I was still in a pretty good mood that afternoon, despite a mild working- over from Skinner over the utter lack of clarity in the report we'd filed on Schnauz. We'd been expecting that -- we had no intention of giving any clear opinion of how those "howler" photographs came to be. We still didn't understand it too well ourselves.

In other words, situation normal.

Even Skinner seemed to realize it -- the reaming out was perfunctory at best. He was going through the motions, and we all knew it.

I was still feeling pretty good about life when the phone rang.

Scully answered it. I wasn't paying much attention; if it was for me, she'd tell me, and if it wasn't, I didn't want to eavesdrop. I kept on going over the 302 I planned to submit in the morning.

That's why it took me a minute to realize that Scully wasn't talking.

I looked up at her, and right away, I knew something was wrong -- seriously wrong. She had one hand on the desktop, as though she could no longer stand without help; her face had gone pale, and her eyes were wide with shock.

"When did it happen?" she was saying, in a shaky voice I'd seldom heard from her before. It almost had to be her mother -- although Maggie was in excellent health, as far as I knew. But then, to all appearances, so was her father the last time she saw him.

Quickly, I rose and came around to where she was standing.

"What is it?" I whispered, but she held up a hand. Wait, she was saying; I need to hear this. So I stayed quiet.

"Where is he now?" she said.

He? Was it one of her brothers?

"We'll be right there," she said, and hung up the phone. She turned to face me, and started to speak, but instead she reached out and grabbed my lapels, swaying slightly on her feet, and burst into tears.

"Scully, what is it?" I said, as I took her by the arms and lowered her into her chair. I knelt beside her and put one hand on her cheek. "Is it Bill? Has something happened?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. She could barely talk. "It's ... Mulder, you may need to sit down."

And that's when I knew what she was going to say.

"Tell me now," I said, quickly. "Just say it, whatever it is."

"It's Daniel," she said, between sobs. "Mulder ... Mulder, he's been shot."

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

I don't remember much of what happened after that. I only know that we arrived at Bethesda in much less time than the legal speed limit would have allowed, thanks to Scully's maniacal driving. I was in no shape to drive.

When we got there, Daniel was in surgery. Scully tracked down a doctor there she'd known in med school and got him to find out what was happening.

When he came back, he and Scully conferred for a while, away from the rest of the waiting-room crowd, but I could hear some of what they were saying. They were using words like "atelectasis," "proximal axillary artery," and "saphenous vein graft." I didn't know what all that meant, but I knew from Scully's expression as she walked toward me that whatever it was, it wasn't good.

I was right. Daniel had been shot twice in the upper right chest. One bullet had hit an artery; the other had hit his lung, filling his chest cavity with blood and causing the lung to collapse. He'd lost a lot of blood.

They'd drained the blood from his chest and reinflated the lung, she said, and they were operating now to remove the bullet and repair his lung. The artery was badly damaged, so they'd replaced it with a vein taken from his leg, and they'd given him four units of donor blood.

The situation, it seemed, was critical.

Scully tried to reassure me that Daniel would be just fine, but I knew her too well -- I could read the truth in her eyes. She was worried -- very worried.

I sat down in the surgical waiting room, trying to stay calm, but inside I felt as though I were dying myself, and my anger was rising swiftly toward rage. Who the fuck had done this to him? And did they know there was no place on earth they'd be safe if I ever found out who they were?

I was on the verge of running out to mete out my own form of justice when, at last, the local police showed up. I practically shoved my badge under their noses and demanded to know what had happened.

They were still piecing that together, they told me -- but it appeared that Daniel was driving home from work when he had the ill-fortune to get between a drunken, road-enraged driver and his prey.

The driver, according to the police, had fired six shots, wildly, in the general direction of the other car, which had apparently cut him off about 12 miles back. The last two shots caught Daniel in the chest as he was trying to get off the road and out of the line of fire.

Someone had called for help, and the ambulance had brought him here -- both because he was wearing a Navy uniform and because Bethesda was the closest hospital.

Of course it was -- he'd only left work a few minutes earlier.

The cops had called Scully because Daniel, who was estranged from almost his entire family, had put her name on all of his "notify in case of emergency" forms. Putting my name on those forms, we'd decided, would raise far too many questions. We both knew that if anything happened to him, she'd get word to me.

For that same reason, Scully's name was in the same slot on every form I'd ever filed with the FBI. It was just another precaution -- or so we'd thought.

"Where's the driver now?" I asked one of the cops.

"We're looking for him," the cop said, with one of those "whaddya gonna do" shrugs. "Why, you guys going to charge him with a federal offense?"

"No, I think a summary execution is more in order for this mother- fucker," I said, gritting my teeth. Scully, who'd been talking to one of the nurses, saw what was happening and quickly came over.

"Agent Mulder and Dr. Reilly have been friends for a long time, officer," she said, calmly. "I'm sure you understand that this is upsetting to all of us."

"It's upsetting to me, too, ma'am," the officer said. "If this guy is who we think it is, I've busted him for DWI myself once or twice, and he's still got his drivers license. It's enough to make you hand in your badge, you know?"

"I certainly do," she said, with her politest, most professional smile. She reached into her pocket and took out her business card. "Will you keep us posted on the investigation?" she asked, handing him the card. "I don't think we're contemplating any federal charges; it's a personal matter, especially for me."

"Sure," the cop answered, with an expression of sympathy that showed he'd picked up on what Scully was implying. Once again, she was explaining away my interest in Daniel by leading someone to believe that Daniel was actually her lover. She'd done it so many times I doubt she even had to think about it anymore.

But I was thinking about it, and it was driving me nearly to despair. I couldn't even imagine a world without Daniel in it, and yet I had to stand there, strong and expressionless, acting as though I was concerned only because my partner's lover was injured.

Look, I wanted to say, he's _my_ lover. Not hers -- mine. I slept in his arms only last night. I can't get through the day without talking to him at least once. I'm not concerned on my partner's behalf --- I'm scared to death because I may lose my lover and I don't think I can live without him.

I couldn't tell them that. In the world I live in, I'm not allowed to say what I feel for Daniel. Even if he died, that wouldn't change.

I wouldn't even be allowed to mourn for him.

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

I don't know how long we sat in that waiting room. I only know I'd never have survived it without Scully there. She pulled every string she knew how to pull to keep me updated on Daniel's condition, explained everything she found out and -- through it all -- held me together emotionally.

At long last, though, the surgeon -- one Commander Tyson Montgomery -- came down to tell us that Daniel was out of surgery and doing as well as could be expected, although there was still some danger. He would be in the recovery room for several hours, and then would be moved to a surgical ICU for several days at least.

"After that, we'll see," Dr. Montgomery said. "We'll have to keep him on a ventilator for some time, so he'll be sedated and unconscious. But he's alive, at any rate, and relatively stable."

That tight band of fear around my chest loosened, and I began to breathe a little more normally again.

"When can we see him?" I asked.

"No one's going to see him tonight, unless his mother shows up," Montgomery said. "I'm sorry -- I know you're concerned about him, Miss Scully ... "

"It's Dr. Scully, Commander," she said, interrupting him. "I'm a physician."

I almost smiled in spite of how worried I was. Scully -- the daughter of a Navy captain -- wasn't in the least intimidated by Montgomery's rank and she also wasn't surrendering one iota of her medical authority while she was here.

"I'm sorry -- Dr. Scully, then," Dr. Montgomery said, politely. "What I was saying is that since you're listed on his emergency notification forms, we can let you in there for just a minute or two, if you like, but your friend will have to wait until we have Dr. Reilly in a step- down unit."

"I think we'd both like to see him, doctor," Scully said, coolly, pulling out her badge and flipping the leather case open. "As I'm sure you know, Dr. Reilly is the victim of a crime, and my partner and I need to see him as soon as possible."

You go, Scully, I thought, but I didn't have much hope that this tactic was going to work.

It didn't.

"Dr. Reilly's in no condition to be questioned right now, Dr. Scully," Dr. Montgomery said, folding his hands across his chest. "I wouldn't allow that even if he could talk, and he can't as long as he's being ventilated. If you intend to try to question him, I'm afraid I'll have to withdraw my earlier permission and insist that you wait to see him until he's been moved to a regular surgical floor."

Yeah, it wasn't this guy's first time at the rodeo. Nice try, though, Scully. But she wasn't giving up yet.

"I understand," she said, trying to smile. "But I really wish you'd let Agent Mulder come with me, just as a friend. I could use the emotional support."

"Agent Mulder will be right here when you come out, doctor," Montgomery said, calmly. "I'm sure that even if you're overcome with emotion, you can make it back this far; if you can't, the nurses can assist you."

"That won't be necessary, doctor," I said, before Scully could launch another offensive. "I'm sure Dr. Scully will be able to tell me anything I need to know after she sees him."

Scully looked up at me, quickly, but I think she saw in my eyes what I was thinking. We're in a bad position; don't push it. Take what we can get; go see Daniel and then come and tell me how he's doing.

She nodded her understanding at me. "Thank you, Dr. Montgomery," she said, almost politely. "You're very kind."

"You're more than welcome," Dr. Montgomery said. "Again, I'm sorry I can't allow you in there tonight, Agent Mulder, but I'm sure you understand the reasons."

"Of course," I said.

Montgomery walked away, and Scully turned to me and laid her hand on my arm in that calming way she has. "He was conscious when they brought him here, Mulder," she said. "He was a little shocky, but his vital signs were surprisingly good at that point. That's very much in his favor now."

"I'll take your word for it," I said, grimacing. She saw it -- I can't hide much from her anyway.

"Mulder, you're not blaming yourself for this, are you?" she asked. "There's no way you could have done anything to prevent it."

"I don't know," I said, shaking my head. "Maybe. I went over to see him last night; it was late, and I woke him up. Maybe if I hadn't, maybe if he'd been more alert ..."

"Stop that right now," she said, in that voice that says she means business. "If you went to see him it was because you both wanted to be together. Daniel's a grown man; he's perfectly capable of telling you if he's too tired to see you."

"I didn't exactly give him the chance," I said, but I didn't get to finish my thought. A young woman in a pink apron -- a hospital volunteer, I suppose -- walked up right at that moment to tell Scully that she could go in to the recovery room now.

As Scully Saw It

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

Every now and then, Mulder and I seem to change places.

It's usually over religion; there, he is the skeptic and I am the believer.

What happened when Daniel was shot had nothing to do with religion, at least not on the surface; yet I cannot escape the feeling that I knew, somehow, that this was coming.

Mulder's usual explanation for precognition is that some events are so momentous that their effects ripple backward in time, affecting us on a level we can't consciously perceive.

It's ridiculous, of course. If you hear on Friday that your Aunt Myrtle died on Thursday night at 10:30, you may indeed remember in that instant that you were thinking of Aunt Myrtle -- and wasn't it about that time? It must have been.

Listen carefully: You probably thought about Aunt Myrtle because she'd been ill and hence on your mind a lot. You probably thought about her any number of times and forgot all about it. You only remembered it when she died because ... well, because she died.

It means nothing. I believe that absolutely.

That doesn't explain to me why -- on that night, of all nights -- I felt such a strong urge to ask Mulder whether he'd ever considered a legal marriage to Daniel, should it ever become possible. I'd never even thought about it before, until I read that tabloid newspaper article about two men who'd applied for a marriage license in Hawaii.

And so I asked him. And it shook him, badly. I never expected that, and I felt terrible about it, but I didn't quite know how to make it up to him.

He said it was all right, and I wanted so much to believe him. I never want to hurt him, but sometimes it seems to be all I know how to do.

But the next day, when Daniel was shot, I learned a painful, lasting lesson in just exactly what it means to have no legal or social rights where your life partner is concerned.

I thought Mulder was learning that at the same time I was, but I was wrong.

Mulder already knew. He knew entirely too well.

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

Mulder and I walked in silence down the tiled hallways toward the recovery room waiting area as I prepared to go check on Daniel. Outwardly, I was calm, but despite what I had told Mulder, inwardly, I was in terror. The possible complications -- pulmonary edema, disseminated intravascular coagulation, sepsis -- kept running through my head the way they had in med school when I was studying for an exam.

There was just too much that could go wrong given Daniel's injuries and the extent of the medical and surgical interventions required to stabilize him.

I was prepared for any number of complications -- any, that is, except the one that actually arose.

When we reached the recovery room, the volunteer asked me to step into a small side room -- alone. "Dr. Montgomery said you were the only one allowed in, Miss Scully," she said. I didn't correct her, although Miss is one title I never use. I just stared her down and told her, in my frostiest tones, that Mulder would be waiting with me. She didn't argue.

I haven't spent the better part of a decade in law enforcement for nothing.

We went into the cramped little room, sat down on a sagging, cracked vinyl sofa, and said nothing. I had no idea whether my face had betrayed my worries to Mulder, although I could see clearly in his eyes how worried he was. Mulder had his exterior calm working perfectly well, except for that slight tension about his eyes and the pale skin over his knuckles as he clasped his hands together over his knees.

Finally, the volunteer poked her head in and said -- rather pointedly -- that _I_ could go see Dr. Reilly now.

"Mulder, is there anything you want me to tell him?" I said as I rose to leave, trying to speak too quietly for anyone else to hear. "He may not be awake, but ..."

"Just tell him I ..." he began, and his throat seemed to close up. He tried again, but no sound would come out.

He couldn't say it. He wanted to so badly -- I could see that -- but he just couldn't.

My vision went blurry as tears welled up in my eyes. I stood on tiptoe and kissed him, very gently.

"I'll tell him, Mulder," I said.

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

The first thing I did when I got to the recovery room was try to sneak a peek at Daniel's chart. I was unsuccessful; it was at the nurses' station, and I couldn't get my hands on it.

So I made my own professional assessment of his condition.

First, the dressings: intact and dry over the vein graft sites, draining serosanguinous fluid on the chest wound site. That was to be expected. Skin -- slightly damp and a little pale, but not overly cool. Normal at this point.

I checked the IVs -- he had two, one in the antecubital fossa of each arm. One was running normal saline slowly through a large-bore catheter; that would keep the vein open in case he needed more blood quickly. The other IV, attached to a slightly smaller catheter, contained a solution of 5 percent dextrose and Ringer's lactate. There was a smaller bag containing an antibiotic piggybacked onto the D5RL.

I approved of the set-up. It was exactly what I would have ordered.

Next, I checked his urinary drainage bag; it held about 550 cc of clear, pale yellow urine. I didn't know when it was last emptied, but that much urine meant his kidneys were working.

All good.

I bent closer, trying to hear the sounds that would warn of fluid building up in his lungs, but the ventilator was too noisy and I didn't have a stethoscope. The telemetry read-outs were reassuring: Pulse 86, which was rapid for a man of his age and general health, but not alarmingly so; blood pressure, 105 over 70, on the low side but steady; respirations -- mechanical. Exactly 20 per minute.

The chart would have helped, but that quick exam was enough to tell me that he probably was indeed doing as well as could be expected, and I was pleased to see that I could still assess a post-operative patient as methodically and carefully as ever.

I started to leave, to go give Mulder my report, but something made me turn back around.

Daniel hadn't moved, and there was no significant change in the monitors, but I suspected that I had, at some level of awareness, detected something wrong.

I debated whether to call the nurses, but I decided to take one more quick look at Daniel to see whether I could figure it out for myself.

I don't know how to explain what happened next. Maybe I was just getting over the initial shock and starting to feel the reality of what had happened. Maybe it was not having charts and notes and test results to distract me. I really don't know.

All I know is that I looked at Daniel, and for the first time that night, I didn't see a patient.

I saw Daniel -- my gentle, sweet Daniel, my dearly loved colleague and friend, lying there unconscious, alive only because he was attached to the machines that monitored him, breathed for him and measured out his intravenous sustenance drop by drop.

For the first time since I began my medical career, I saw all the technology for what it was -- necessary, perhaps, but ultimately dehumanizing, emphasizing the physical characteristics of the body at the expense of the needs of the soul, and of the heart.

And I, of all people, should have remembered that, because I have been there. It was Mulder's voice, the touch of his hand, and my awareness of his presence that gave me the strength to turn back from the peaceful world that beckoned me, to come back to this world with all its sorrow and pain, and to continue the journey -- with him.

Daniel needed the machines, and what they could do for him -- but what he needed even more, what he couldn't have, was Mulder's strong hands to guide him back on his own long, painful journey.

I couldn't give him Mulder -- but I could give him Mulder's unspoken message.

I walked back toward the gurney and, as gently as I could, smoothed Daniel's dark hair away from his face. I leaned closer to him, whispering in his ear.

"Daniel, it's Dana," I said, and it wasn't until I heard the catch in my voice that I realized how very near tears I was. "Fox wants to be here with you. He would give anything to be here with you, but they won't let him come in. But he wants you to know that he loves you ... he loves you very much ... and he'll be right here with you the minute they say it's okay."

Tears were rolling down my cheeks when I finished. There was more I wanted to say, but I couldn't, not without breaking down completely, so I kissed Daniel's cheek and walked away.

I made it as far as the hallway; I might have made it further, but Mulder was there, his eyes filled with pain and fear and hope, waiting to hear what I would say.

And as I looked at him, I began to cry. Right there in the middle of Bethesda Naval Hospital, I broke down and wept, putting my hands over my face like a little girl.

I felt Mulder's arms going around me, and I pressed my face to his chest. I felt so bad, making him comfort me that way when it was he who needed comfort, but there really wasn't anything else to do.

It is always Mulder who sustains me.