Chapter Text
The first few days are the hardest. He can’t thermoregulate at all; the medication makes him feel like he’ll never be warm again, shivering and rubbing his feet under a mountain of hospital blankets, desperately curled into a ball until the fever finally spikes again. Then he’s sweating everywhere: the crooks of his knees, all over his scalp, the entire length of his spine and down his ass, and there’s no relief for it. The nurses wouldn’t let him press himself against the cold tile or the off-white walls. The tiny cups of ice water they bring him do nothing. The IV they’ve got in his arm, the one they’ve got padded and wrapped so he can’t see it, he’s sure it’s important but between that and the fever he gets to needing to piss something fierce, and they offered him a catheter but no thank you sir, he could make the walk to the bathroom just fine, IV pole and all, even if he has to get up and go every hour when the medication starts to wear off.
Sometimes he wants to say the worst part is seeing his name everywhere: wristband, bedside, medications. Edward Funsch, 17/03/44, male. Makes him feel anonymous, oddly. Like if they didn’t write his name everywhere, he wouldn’t even have one.
It’s not the worst part, though. The worst part is the blood.
He barely remembers the first time they come to take it. They tell him there’s a second IV in him, a second place something’s stabbing his vein besides where the fluid is running in, and they’re gonna use it to take his blood out.
He knows he panicked. God, he’s so ashamed of how badly he’s acted. The nurse had been so nice, and he’d lashed right out. He doesn’t remember much after that, though. They tell him afterwards that they put something in the line his fluids are going in, that’s why he got so foggy, and that he didn’t have a chance to really hurt the poor young lady. He doesn’t know if he believes them.
And bad reaction or not, they keep coming back for more. Every day, over and over again. They call it “taking samples” after that. Something about making sure they don’t go too far with his medication. He looks away, and they strap his arms and ankles now, and then they take the wrap off. It doesn’t hurt but he knows, he knows what they’re doing, he just doesn’t know what a person could want with so much blood.
Ed doesn’t know how many days pass before he gets his guests; he hopes only a few. It’s been hard enough to keep track of time this past while. Now, with nothing to do but sweat and shiver and try not to piss the bed, it’s damn near impossible.
One of the nurses opens the door to let herself in, and he tries to smile. She smiles back, and maybe that’s a good sign.
“Ed, dear, you have visitors.” She runs an eye over his machines, but they’re still humming away. The sound is nice, in a way. Soothing. “I know you’re a little fuzzy. Do you remember the agents that... well, the ones who had you brought to us?” Now she’s running her eyes over his face, and that anonymity creeps in again, the feeling that he’s just another one of the machines in this room that they have to keep running.
He does remember, though. He tries to nod, and when she tilts her head at him, he tries again. She smiles. Even if he’s not a person, it’s still a kind smile, and so he smiles back.
“Can I...” His throat is sore, and a bit raspy, like he’s run too far or some such. He coughs, and she hands him one of those tiny cups of ice water, and he tries again. “Thank you, miss. May I have a couple minutes, before you let them in?” He drops his eyes. Ed is not an immodest man. These things are hard for him. But the nurse gives a little hm that doesn’t sound too put out, and nudges his IV pole closer to the bed.
“When you’re done, just come open your door, mister Funsch.” She pats his bed twice before turning to go. “And don’t you worry. I won’t let them stay too long.” He’s nodding at her retreating back, he knows, but he’s still grateful. No one’s dignified in a johnny shirt, but as long as he can at least wipe his face and use the facilities, he’ll feel a little more human. And he’s got a cardigan here, even looks like one of his own, and shrugging it over his shoulders helps a load.
When they finally come in, he’s almost surprised. The woman is pretty, very pretty, and the look on her face is whipcrack smart, the kind of smart he’s never been. He thinks he’s seen her before. He’s got no idea why he wouldn’t remember someone like that, though, and may this affliction of his be thrice-cursed if it’s the reason. The man is... well, Ed supposes, he’s not exactly a small man, but he remembers him being so much... larger. With a big heavy brow, and blazing dark eyes. The fellow that walks in is just that, a regular fellow, with a long coat and short hair and a very normal brow indeed.
“Mister Funsch. Ed.” The man leads, which seems odd to Ed, because he’d bet his favourite sweater that this guy’s not the smart one. But the man is looking at him expectantly, and so Ed nods.
“Hello,” he replies, because whether he’s in a hospital or on Capitol Hill, he was still raised with manners. “And hello, miss.” He gives a second small nod to the woman in black next to him, and is relieved when she smiles back, tipping her head to him as well.
“Hello, Ed.” She’s not looking at the machines yet, and his heart is suddenly very, very lonely for someone who knows his name. “My name’s Dana Scully, Ed. Do you remember me?” So he has seen her before. He tries not to let it show on his face, but well, maybe he fails or maybe she’s just that smart after all. “It’s ok if you don’t. I wouldn’t expect you to. You were in pretty bad shape, last time I saw you.”
“I bet you remember me, though,” the man next to her murmurs.
“Don’t know as I caught your name though, if I’m to be honest.” Oh, this is embarrassing. He knows what he did. And when the man introduces himself as an agent of the FBI, one Fox Mulder, he knows that he’s not wrong that this is the man he met in the tower, where he... well. And he’s grateful that this man stopped him, no matter how silly it is to have a first name like Fox, and he owes him a whole lot right now.
It’s not a bad visit, all told. It’s also not a long one. Dana – that is, agent Scully – is very clear in explaining to him how things have been unfolding since he ended up in this bed. He’d spent a short while heavily sedated in Seneca’s emergency department before they’d had him moved all the way across the state to this place, an internal medicine facility in Philadelphia. (He’s never been to Philadelphia before.) Among other things, they’re trying to modify treatment used for people with Cushion’s disease, which Ed knows nothing about, but agent Scully keeps talking as if it’s obvious and so Ed keeps quiet and listens, polite as he knows how. They don’t know how much damage has been done, she tells him, or how long this LSD will continue to affect his body. (Ed has never used LSD before, not really been one for drugs, generally – and he has no idea why anyone would do this to themselves willingly, if this is what it’s like.)
Unfortunately, if there’s one thing Ed does know, it’s that medicine doesn’t come cheap, and fancy university centres don’t exactly give discounts. When his wife Madeline got sick... well. It was a good thing he’d still had a job, and they’d had insurance, and it had still used up pretty near all their savings. Now? Well.
Well.
It takes him a few tries to ask, squirming uncomfortably on his bed. It’s rude to talk money, and he should be nothing but grateful to these people, but he’s got to know. Agent Fox gives him this funny, smug little smile though when he finally starts to get it out, and it strikes him all of a sudden. If agent Scully is the smart one, he thinks this agent Fox must be the brazen one.
“You see, Ed,” agent Fox tells him, “this company that sold the LSDM, well, they did a very bad thing. It could be a major disaster for them – lawsuits, possibly legal repercussions for the people at the top, all sorts. They were more than happy to have a choice in how they paid for their mistake.” Agent Scully huffs a small laugh next to him. She shakes her head, but Ed doesn’t get the impression she’s angry at all. “Every last dime of your treatment, any rehabilitation you need, any bills you have because of this is on them. Fancy drugs, private room costs... if the doctors say you need a two-week vacation in Bermuda? It’s yours.”
“Oh .” For a minute, all he can do is blink. Agent Fox raises an expectant eyebrow at him though, and he manages to add a small, “That’s very generous.”
“Hardly,” scoffs agent Scully. “They sold poison that drove people mad with terror, and caused the deaths of dozens of people. They’re going to pay for every last thing you need, and the same for every other person exposed to this substance, and they’ll be lucky if they don’t get their asses sued anyway .” Boy, her face can be scary. She must still be reading him, because that sharp edge comes out of her tone, but it’s like a tiger’s teeth – you know they’re still there. “Moreover, I intend to speak with your medical team about a therapy component for your treatment. And if you decide that Franklin is not for you – if you want to relocate after this, somewhere that you don’t have to face the trauma you’ve been through every day – then the cost of resettlement will be paid for, too.”
And there he goes, blinking again.
Agent Fox looks over at her. It’s a kindness, pretending he doesn’t see the way Ed is trying not to choke up.
“But... but what I did .” Ed holds a hand to his face, tips his head to the side like he can hide, hopes he can hold it together. Everything’s so much. It’s all been so much . “I hurt people, agent... uh...”
“Mulder.”
“I even bought a gun to do it! You saw me, you saw , I – I think I killed people.” And the hand doesn’t help, and there’s a tear on his face now. He’s not a violent man. He’s never been a violent man! “You can’t just move me somewheres else, I did a bad thing and I’m goin’ to jail for it, I should go to jail for it, I don’t know why you’re bein’ so nice about it.”
“Ed. Look at me, Ed.” Agent Scully’s voice is calm. Quiet. She’s not even afraid of him. He doesn’t know how he does, but he manages to at least look at her shoulder, the creamy colour of the hospital wall behind it. “You were poisoned. People you should have been able to trust poisoned you. What happened wasn’t you, Ed. It wasn’t you.” She stands up and walks over to the foot of his bed, and he looks up at her and sees the conviction on her features. He wants to argue, but he hasn’t been at such a loss for words since his Madeline died.
Behind her, agent Mulder also stands. “Look, Mr Funsch. We see a lot of bad things, and we fight a lot of hard fights. It’s not often we get to help the people caught in the crossfire.” Agent Scully reaches into her dark coat, and pulls out two little white bits of card stock. Her face is calm as she hands them to him.
“If they give you trouble, if anyone tries to take any of this away from you, you give us a call, Ed.” His hand is shaky as he takes the proffered cards. The fragile smile on his face is genuine.
Ed knows it is impolite to be too effusive in one’s gratitude, so it’s a good thing most of his tongue is still lodged in his throat, making it hard to speak. He manages to squeak out a few thank yous and well-wishes as they take their leave of him, and then he is alone in his hospital room, his own familiar cardigan over his shoulders.
His free, private hospital room.
It’s good of them to keep a box of tissues in the room, so he can try to staunch the tears flowing freely down his face. His life has been such a nightmare, lately. He thinks maybe, just maybe... it might start to be okay.