Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday, by MJ (XF)

He looks around the enclosed space; he's lying down -- strapped down, it seems. Light overhead, uniforms.... Oh. An ambulance. What's he doing here? He blinks, slow recognition as he realizes that the hooves of a thousand stampeding Pamplona bulls are drumming in his head.

He'd gone back to his apartment after having dinner with Walter. He needed computer time, needed to look at some documents Langly had sent. No time over the weekend; he and Walter had never gotten out of bed. Three men in the apartment, one going over his computer files, one ripping through boxes in the bedroom, the third....

The third one was a fucking mirror image of him. In his suit, the old charcoal with chalk stripe that his father said made him look like a Swiss banker, and Walter's shirt, the one he still hadn't gotten back to his lover since their first weekend. Plastic surgery, a fucking clone, or another damned shapeshifting alien goon? He couldn't be sure. Pure impulse reaction, it wouldn't kill it if it wasn't an alien... but a Smith and Wesson will take off a face you don't want to look at pretty effectively.... Red blood? Human? Wonderful; explain this one to the locals.

And two others more anxious to get out than to fight with him. He'd taken off after them by foot; wound up in a fistfight with the computer one in an alley behind the Alexandria docks. The geek had gotten the better of him by far; the last he remembered, his head was sinking against a dumpster behind a waterfront bar.

This looks like a real ambulance crew; they were doing real emergency medicine kinds of things to him. And a suit with them... he vaguely recognizes another FBI agent, he'd seen the guy in the halls at the Hoover... the guy grins, nods, tells him that he's glad Mulder was found, they thought for sure the body the police had found was him, and his partner and boss were over at the hospital ID'ing it earlier....

Shit... Walter's been at the hospital? Looking at what he thinks is Mulder's dead body? No, it's too damn much, he's put Walter through this before deliberately, no way Walter will forgive him for this one, not even planned this time.... Too tired, jaw hurts, too drained to talk, no way to ask to have the agent call Walter's cell phone... he leans back on the gurney and closes his eyes, trying to avoid the thought of Walter Skinner chasing him down a hospital corridor once before, the thought of Walter Skinner confronting him this time.... Walter was right, he should have taken a change of clothes and stayed over....

Light overhead again, different this time. Fluorescent bulbs. More light? Window. In bed, feeling like the road under the feet of the Boston Marathon. He'd thought about entering the Boston Marathon.... Drifting again. Mustn't drift, not a good idea.... Voices. Low, one female. Scully. Scully's there?

Looking more intently. Oh, the hospital... shit. He hates hospitals, hates everything about them. The doctors, the nurses, the food, the pills, the IV's, the injections, the stitches, the food... too much thinking. It hurts to think. A concussion? Not sure; well, Scully's there, she'll explain it to him.

Awake again? Shit, fell back asleep. Here's Scully. Her mascara's streaked -- funny, never really thought about her wearing makeup, but of course she does... she's been crying? Why? He's here, he's in one piece, a lot sore, a lot bruised, a lot bloody, but one piece... oh, right, he was supposed to be dead, they'd found the jerk in his clothes, must have thought it was him....

Scully cried? About him? Whoa... not right, Scully, not right; don't ever get that worked up over Fox Mulder, it's not worth it to you... but it feels good to know that she really does care about his existence that much... if anything happened to Scully, he'd have to kill the bastards for her.

She's leaving, going to talk to the doctor about his IV, she says, but she'll be back. Good; he wants her back. Wants his partner there covering his back; wishes he'd had it last night... she's out the door, someone else coming in... not another doctor. Please, not another fucking doctor....

Walter? Jesus God, it's Walter... he's dead meat. He knows he's dead meat, third time at least that Walter's thought he was dead... but no, he's coming across the room looking like Mulder must have when he saw the Antarctic spaceship, like the biggest fucking miracle in the Universe is right in front of his face.

He tries to sit up, to reach over to Walter, but it's difficult, he hurts too badly to move properly... but Walter is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed now, an arm around Mulder's back drawing him up against solid, comforting muscle. He's leaning against Walter now, hopes to God he never has to move from this position again... and Walter's talking to him, whispering into his hair, words that Jesus he never thought he'd ever hear anyone say to him, not like this, not like they'd die if they didn't tell him....

Shit, the damn door. He can feel Walter's arms clench around him reflexively, crushing his aching ribs; he dimly hears a small, feminine-pitched, gasp.

And he and Walter are both laughing, not that it's funny, and he's sure there's a muttered oh Jesus Mulder from across the room.

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