Date sent: Tue, 17 Jun 1997 22:02:08 +0000 From: Karen Shimizu This is my first posted story, and I can't be reached at my email address until September 1st so I hope that all goes well. Title: Believe the Lie- (whose?) (1/1) Author: Shmoo Rating: Classification: Spoilers: Gethsemane Keywords: Character dies Summary: Post-episode speculation of what "Believe the Lie" REALLY meant.. disclaimer: no harm meant. please don't hurt me. "BELIEVE THE LIE"-whose? by Shmoo (kshimizu@sps.edu) As she closed the door marked "Conference Room" softly behind her, it was all she could do to keep control of herself. She eliminated the lingering tears from her face with a savage swipe of her knuckles, savoring their harsh rasp on her damp skin. Eyes resolutely on the neutral-colored carpet of the Federal building, she walked quietly, and quickly, out of the building. Avoiding all eye-contact, for fear it would shatter her precariously maintained composure, she ignored the guards at the door as she stepped into the open air of the street. It had taken all of her powers of concentration to deliver her testimony to the various assemblage of Government personages, goodies, baddies, and uninterested/uninvolved alike. For the most part she'd been fine. Cool. Distanced. Professional. She could hardly afford to be otherwise. Mulder's case was a highly sensitive one, and how she presented it was going to effect her audience's opinion of herself as much as Mulder. Every variation of her pitch and tone of her voice, every subtle change in posture was calculated to fit the precise impression she meant to leave with the committee. That she had, throughout her ambiguous relationship to Mulder, maintained a strictly professional distance from the man, and focused on their shared occupation. That her reports on the quality of his work were candid, unclouded by feelings, honest, in short that they would in no way contradict the nature of her given testimony. Still furious at herself for loosing it at the end, for allowing those few salty tears to betray her, she could only hope that they thought that she'd simply been overwhelmed with emotion. After all, it wasn't everyday that your partner of four years literally bit the bullet. The truth of the matter was of course- well, the truth was another matter entirely. Feeling a lump in her throat like tears, Scully ran for the parking lot. Not in public, if she could help it. Her breath came quick and shallow as she clawed at her car-keys. Insert keys, open door, insert Scully, close the door and- She dissolved completely. Peals of her laughter rocked the car, she wrapped her slight frame around the steering column and tried to still shrill humor spilling from her mouth. Ten minutes later, hands on the dashboard, palms flat against the modeled plastic, she stopped to breathe. Irony was amusing when it presented itself thus. That her final act of service to Mulder, the man who in himself was dedication to the Truth incarnate should be one flawless, stunning, immaculate Lie... "God," she breathed, reached for a Kleenex to dry her now hopelessly tear streaked complexion. Well, almost flawless, she amended. The tears were troubling, but still... They had to have believed her. Her entire testimony had smacked of her uninvolvement when in truth... She half-hiccoughed, half-sighed into her Kleenex. She wasn't quite sure what the truth was, anymore. ** The truth was, perhaps, that he had hurt her for the last time. The absolute callousness in his response to her muted accusation - *this was all for you, this is all your fault* - was the end of it, as far as she was concerned. That he could just turn his back and walk away from her like that had chilled her to the core. Cut her off. She had hoped for, expected, something more, some definite response to the suggestion that he was responsible- however indirectly- for her cancer. What exactly were her expectations? Nothing much, she'd thought. An unfolding of them both- she was ready to be open with him-finally- if he'd showed some of the some inclination. Emotion. A mere physical display of some small feeling for her would have been enough. But he'd had none. He cared that little. Back at her apartment that evening, she sat, shivering, bruised and battered from her fall down the stairs, wrapped in a wool blanket, striving to feel some sort of warmth. Was she in shock? Perhaps. But she was chilled all the way through, no amount herbal-tea sipping or arm-rubbing restored the life to her blood. She'd found a remedy eventually. ** He'd answered her muffled knock- she was wearing gloves- at a bit past midnight. As soon as he opened the door, she'd known what she needed to make her warm again. At the sight of his tear-streaked face, his expression of relief as he opened the door, a blush of warmth flushed her face, spreading deliciously down her neck to the rest of her body. He was sorry. He cared- he'd been waiting for her. But then, horribly, he'd seemed to look behind her, past her, beyond her. As she walked underneath his arm holding the door open she noticed the taped "X" on the window. She turned back to where he was closing the door. "Why bother?" her tone was frosted over. She was cold again. "You said he was dead, didn't you?" Cold, cold to the core. She thrust her hands into her coat pockets, coming into contact with cold things. Keys, some loose change, her ID and wallet. "Yeah," he didn't meet her eyes. "But someone else has been watching. A woman. I thought it might work." A woman. Had she known this before? Still cold. She shivered visibly. He made no effort to approach her. Hands deeper into her pockets. Something else there. Her gun. "Why?" she tried to catch his eyes. Make him look at her- see how cold she was, perhaps provoke some gesture of commiseration. No such luck. "Scully, I-" he stopped. Walked deliberately over to the couch, sat down. She could see his face working with some indefinite emotion. Sorrow, fear and a little- what?- shame. She felt suddenly sorry, as though she were the cause of his uncertainty, and pulled her hands out of her pockets and stripped them of her gloves. She sat down next to him and took his hands in hers. "Scully you're cold," he exclaimed at the touch of her skin against hers. He massaged her hands gently, trying to work warmth into them. She was warmed, a little, less by the brush of his heated hands on hers than by the gesture itself. An indication of what was lacking earlier? She warned herself not to look too hard for what wasn't there. But she still felt obliged to make him feel a little better. After all, he was her friend. Wasn't he? "Why are you trying to contact her?" She caught his gaze and held it. She let him see her hurt, behind the formidable chill in her eyes. She still trusted him. " I don't understand. Can't we talk about this without some mysterious informant distorting things?" That was the best way, even if he didn't care for her, he trusted her. Understood her. Better than even her own family did. "Maybe what I was told was... inaccurate. Possibly another lie, calculated to distract us from the body you found. I don't know... But Mulder-" he blinked, his face absolutely neutral. "we *can* talk about this. Okay?" They *had* to talk about it. "I- don't know Scully.." he stopped again. His hands continued working hers distractedly. But he looked inexplicably sorrowful as he dropped his gaze to her small hands in his own. She stared at his downcast eyes, the light from the TV flickering soft light across his tired visage, and tried to decipher his uncommunicative demeanor. He was never this elusive. He had no reason not to tell her what was on his mind unless.. unless he had stopped trusting her. As if reading her mind, he dropped her hands, lightly, and closed his eyes against her still searching gaze. She watched his Adam's apple ripple as he swallowed against whatever emotion was rising in his throat. One hand came up to his forehead. "Scully." She held her breath. "I don't think that we can talk about this one." Ice pierced her heart. She backed away from him on the couch. "I don't know if we can really talk any more at all-" his voice broke and he swallowed again, harshly this time. She heard the tears bleeding at the ragged edges of his voice, and dreaded his next words. She didn't want to hear what he had to say, didn't want to *talk* anymore, but there was nowhere to go. And he didn't stop. His mouth parted and he took a breath deep enough to sustain his next statement. He opened his eyes to take in hers, she watched as his gaze saddened at what he saw. Her hands were white, knuckles stretching her skin, the hands clutched at each other as her world dropped from beneath her. "Dana. I don't know if I trust you anymore." Cold, so cold. She slid off the couch and lurched ungracefully towards where she knew his bathroom was. ** She was at the sink, before the mirror. "Trust," she murmured. Her reflection was blurry, somehow, when she tried to see herself. "Trust no one." The words were empty. Hollow. Melodramatic. Pathetic. She held the basin, sought to feel it's cool ceramic exterior against her palms. "No trust." She felt nothing. She blasted the hot water, and when the steam billowed up from the drain her stuck her hands under the spray and held them there. Breathe. She was utterly and completely numb. She saw his gun lying on top of a pile of his clothes beside the bathtub. ** When she walked in the next morning to identify his body, she'd kept a hold of her numbness. She kept her expression blank as she'd entered the apartment, calmly absorbing the information fed to her by the police. "No sign of a break in-" "No prints to speak of, just his own on the gun." His gun. A man in uniform lifted the sheet and she winced in spite of the numbness. His face was- well, it wasn't. She took her time to survey the rest of what was left of Mulder, long enough to be certain- as if there was any doubt- that it was him. The hands, large but delicate, cradling his gore-encrusted firearm. His clothes, blood-spattered and disheveled from a night spent at the foot of the couch on the floor. The lean, lanky body, folded upon itself, sprawling in an awkward tangle at her feet. Had he been on his knees when she pulled the trigger? The hair, slightly unkempt as always, stiffer and stained a darker shade where the blood had dried. She felt tears spring unexpectedly to her eyes as she considered his missing face, vision touching on the missing ridges and valleys that she knew had been tear-streaked, numb, like her own, watching the silent television as the gun exploded in his mouth. She recoiled suddenly from the body, nodded curtly - yes, it's *Him*-, and quickly turned to leave. ** As the door slammed behind her, the officer in charge shook his head in sympathy. A uniform looked a question at him. "They were partners," he explained. ** He put in an old video to reaffirm his faith in his beliefs. *Someone* wanted to believe, he told himself, even if Scully didn't. Not that her faith in the existence of E.T.s was the issue. Somewhere along the line, it seemed, she'd lost faith in him, and turned elsewhere for her answers. Which in itself was acceptable, but why did he feel so betrayed? "Scully?" He turned as she walked in from the bathroom. She had his gun. He looked at her face and what he saw there convinced him that he had misread her. Badly. ** The television continued to play, a charade of images blurred the screen, unattended. Her breath was hollow and the gun pushed his lips apart like the tears pushing his lids apart to sweep silently down his face. She shut the door softly behind her, and locked it with the spare key he had given her. She went home to shower, and sleep. And prepare for the report she would be expected to make before the end of the week. ** Sitting in her car, she told herself, she'd done remarkably well. No one knew. No one would suspect. The numbness had become bearable, after a time. As she started the car and headed home, she smirked again at the impeccable quality of her delivery. What was the truth worth if trust was forever compromised? Believe the Lie. ** -SHMOO