Guardian Angel
by Lee Burwasser

Feedback: lee46b@gateway.net

 

He had a terrible headache. All he could think was *Stupid, stupid ass! She's gonna be SO mad!* He'd been stupid, and now he was lost, his phone battery was dead, and his head hurt horribly.

He stumbled on, crashing through underbrush he could hardly see through the swirling snow. The wind wasn't really strong, but it gusted from every quarter. At least the snow was melting instead of sticking when it hit the ground.

He tripped over something and fell full length. He had to get up. He had to get up and keep moving, headache or no headache. No matter how much easier it would be to lie here and not move. He should get up right away . . . right away . . .

Someone coming, crashing through the underbrush. He should call. His head was merely throbbing now. He rolled over, and the spikes of agony returned. He whimpered; he couldn't call out. Now the snow was blowing in his face.

A figure loomed out of the blowing snow. He tried to call again, got a raspy sound. The figure didn't hear him; it kept staring about, but was walking past! He wailed in desperation.

Thank all of Scully's saints, the figure turned toward him. It stood over him, cried "Mulder!" in Scully's voice and turned back the way she had come, calling, "He's here! Halloo! He's here!" No response to her calls; presumably there was a search party out there somewhere, but distance and wind muffled her voice. She pulled out a cell phone and dialed, then put it back with a muttered imprecation.

She knelt beside him, spreading her wings over him. Probably reflex on her part; with the wind gusting from all directions, they couldn't keep the snow off. It blew under them. She checked his vitals and turned to halloo again. She stayed turned, sitting back on her heels, wings half-spread, listening for . . . anything.

Something crashed through the underbrush from the opposite direction. She whirled back to face the noise, kneeling up with her weapon drawn, wings mantling like that swan at Oxford. Don't tease the swans; they're agressive in nesting season. *And that's not a cygnet, it's a SIG Saur.* He giggled at his own wit. Her wings arched from her ramrod spine, framing her braced, unwavering arms.

More crashing in the underbrush, and out of the swirling snow came a dog. Had they called out rescue dogs? No, just somebody's dog wandering loose. Wandering and wondering what he'd found here. He sniffed suspiciously and stood well out of reach.

She lowered her weapon and called, "Come, boy. Come on." She cooed and clucked and patted her knee, but the dog clearly had reservations about approaching. She folded her wings to look smaller and less aggressive, and went on clucking and patting her knee, trying to coax the creature to her.

Finally the dog came close enough to sniff her hand. Moving slowly and quietly, she stroked his head and finally took him by the collar. She tied something -- a handkerchief? -- to the collar, muttering "Increase our chances," just loud enough for Mulder to overhear. Then she called, "Go home, boy! Home!" She clapped her hands and called again, "Home! Go home!"

Man's Best Friend didn't get it, though. After being so skittish in approaching, now he just stood looking at her. She tried "Basket!" for some reason, but that didn't work either. "Speak, then! Speak, boy! Speak!" Nothing. Finally she unfurled her wings and beat them once, hard. That got through; the dog headed back the way he came.

Her wings drooped slightly as she looked back at Mulder with a sigh. "Oh, Mulder. What am I going to do with you?"

*Hold me?*

And she did, both arms wrapped around him and one wing laid along his body like an Egyptian guardian goddess. Her feathers were soft and warm. He knew they would feel silky if he were in any state to feel that. The pain went far, far away. After a while there was far-away crashing through the underbrush, and far-away voices shouting. But he was safe under her wing.

He was safe.

He was warm.

He was loved.

 

 


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