DUM SPIRO, SPERO
Part 39
 

"Now that you're in trouble
I'm not afraid to weather suffering with you.
I have made myself ready."

"Antigone," Translation by Richard Emil Braun. Lines 661-663. Used without permission.
 

MICHAEL:

Adrenaline is a great motivator.

I don't know how much faster I got through the tubes this time, but it was a hell of a lot faster than when I went in.

I know I was scared as hell, because I'm actually relieved to see these guys.

And I'm ready to kill Langly. He could've fucked us but good.

"What the hell were you trying to do, you fuckrag!" I scream at him. "You just about got me killed!"

"Junior, you look fine, maybe you could use a shower, but-"

"No, fuck you, Mulder, there's a fucking SWAT team up there!"

"Oh, shit."

"So what're we gonna do now, geniuses?" All I wanna do is get the fuck out of here, get the hell home to Virginia, crawl in bed next to Kelly, and forget this ever happened.

Oh, yeah, and take a shower.

Mulder shrugs, and says, like it's no big deal, "We wait."

Now Langly's pissed. "Whaddya mean, we wait? I don't wanna be here another minute, you asshole!"

"Hey, shut up, you're not the one who's going to be condemned to the sofa for a week," Mulder reminds him.

"Hope she puts you there for a month!" I spit at him.

"Hope she shoots you again, and this time, she should aim for your balls," Langly hisses at him.

"Guys, just be cool, okay?" I think Mulder's so used to everybody hurling insults at him, he just lets them bounce off.

Either that, or he's so fucking clueless he doesn't even know he's been insulted.

Lying on the floor is my kill for the night. 55 boxes of 12 inhalers each. 660 inhalers. That ought to keep Dr. Scully busy for a while.

"So Mulder, how're you gonna tell her you got these?"

He grins. "She's not gonna ask. She knows better."

"Isn't she gonna figure out we didn't go drinking?"

"Yeah, but I didn't take the kids, so as long as I get home by 4, I'm golden."

"What time's it?" I took my watch off before I went in the tunnels.

"12:30."

Even if we get out of here in the next half hour, unless we drive like maniacs-and don't get caught-no way are we gonna make it to Virginia by 4 a.m.

Langly and I look at each other and grin.

Yep, he's been banished to the sofa again.

I think the prof calls it poetic justice.
 

We can't hear shit down here, so we got no way of knowing if the coast is clear. So we hang for about another hour, just to make sure.

Not exactly my idea of a great Saturday night.

"I wanna go home." Langly's whining like a tired little kid.

"We all wanna go home," Mulder reminds him. He doesn't look so cool as he did before.

I mean, before there was only the possibility of getting caught, shot at, or put in prison for the rest of our natural lives.

Now he's got a real problem. He's gonna be late, and he's gonna have to explain it to his wife.

I'm just so happy he has to do this.

"By the way, Junior, you done good," Mulder says.

"Yeah, you did okay," Langly adds.

You got to be kidding...I got a compliment from these guys?!

This is like just too weird.

But I'm still happy that Mulder's gonna get it from Dr. Scully.

Or not get it, it looks like.

Tee hee.
 

September 1, 2001

"Hey, guys. Get the fuck outta my van."

"Say what?" I slept just about the whole way back from NJ. I didn't think I was gonna be able to-I got pretty damn rattled there-but when we got back in the van, I realized I was so beat...

And at least being asleep, I didn't notice the smell so much.

"You're home. Hurry up. I'm late."

"Hell of a way to say thank you," Langly mutters at him as we crawl out.

I punch in the security code for the gate as we watch the Muldervan peel out. He's such a wussy compared to his wife. You should see her in action. NASCAR tried to recruit her once, but she scared all the other drivers.

We stagger into the house, it's only got a couple low lights on, and I stumble down to the dungeon.

Kelly's fast asleep, and as soon as I fall in beside her, so am I.
 

LANGLY:

God, I feel like shit. My hangover's gone, but my cold got way worse.

I need some disinfectant.

"Hey, Ally." She's folding up some laundry. Least I think it's her. I'm still in bed and I don't have my glasses on.

"Oh my God, it's alive!"

"Barely. Ally, I need some Bloodys."

"We don't have any vodka."

"Whaddya mean, no vodka?"

"Babe, I keep what people normally drink, and vodka's not on the list."

"Vodka's a staple. Like milk."

"Since when?"

"Since I needed some."

"Langly. We only have vodka for parties when we have people who drink it, and anyway, Bloodys are for breakfast."

"It's breakfast time."

"In whose universe? It's four in the afternoon."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. I was thinking about it being cocktail time, only I was thinking more along the lines of afternoon cocktails."

"Wow. Four o'clock and she's still stone cold sober."

"Langly, I've really been trying. I don't start until five. Period. I've done okay with it." She's kind of huffy. "Besides, I noticed I wasn't the one who decided I didn't get enough carbs with my breakfast yesterday!"

Okay, okay, she's right. Damn.

"You planning to get up today?" She asks me.

I think about that one. It's already four o'clock. I'm not gonna get anything done. And there's no vodka in the house.

"Nah, I think I'll just go back to sleep."

"Hope you're not planning to be like this every weekend," she says as she's stuffing things in drawers.

"Jesus, Ally, cut me a break, would ya? It was a real bad night, I feel like shit-"

She holds up her hands like, truce already. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I know you're sick. I'll leave you alone."

She just kind of slips out, and I fall back into the world of the dead again.

I think right now I like it here better.
 

MICHAEL:

I feel something on my lips...I think they're Kelly's lips.

"Michael. Get up. You need to go see your dad."

"Later."

"Michael, it's after four."

"WHAT?! Oh shit. I got a ton of stuff to do, why'd you let me sleep so long?"

"You could've gotten up whenever you wanted, you know."

"You could've gotten me up sooner." I'm annoyed at her. I really didn't need to sleep this long.

"Well, you looked tired."

"Yeah, well, Kel, I'm always tired, doesn't make any difference."

"Michael...I have to tell you something."

"What?" I can feel my stomach knot up hard.

"Um...well...I haven't gotten my period yet."

Oh shit. "When're you due?"

"Anytime from Friday on...I mean, sometimes I go out 34 or 35 days, so we've still got like another week...I'm kind of scared."

Not half as scared as you just made me, Kelly.

"You feel like you're gonna get it?"

She shakes her head, and it's not like she's saying, yeah, sure.

She sounds like she's gonna cry. "You know, it's like...I thought I wanted a baby...and I still do...and now that it could happen, I'm so scared..."

So I do the only thing a Frohike can do.

I go over and wrap my arms around her. "Hey, don't cry, okay?" Please.

"Michael, what are we gonna do?" Now she is crying, not real hard, but she's having a hard time keeping it out.

What are we gonna do?

If she's pregnant...oh Christ. What the hell in God's name would I do?

We got no money. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I'd have to find a way to deal with that. That means, I got to find a job that pays real cash...

Lots of luck, Frohike. No degree, and you got a record. Which you came close to adding to last night. And I don't think B&E is a skill you want to list on your resume.

But I do know one thing. I would marry her. I really would. No way would I make her do this by herself. Somehow, maybe, we'd muddle through.

"Kel, I'd marry you."

She looks at me. "You still would?"

"I would."

She locks her arms around me, hard, and I just snuggle into her.

"But you still gotta go to med school."

"I wasn't going to not go. No matter what."

I would do these things. I'd figure it out.

But I'm praying to God I don't have to. Not yet.

For one thing, it would involve telling Dad...

And that would probably do him in.

I just pray she gets her period. Soon would be real good.
 

BYERS:

My father left as suddenly as he came. We had breakfast again, this time in our apartment, which Juliet and I made for him. He completed eating, stood up, and announced that he had a car waiting for him, and he needed to leave.

We watched as he said goodbye hastily and walked out.

I really wanted to thank him for coming, for being there, for helping Martha...

For just being my father for a change.

But he wouldn't have tolerated that.

"You okay?" Juliet puts an arm around my waist.

"I'm fine."

"You're looking pretty down there."

"I'm okay."

We showed him our house that we're buying. He made no comment, and his only gesture was a mild shake of the head.

I don't know how she did it, but Juliet was very pleasant and charming to him all weekend, even when he was grilling her, which was frequently. She kept her tongue in, and she even managed to soften him slightly towards her.

Whether or not he actually approves of her, I have no idea. And it doesn't matter. Whether he likes it or not, in seven weeks, she'll be my wife.

But I think something in me wants him to be happy about this. I want him so much to say, I like her, I want you to be happy...

Dream on.

I really hope he'll come to the wedding, but I have no guarantee of that. We've given him the date, and he's received an invitation.

I hope he'll respond. Somehow, I don't think he'll do that. I think he'll come if there is nothing else that requires his attention...perhaps.

At least I found out he's talking to Kat again...not much, but even a little bit helps. The fact that he's even communicating with her is a surprise. Apparently they had a very ugly argument during my illness, which resulted in their alienation from one another.

And Kat's always had a better feel for him than I do.

In the meantime, I have preparations for tomorrow, and we have packing galore to accomplish, since we're moving in the next two weeks.

I look at Juliet. We're sitting outside in what passes for a common area of the building. It's pleasant enough, and there's plenty of late afternoon sunlight falling on Juliet...

Who looks positively radiant. She is always beautiful, but today, she is just shining. Watching the light fall on her hair, the sparkle in her eyes...

Packing and preparation will just have to wait.
 

FROHIKE:

I got dragged out of bed and forced to walk today.

Thought I was going to die.

I'm sick of being away from my home, from my familiar things, from work. I'm sick of being in pain. I'm even sick of the drugs-I never thought I'd say that about Demerol, but I'd just like to be well enough to do without it.

About the only thing saving my sanity is my new private duty nurse.

I would really prefer to get to know her under better circumstances. And while I've never been much for fashion, I think I do better than the regulation smock they offer here.

"Mel, do you need a backrub?"

I hope I heard this correctly.

"Uh...yes." I'm not certain this is what I need...but I'm certainly willing to give it a try.

Trying to flip over is miserable. I'm stiff and all the incision sites are still uncomfortable.

The pain starts evaporating when I feel her gentle hands position me. I can feel her unfastening the ties on my smock and pushing the errant garment away from my shoulders. I can feel goosebumps rising on my exposed flesh.

And when she starts working muscles and tendons, I can feel something else rise as well...

And here I was worried that this might have been something that became nonoperational throughout the illnesses and surgeries.

Silly me.
 

MARTHA:

He has wonderful skin. Warm and surprisingly soft to the touch. There are a few acne scars littering his back, but to me, it just adds to the character of him, makes him that much more real and human to me.

For a smallish man, he has surprisingly broad shoulders. I get the impression they carry a lot of weight. For everyone.

That's going to have to change somewhat if he's to get well. He's going to have to let people do some of their own worrying.

I think this will be difficult for him. He seems to be such a deeply caring, tender man, that letting go of the problems of people around him is likely to be a challenge.

He seems calmer today than he's been. He is obviously still in some pain, but the flashes of temper seem to be stilled today.

Then again, he hasn't gotten a visit from his son.

That boy could aggravate Mother Teresa-and she's dead.

Still, I confess to a peculiar affection with the child. I realize he's 25 years old-confirmed by his father-but to me, he seems still so juvenile in so many ways.

And in many ways, he's very, very much like his father. That much is obvious. The speech, the gestures, the mannerisms, the attitude-they all deeply reflect the man who fathered him.

Perhaps this is why the boy pushes his buttons so effectively. I've never had children, and didn't want to have them, but from what I gather, they're extremely adept at finding the hot buttons of their parents and pressing them repeatedly.

And while I'm hardly one to be able to comment in the parenting department from a practical point of view, I do think he should perhaps lighten up on the boy a bit. Michael is obviously an affectionate child, and he seems to care deeply what his father thinks of him. It's good that Dad has high expectations for him, but I think he should perhaps acknowledge his son's
tenderness a little more often. The boy is trying to help and show his love for his father.

This is the only thing that has kept me from strangling him thus far.

And I get the feeling the father is just as aggravating at times.

He shudders. "Did I hurt you?" I ask him. I don't think he needs more pain.

"No." The voice is soft, muffled into the pillow. "Feels nice."

I work his back until I can feel all the fibers relaxing, melting from coils to soft lines. As I do this, he seems to slip into a deep state of relaxation. And this without another dose of morphine, which he is actually nearly ready for.

If I could get him to sleep comfortably without morphine, that would be real progress.

And if I could get him to sleep with me, that would be...

Wonderful.

END OF PART 39