Venenum
 

FROHIKE:

I still hate having my feet wet.

But at least this time, it does involve shoe removal...and it's so damn hot, anyway.

I'd like to know what the hell went on here. I'm leaving a job site, looking forward to a peaceful evening in the office with some ice-cold beers, and I get this frantic phone call from my son, who is not on the sofa or in bed at home, but at the Mulders' Maryland estate (an exaggeration, but it's pretty damn nice), with the two kids in his charge and Mulder off on some sort of bender.

Trying to get Mulder to calm down was work enough. Making sense of what he was saying was quite another matter. I settled for getting him to sleep.

Michael looks exhausted, and his face is still a mess, but he's playing agreeably with little Rebecca.

He really is good with children. I do hope eventually he'll take up fatherhood.

Just not now. Not this week. I don't think my ulcer can take it.

"I got this call from Mulder like around, I think it was around 11, I was sleeping, he woke me up," Michael explains. "He said he had this killer headache, could I come and look after the kiddies while he took a nap. I said okay."

This worries me. "You weren't taking any pain pills when you did this, did you?"

"I did this morning, but I got a triple vanilla mocha coming over...and he asks me to stop off at Ally and Langly's and pick up some migraine stuff from Ally-"

"He asked you to borrow some of Allison's medications? I didn't think she had any. Langly pretty well confiscated hers and I think it's been a couple years since she's had anything other than Excedrin."

"She had some. It was this gray package, Imitron or Imitrex-"

"Imitrex. A very common migraine drug."

Now I'm REALLY worried.

"Said it was injectable. Looks like she never opened it. And it was still good, hadn't expired. I checked." He gives me a look like, try challenging me on this one. "It's weird, Dad. I mean, Dr. Scully could just write him a scrip, he'd be okay-"

"Dana Scully isn't aware of these...incidents," I explain.

"How long's he been with her?"

"Since 1992."

"Nine years, and she doesn't know? And she's a doctor? How the hell'd he pull that one off?"

"I think...whenever he's had one in the past, he's simply said that he's tired or has the flu...and just goes to sleep. I don't think he uses medication as a rule, so this one had to be a doozy."

"He looked real bad when I got here. And it was weird, it was like, you know how he is with the girls, I mean, harm a hair on their heads and you're going straight to hell, but he was like, I don't care what you do, just let me take a nap."

"It's a pretty painful condition when you get a bad one. I've only seen Allison a couple times with one that bad, but believe me, you don't want to be around her when she's like that." And you don't. She all but murders us when she's in that much pain. Langly wisely leads her off to bed and shuts the blinds and the door and enforces that she goes to sleep.

Then he goes and relieves his own pain, usually on the beer shelf in the fridge.

"Do you know if he took the medication?" I ask. It's entirely possible that the incident could have been triggered by the migraine itself and not the medication.

"Assume so. He was like, yes, thank God, when I handed him the stuff."

"Let me go and take a look." The bottoms of the legs of my jeans are drenched, and I don't like traipsing through their home like this...I don't think Scully would approve...but she isn't here right now.

And it's too damn hot to wear shoes.

First stop, check on Mulder. Breathing is slow, labored now. He is somewhat restless, but not as much as before. Good. Maybe he'll sleep for a few hours. I hope.

Next stop, the baby. She is so absolutely adorable. Rebecca is Mulder reincarnated, but Sarah has more of the features of her beautiful mother. She is an adorable baby. And right now, mercifully asleep.

Finally, Mulder and Scully's bathroom. It's a great one, with two separate rooms, a jacuzzi, and a huge shower.

I'd kill for a shower like that. Ours is small enough that you have to be careful when you turn around. The jacuzzi would be a nice addition, too.

Sure enough, on the counter, is what looks like a small gray pen, but instead of having ink in it, it's got four small needle-like probes on the end. The red button on the opposite end has popped out like a turkey timer.

I look at the instructions-which he did not open-and sure enough, the condition of the pen injector indicates that it's been used.

There are two unused injectables still in the case. Prescribed for Allison Gerstein 8/24/99. Expiration date 3/2002.

Before she was married...but after Langly confiscated her inhaler version. She probably kept these around in case she was truly desperate.

The prescribing physician was Dana K. Scully, MD.

I pocket the unused pens, wrap the used one in several layers of Kleenex, and pocket them.

I think this is where we get Byers to step in. I'll give them to him tonight.

Michael knows that a number of inhalation type medications have been tainted...but he is not aware that Allison's own inhaler, which Langly prevented her from using two years ago, was one of those devices.

And she thought she was insuring herself by going with injectables.

False security.

I have an idea why Mulder does not want his wife to know about these headaches. One, she will insist on treating him...and I think he feels that the treatment will impair his ability to work, to see unique things, to sense things others don't.

Another is that she will worry...and I know that he does not like to worry her. God knows he does, but he tries-truly-to avoid unduly burdening her with his complaints. This is a man who merely hissed when he suffered a broken finger. Whose response to being shot was to simply groan, demand Byers's wardrobe, and walk out of the hospital.

This had to be one hell of a headache for him to even mention that he had one, let alone demand some sort of medication for it.

I look around the bathroom to see if there's any indication that he'd tried anything prior to the Imitrex injection. I see a bottle of Excedrin, but I have no way of telling whether or not he'd used any...except that the cap is loose. Mulder normally would not do this. He's terribly conscientious about the children. Cleaning supplies are up high and locked up, cutlery drawers are virtually uninvadable, and the guns are kept in a safe in a closet, and the closet is locked. Toys, cribs, baby seats-all had to pass the Dana Scully safety test, which has nothing to do with government standards. If she allows it around her kids, you can be sure she's checked it out.

I wonder how many he took. The bottle originally held 50...I count 22 left. I doubt he took 28 today, but it's conceivable that he'd had quite a few.

I need to talk to Michael some more.
 

Becca's quieter now, she's sitting on Michael's lap, but they're still in the water. They're talking about which toys make the best toys to hold water to pour on somebody. I suspect this is a discussion that's gone on for a while.

Michael, so frequently impatient with adults, seems to never lose it around kids. They can pretty much do anything they choose to him, and he takes it. I remember last winter when he was so terribly sick with pneumonia-he collapsed playing with one of the Sternberg children. He was biting off the heads of the adults present, but with small children, well, he treats them
with the utmost respect.

Watching him with Rebecca, I realize that in spite of my lack of being there for him, he will be a good father.

Later. Much later.

"So what happened after he woke up?"

Michael looks rather horrified. "Man, he just went off...started screaming at me to get the kids out of the water, that I was gonna drown 'em or something, and when Becca got mad and told him now, he started running for her, and I grabbed 'em and ran upstairs. Locked us in Becca's room. Then we had to go to Mulder's room because Becca's room doesn't have a phone."

"Do so have phone!" Rebecca hears all, and she stamps her little foot at him.

"Yeah, Bert and Ernie," Michael grins at her, as much as he's able right now. He loses the smile when he turns back to me. "I never heard him go off on the kids...Dad, he looked like he was gonna kill us. Seriously. He was wild." He stands up. "Watch her a minute, okay? I gotta check Sarah."

"Just did. She was out for the count."

"Okay. But what if Mulder wakes up?"

"I don't know...I hope he'll be able to sleep whatever was in the drugs he took off...if it was that...I think we should stick around for a while." He looks very tired. "Why don't you grab one of the recliners and lie back for a bit? I'll watch this little Mulder-monster."

"Moda-monsta!" Becca likes that one.

Except that the real Mulder monster is in on the sofa.
 

He can't hide this from Dana anymore. He can be as angry as he wants from me...but she will be home, probably within the next two hours, and if he hasn't fully recovered...and who's to say what would happen later on?

I remember the time Scully found that Mulder's water was being tainted with LSD at his old place. That took 3 days for him to come down from, once we figured out what the problem was.

If only for the sake of his kids, he has to tell her.

Do I trust him to tell her?

Hell, no.
 

Michael takes a short nap on the recliner, but Rebecca soon gets tired of him sleeping and starts pulling on his hand. When he glares at her a little, she leans over and plants a kiss on his swollen cheek.

That got him.

I like that my son is soft-hearted, in many ways. I worry about it in his romantic life, though.

Kelly has been very good to him through this. But I still worry about her age and relative immaturity.

And his.

She's waterlogged now, so they go inside, presumably to change clothes. He emerges sometime later with both children in tow, fully dressed. The clothes don't quite come out like they do when Dana Scully dresses them...but they are dressed.

"He's still asleep," Michael announces, handing me the baby. She fusses a little-she is not as warm to being handled by people other than her parents as Rebecca was at her age-but she calms down when I sing to her a little.

"I sing that to her. She likes it," Michael says, laughing.

And I used to sing it to you, baby boy. A long, long time ago.

Not to mention the other night when you were so miserable.

He probably doesn't remember...but I did notice he was resting more comfortably after I did.

I'm about to send Michael home when a familiar, short, lovely redhead comes out the back door.

She looks relieved. "Frohike. Michael. I was worried when I saw Mulder on the sofa. He's sick. I can tell. He's running a fever. Thank you for looking after the children." She scoops up her daughters; the little one gurgles excitedly and the bigger one jumps up and down, "Mommy, Mommy!"

I don't sign well, but there are some things I can say. The rest, I'll have to write out.

"Scully...I need to talk to you when you get a moment."

"Sure." She looks puzzled, but she doesn't refuse.

I turn to Michael. "You, too. We need to tell her what happened."

I am not looking forward to this.
 

Dana Scully busies herself in the kitchen preparing some Stouffers' lasagna for the kids. Scully is not the world's greatest cook, and she is very strapped for time, so the kids will probably grow up thinking food comes from a microwave.

Worse things could happen.

Like watching your father flip out.

They seem to be unaffected by the experience. I suspect Michael is largely to thank for that. I am sure he tried to keep them calm and distracted-and more importantly, he kept them safe.

She offers Michael and I each a beer, and we accept. We can use it after today. Sam Adams. That should please Michael. Me, I'd be content if she had Bud or Miller in the fridge.

We nurse the beers as she concentrates on feeding Sarah, signing to her and smiling and doing the things that kids make parents do, even when we swear we won't. You can't help it. Your kids do it to you. Michael helps Rebecca a little, although she is Miss Independent these days and seems annoyed at the idea that she might require assistance with her meal. Both girls are a total mess when they're done, and Michael and I wash their little hands and faces, which inspires them each to protest.

I notice that both children are aware she cannot hear. Rebecca signs better than she speaks, and she and her mother are quite conversant. Sarah is beginning to babble in sign-trying to make the hand shape, but not quite succeeding. Rebecca talks verbally to her father, but she signs to her mother. She knows.

How do they do that?

"Let's go out on the porch," Scully suggests. It's a little hotter out there than I would like, but we comply. She's been locked in her lab all day; she'd probably like nothing better than to enjoy the outdoors of her lovely suburban property.

This woman was hot when I met her...and she looked nowhere near as good as she does now. She's got on white linen pants, a blue silk T-shirt, and gold sandals...with bright red toenails. I always suspected she was a woman that would paint her toenails...but when her feet were always clad in pumps, we could only speculate.

Confirmation of the fact has not reduced the fact that she has sexy feet-it enhances it.

She used to be so thin, and her clothes, while certainly suitable to the job she performed, were not nearly so flattering to her.

She is so hot these days.

Mulder's getting headaches should constitute a capital crime when he lives with a woman that looks this delicious.

"It's Sarah's nursing time...I hope you don't mind." She places her younger daughter against the breast, and the little girl snuggles in happily, grateful for food and comfort from Mommy. Rebecca is not pleased about this, but Michael picks her up and plays with her to distract her.

"You should hire him out, Frohike," Dana Scully comments to me. "And take a 15 percent finders' fee. You'd be rich."

I see that Michael looks a little embarrassed, but also pleased.

"So what did you want to talk to me about, Frohike?"

I'm trying to string the signs together...I know her sign for Mulder is, as Allison explained, an 'M' hand forming the symbol for dream.

How appropriate.

"Why am I not surprised?" She responds, arching one eyebrow. "And what did my errant husband do now?"

Her speech is not as well defined as before she lost her hearing, but she works hard to maintain what diction she can. Still, I have to listen carefully.

I form the sign for 'pain' and then 'head.'

"He was complaining of a headache?" She frowns. "That's odd. I've never heard him complain about that. Everything else in the world, but not headaches."

"He had a bad one today." I say this, form the signs for 'bad,' 'pain,' and 'head.'

"Daddy sick!" Rebecca says this and forms what I recognize, more or less, as the signs for 'father' and 'sick.'

Scully studies her daughter carefully. She signs her a question.

I form the symbol for 'what?'

She answers, "I asked Becca if Daddy gets sick other times. She says sometimes." Now her expression gives way to concern. "Frohike, do you have any indication that these headaches would be...unusual?"

I have no idea what the sign for 'migraine' is. I do know her sign for Allison, which is two 'A' hands forming the sign for 'interpreter.' And the sign for same. That I do know.

I am definitely at a disadvantage here.

She nods. "How long?"

I don't want to get into this...it's been as long as I've known him, but as to whether or not it happened before-and I'm certain it did, I couldn't say. I simply sign, 'don't know.'

That's a sign I'm very familiar with.

She purses her lips together and stares out at the dusky summer sky as she shifts the little girl to the other breast. Sarah seems to be getting very sleepy...

And to my surprise, I glance over at the recliner where Michael and Sarah are...

Both of them sound asleep. She's on his lap, leaning against him. He's snoring lightly.

This truly is a Kodak moment. I smile.

I need to convey something more complicated to her, so I pick up the paper I snagged from their desk in the kitchen and one of my pens, and write out that it wasn't the headache that concerned me nearly as much as his reaction to the medication I believe he took.

"Mulder? Took something for this? What?" She is angry, upset-and very concerned. "I swear, Frohike, and you know this, he's been known to refuse morphine after surgery!"

I'm well aware of that.

I don't want to hand her the packet while she's holding the baby. I write out Imitrex injectable.

She looks astonished. "From where?"

"It was prescribed for Allison...about two years ago. Apparently she never used it. And I think he took some Excedrin."

Now she looks really worried. "Excuse me. I'm going to put the kids to bed. Don't leave, Frohike. We'll talk more when I get back."

"Here, I'll help you." I pick Rebecca off Michael's lap, and I feel her stir a little, but after a long day of water play-not to mention an outburst from her father-she's exhausted.

We leave Michael snoring in the recliner.
 

We tuck the little girls in. They're so angelic looking when they're asleep. I remember going in and watching mine when they were infants, just to look at them.

Outside again, it's growing dark. I light the candles and torches that litter their deck. Allison explained to me that light is a major consideration for individuals that are deaf. I make certain we have plenty of it.

Michael is dead to the world. Fair enough. He did watch the kids most of the day, and he only had oral surgery two days ago.

"Frohike, did Mulder become...violent?" She hesitates on the word.

"Michael's impression was that...he'd pretty much lost all control."

She nods. She looks worried, concerned, frightened, angry, you name it, it's crossing that beautiful face right now.

"He seemed very much not himself," I write.

She nods. "Do you have anything from the Imitrex?"

I hand her the package with the used injector and the two unused ones. She studies the package.

"I need to do qualitative analysis on these...I haven't done wet chemistry in ages."

"Don't you have someone who could do it for you?"
 
She shakes her head. "Not anybody I trust. Except..."

"Who?" I sign.

"Pendrell. My lab rat at the FBI. You remember him, don't you?"

Yes, he crashed into me a few times dancing at Allison and Langly's wedding. I had the bruises to remember him by.

"Can you give it to him to do?"

She shakes her head. "I trust him...and he's got the best equipment...but I no longer have access...if Mulder were still there, it'd be one thing..."

"Maybe Byers can have it done. He knows people at AU." I'm trying to write all this out, and I have the world's worst handwriting. Next to my son, of course.

"No. I'm sorry, Frohike...things are so strange lately, you'll forgive me if I don't want to even hand this off to an associate of Byers."

And getting stranger all the time, I think to myself.

"And I don't want my staff seeing me with this...Frohike, do you think you could stay with the children a little longer? Actually, a lot longer...qual analysis takes time. I hate to ask you, but..."

I sign, no problem.

And for her, it's not.

"This may take a few hours. No, it will take a few hours. And I'm rusty on technique, so forgive me on this..."

"Take all the time you need." I write this out for her.

"Thank you, Frohike." She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. "I'll be back as soon as I'm done."

I may never wash that spot again.
 

It's so quiet here...so different from the noise and chaos that's the Langly household. No doubt by now they're racing around, talking about this and that and mapping out the next day and arguing and trying to put Patrick in bed and Miranda will be either out with her friends or on the phone...

All I can hear are the crickets. And my son snoring. This seems to have gotten worse since he had the surgery. Maybe it will dissipate when he's better.

I need to get him home. But he seems comfortable for now. I'll let him be. I don't like him driving when he's this exhausted.

I think about calling Jo, seeing how she's doing. Her life is in an uproar now. She doesn't want to burden me with it, but it's important to me that she does. For reasons well beyond the personal.

I actually start to rise from my recliner when I hear footsteps in the doorway. Not child's footsteps, either.

It's Mulder. Looking extremely tired and confused.

"Frohike? When'd you get here?"

The bad part is, he's not kidding.

END OF PART 65