to work on Christmas Day--he picked up the ID bracelet that lay atop the gown and squinted at the name. "Claus, Sam T.," he read. It took a minute for his fatigue-numbed mind to catch the joke; then he snorted and tossed it back down. "Yeah, right," he muttered. "Like anyone's going to believe in that."

Fin