Author's Note: Not being Chris Carter, I own nothing.

Mulder had never liked hospitals. When he was eight years old, he had climbed a tree in order to hide from his mother. She had been trying all day to get him to do his homework -- a task which he had flatly refused on the grounds of it being the weekend -- and, running out of hiding places in the house itself, he had gone out to the back garden and climbed the old apple tree there instead. Its apple-bearing days were over, but its broad, leafy branches afforded a considerable amount of cover in which he settled, congratulating himself on the brilliance of his plan.

Comfortably seated on a wide bough with his back against the trunk, it was a while before he noticed the leaf that was wandering aimlessly along the same branch upon which he was sitting. Leaning over for a closer look, he realized that it was in fact no leaf but rather an insect disguised as one. Registering this, he had promptly screamed, lost his balance, and fallen out of the tree, resulting in two broken bones and four days spent in the hospital under the care of brusque doctors and nurses who seemed to derive their greatest joy from waking him up in the middle of the night to take his temperature and stick him full of needles.

Two decades later, he had landed himself in the hospital again more times than he cared to remember. Broken bones, gun shot wounds, exposure to unidentified toxic substances -- you name it, he had been admitted with it. Given his intense aversion to hospitals, he sometimes wondered whether becoming an FBI agent had been his most intelligent career choice. Surely there were safer ways in which to serve one's country, ways that did not involve potentially life-threatening danger on an almost daily basis.

The one bright spot in all of it, though, was the fact that as an FBI agent, he had a partner -- someone who had been through it all before and knew what it was like. Almost every single time he had ended up in the hospital, he had woken up to find Scully sitting beside him, her eyes bright with concern, ready to hug him and pretend to scold him for not following proper bureau protocol. When it came to that, she'd shot him herself once, although he hadn't exactly wound up in a hospital on that particular occasion. Still, her face was the first he had seen when he'd opened his eyes, groggy with painkillers and antibiotics. Hers was always the first face he saw, the first voice he heard, the first hand he felt squeezing his as she told him he would be all right.

This time, though, it was the other way around. He was the one running down the bright, sterile corridor while she lay comatose in a hospital bed somewhere, alone in a ward with her life hanging by a thread. The very thought made his jaw clench tighter as he paused to glance at a chart of patients hanging by the nurses' station. Nothing.

He swallowed. "Excuse me," he said, leaning over the counter to address the nurse on duty. "I'm looking for a Dana Scully who was brought into…" His voice trailed off as she held up a hand and pressed the telephone receiver she was holding closer to her ear, her expression annoyed.

Spinning around, he caught sight of another nurse walking down the hall. "Excuse me," he said again, "I'm looking for a patient, Dana Scully." The nurse ignored him, her eyes fixed on the clipboard in her hands. Working hard to keep his temper under control, he tried a different tactic. "Is there an admitting nurse here?" Still no response.

"Look!" he said, his voice rising. "Can someone help me here?"

A tired-looking intern grabbed him by the arm. "Look, Sir, you're going to have to calm down."

Under different circumstances, Mulder would have sympathized with the dark shadows under the intern's eyes; he knew what it was like to work around the clock for draconian supervisors. He also knew what it was like dealing with unreasonable people who shouted and got all worked up and refused to listen. This was different, though. This was about Scully.

"I will calm down when someone gives me a reason to calm down." He could hear his voice cracking, either from emotion or exhaustion, but he didn't care. "Now I'm looking for a patient who was admitted to the ER!"

The intern nodded patiently. "Dana Scully."

Mulder stared at him. "Yes."

The intern continued nodding. "I heard you the first time."

Mulder bit back the urge to demand why the hell he hadn't answered then. "Well, where is she?"

"I have her in the ICU."

"Where is that?"

It was the intern's turn to stare at him. "You have to tell me who you are first."

Mulder ignored this. "Where is she?" he repeated. His voice began rising again, but if the man told him to calm down one more time, he'd --

"Agent Mulder!"

Mulder spun around at the sound of his superior's voice. Skinner was stalking down the hall, his face dark and glowering. Mulder could hardly blame him for this, as the Assistant Director had probably been informed only hours before that Special Agent Fox Mulder was dead, shot in his own apartment, his body identified by his own partner.

At the thought of Scully, he remembered where he was and why he was there. Pushing past Skinner and the two dark-suited men standing behind him, Mulder began making his way towards the corridor from which his superior had emerged.

Skinner's voice followed him down the hall. "Where are you going?"

Mulder continued walking, his face set. "ICU." He could hear footsteps behind him, but he didn't stop or turn around. The smell of antiseptic filled his nostrils, and he swallowed hard.

Skinner caught up with him as he reached the door leading into the ICU. His voice was harsh and accusing. "You're looking pretty good for a dead man."

Mulder paused, his hand on the door. Somewhere beyond it lay Scully. He thought back to the first time he had seen her lying in a hospital bed, still and pale, hooked up to a forbidding array of machines with tubes leading from her mouth to the respirator beside her bed. He had been so sure, so afraid, that he would lose her then. If he lost her now…

His mind would not allow him to finish that sentence.

You're looking pretty good for a dead man.

"I'm only half dead," he said, pushing the door open.

It was the truth. Half of him was lying on a hospital bed again, alone and lost somewhere in the cold darkness. If Scully died, he knew that he would be half dead for the rest of his life.

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