From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 21 Aug 2007 20:30:22 -0000
Subject: New:  Whiteout, Post-Ep, PG-13 (Book Two) by Paige Caldwell-Hunt
Source: direct

Reply To: paigec38@yahoo.com


TITLE:       Whiteout (Book Two)
AUTHORS:     Paige Caldwell-Hunt 
RATING:      PG-13
CATS/KEYS:   MSR, Post-Ep for "Darkness Falls"
SUMMARY:     I woke to the sound of a single 
gunshot... 
SPOILERS:    Season One
DISCLAIMER:  This is a not-for-profit undertaking
FEEDBACK:    If you enjoyed it, let me know!
             paigec38@yahoo.com
WEBSITES:    http://www.iwtbxf.com/paige             

NOTES:       This is going to be a series of stories, 
             Each book will be posted in its entirety.
 

Book Two


"We only found one cocoon."

"It's a big forest."

"Look, Scully, what would you have done?"

"You mean, would I have made a decision by myself that 
would have affected the whole group?"

"Oh, will you cut the sanctimonious crap?"

"Well, what do you want me to say? Let's face it, 
Mulder, we might die up here! If we're lucky, they'll 
find our bodies spun up in a tree or they may not find 
us at all!"




I woke with a jerk, so disoriented that at first, I 
didn't know where I was.  I glanced at my partner who 
was asleep in the seat beside me.  I then remembered 
that we were on a Boeing 747 on route to D.C.  Three 
weeks ago, Mulder had promised me a nice trip in the 
forest. I ended up being cocooned with "Ranger Rick" 
in the back seat of a jeep. No wonder he'd upgraded us 
up to First Class out of his own pocket.  It was the 
least he could do after jeopardizing my life over a 
bunch of mutated bedbugs. 

Granted, the wood mites weren't your garden-variety 
type of insect. They were the microscopic equivalent 
of a certain FBI agent who siphoned trust from his 
partner to keep his own motor running. It was a wonder 
that there was anything left worth cocooning. 

Perhaps the mites had developed a taste for trauma.  
Maybe they took a nibble at my post-traumatic stress 
and rang the dinner bell.  I certainly had plenty to 
share.  Lately, my subconscious wasn't able to contain 
my night terror.   It was spilling over into my daily 
life. 

Fortunately, I was also getting better at hiding it. I 
invested in a full line of Estee Lauder cosmetics, 
including a portable compact that guaranteed a sun-
kissed glow.  Instead of arriving at our office early, 
I made sure that I was fashionably late.  My imaginary 
therapist was available only during regular business 
hours.  Mulder was more likely to believe any lie that 
gave him first dibs on our desk. 

Suddenly, the plane began to rise and fall in a 
swaying motion the reminded me of a rollercoaster.  I 
grabbed my partner's arm.  I'm not sure what startled 
him awake, the turbulence of the jet or the shaking of 
my hand.  Either way, he stared at me with such 
incredulity that I knew that I was about to take a 
nosedive, not the plane. 

I slid my hand back to my own armrest and gripped it 
tightly.  "So, tell me again what causes turbulence," 
I entreated, hoping to redirect him into one of his 
longwinded dissertations. 

My efforts were in vain.  His fingers circled my wrist 
like a handcuff as he lifted my quivering hand up for 
inspection.  "You lied to me, Scully," he accused.  
"You haven't been to therapy, have you?"

It seemed like a good time to exercise my Fifth 
Amendment right. 

"I can't believe that you, a medical doctor, are not 
taking this seriously," Mulder berated.  "Post 
Traumatic Stress Disorder just doesn't go away."

I leaned into the aisle to scan for the nearest 
bathroom.  Despite the turbulence, I needed a safe 
haven to pace, even if there was only 18 inches 
between the toilet and the sink. "Excuse me," I 
flagged down a flight attendant. "Is it okay for me to 
use the restroom?" 

"I'm sorry," the woman said, flashing Mulder a smile 
before frowning at me.  "The Captain has instructed 
all passengers to remain in their seats."

I watched her sashay up the aisle. "Someone you know, 
Mulder?"
 
"What makes you think that?" he asked, practically 
crawling over my lap to get a better look. 

"She's a brunette with long legs," I tossed out 
casually.  "She also just happens to be wearing a 
'South of the Border' button on her lapel."

"All circumstantial," Mulder stretched his arms over 
his head and continued, "Which is exactly what we 
cannot say about you at this moment."

"No, the farthest south I've ever been is Houston," I 
said. "They have a really nice field office there."

"When were you in Houston?"

I ignored his question and kept talking, "Great 
restaurants, a Galleria that has Saks Fifth Avenue and 
a ice skating rink."

"Is this your way of telling me that you're putting in 
for a transfer?" he asked.    

I folded my hands neatly on my lap and looked him 
squarely in the face. "It's my way of telling you to 
back off, Mulder," I said.  "That is, of course, 
unless you'd rather find a new partner who doesn't 
give you a lot sanctimonious crap over a decision that 
risks her life."

His expression was priceless.  I regretted not having 
a camera so I could capture the moment and frame it 
next to his "I Want to Believe" poster. 

Mulder didn't speak to me for the rest of the flight.  
At the airport, he took a cab home, leaving me to bail 
our Bureau sedan out of long-term parking.  I didn't 
even care that the tab nearly maxed out my credit 
card.  I had discovered a new type of tender that was 
finally going to buy me some respect with my partner.  


***********   


Two days later, we met with Assistant Director Skinner 
for a debriefing. Our little waltz in the woods had 
come with a big price tag.  We had chewed through his 
quarterly budget faster than a swarm of aphids.  While 
Skinner acknowledged that the Federal Forest Service 
would be picking up half of the tab, he wanted to make 
sure that we were more fiscally responsible in the 
future.  In short, he was trying to rein Mulder in. 

During the meeting, I remained silent.  The fading 
burn marks on my face spoke for me.  Once again, my 
partner had exposed me to danger. The 200,000 year-old 
ice worm was bad enough.  This time, I had almost been 
mummified. While entomologists at the Smithsonian 
Institute were thrilled with our recent discoveries, 
Skinner was not. 

"It's been brought to my attention that there was a 
certain lack of communication between the two of you 
during this investigation," the Assistant Director 
said, glancing down at his paperwork.  I couldn't see 
his eyes over the sheen of his glasses, but I was sure 
his focus was on Mulder. 

"Are you referring to Agent Scully's report?"  Mulder 
asked.  "If so, I'd like an opportunity to respond on 
the record."

I resisted the urge to kick Mulder's in the shins.  
What was he doing?  I didn't put anything inflammatory 
in the report.  I even downplayed the whole incident, 
hoping that we would pass underneath Skinner's radar.  

"Agent Mulder, the report I have here is from Ranger 
Moore of the Forest Service," Skinner explained.  "He 
relates that you arbitrarily made a decision to allow 
a known felon by the name of Doug Spinney to take the 
last of your gasoline, thereby putting all of you in 
danger."

"Spinney is the one who came back for us," insisted 
Mulder.  "Without him, we'd all be dead.  Tell him, 
Scully."

"That's true, sir." I agreed.  "Spinney did save our 
lives."

Skinner took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.  
"Listen, I realize that the two of you were a 
stressful situation in which any decision could make 
the difference between life or death.  However, based 
on this report and my own observations over the past 
few months, I don't think that you're effectively 
communicating with each other."

I glanced nervously at Mulder. Was this some type of 
karmic payback for threatening to transfer to Houston?  
One didn't need to believe in Western Philosophy to 
recognize the Sanskrit on the wall.  "It's me, sir," I 
made my confession in true Catholic style.  "I haven't 
been myself lately."

All eyes were on me, Mulder's, Skinner's, Skinner's 
glasses... yes, his glasses deserved an identity of 
their own.  And, right now, I didn't like how those 
little wire rims were being adjusted to take a closer 
look. 

"Thank you, agents," Skinner said suddenly.  "That 
will be all."

Out in the hallway, I grabbed Mulder by the elbow and 
asked.  "Skinner just gave me a pass.  Why?"

"Good question," he admitted, shrugging me off. "Why 
do you think?"

"I don't know," I said.  Mulder smirked and headed 
towards the elevator.  I had to trot to keep up.  
"Wait a minute, you do know why.  Mulder, tell me."

Mulder waited until we were in our basement office.  
"Shut the door, Scully."

I kicked it shut with my foot.  "Well?"

"Where's your gun?" he asked. 

"In my handbag," I replied.  "Why?"

He walked around to our desk and yanked the bottom 
drawer open.  Pulling out my handbag, he dangled it in 
front of me.  "So, what are you going to do, Scully?  
Hit the bad guy over the head with your Louis 
Vuitton?"

"The price would certainly stun him," I joked.  My 
sense of humor didn't impress him, which was ironic 
considering that he wore designer suits while regaling 
me with bargain basement puns.   I tried a different 
tact.  "Look Mulder, I wasn't expecting to take down 
any bad guys in the Hoover Building this morning."

Mulder opened my handbag and took out my gun.  "Is it 
even loaded?"  

I refused to answer such a stupid question.  Folding 
my arms, I watched him release the magazine to see if 
it held any rounds and then snap it back into place.  
Satisfied, he held the gun out to me.

"I'm not wearing a holster," I protested, refusing to 
take the gun from him.  

Mulder grabbed my hand and forced my fingers around 
the gun.  "You want to know why Skinner gave you a 
pass?  You were assigned to the X-files to spy on me, 
remember?  If we aren't effectively communicating or 
even worse, you've lost your nerve, he has to report 
it to the men who sent you."
 
I knew exactly what he was saying.  "I'll get 
transferred," I concluded. 

"Is that what you want, Scully?" Mulder asked. "If you 
want out, if you want to get as far from me as 
possible, this is your chance."

It was a good thing that the safety pin was locked on 
my gun, because our hands were engaged in their own 
tug-of-war.  He wouldn't let go until I took the gun.  
I wasn't about to give in to his gun wrestling 
tactics. 

"Do you want me to stay?" I asked him.  "Because this 
isn't just about me, Mulder.  It's about both us being 
able to trust each other."

"Scully, in your present condition, you can't even 
trust yourself."

His gaze held mine.  Once again, we were facing off 
over a gun.  The tension between us felt like an 
overstretched rubber band.  If I didn't give, our 
partnership would break.  Taking a deep breath, I took 
the gun and carefully tucked it into the back of my 
waistband.  "I want you to help me, Mulder"

"I know a good psychologist outside the Bureau," he 
offered. 

"No," I interrupted.  "I want you to help me.  No one 
else."

"I get into people's heads," he argued.  "I don't cure 
what's going on inside."

"Trust me, Mulder," I insisted.  "You're the perfect 
person to help me get over this trauma."

"Why?"

"Because, you're the one who caused it..."


***********


Late that night, Mulder arrived at my apartment.  When 
he rang the bell, I cracked the door open. "Is this 
absolutely necessary?" I asked, eyeing his overnight 
bag with more than one misgiving.

Mulder wedged the door with the bag and reached in to 
unfasten the door chain.  "You're the one who asked 
for my help."

"That's before I knew that you made house calls," I 
objected, taking a step back as he forced his way into 
my apartment.  

Mulder closed the front door and locked it.  "To keep 
the bad guys out just in case your purse is off duty," 
he teased.  

I wasn't amused.  Arms folded, I watched Mulder stake 
out his territory on my couch.  He kicked off his 
sneakers and plopped down on the cushions. "I hope you 
don't mind if I get some sleep," he said.  "It's 
getting late."

"Mind?" My voice scaled an octave at his audacity.  
"Of course, I mind.  This is outrageous invasion of my 
privacy, Mulder."

"It's meant to be," he replied evenly.  "I seriously 
doubt that you're going to unlock your subconscious, 
even if I ask nicely."

I debated his words before going over to the hall 
closet and pulling out a guest pillow and blanket.  
"Fine," I said, throwing them on the couch.  "Now 
what?"

Mulder waved me towards my bedroom.  "You say 
goodnight and go to bed."

"That's it?" 

"Did you expect something more?" he countered. "A 
bedtime story?  I could give you my usual sendoff, but 
I must warn you that it involves bedbugs."

"Good night, Mulder."  This time, I didn't resist the 
urge to slam my bedroom door shut. 

Actually, I had anticipated a whole lot more when 
Mulder called and suggested that he spend the weekend 
with me in my one-bedroom apartment.  At the very 
least, I wanted him to look as uncomfortable as I 
felt.  But, that wasn't Mulder's style.  He was just 
as confident in jeans and a t-shirt than he was in an 
Armani suit.  Meanwhile, I had answered the door 
dressed in the most unflattering sweats that I owned, 
with my face scrubbed of all makeup and my hair back 
in a ponytail.  

I had wanted to send a signal that I wasn't interested 
in my partner. As I now tugged my hair loose and sank 
onto my bed, I realized that my slovenly efforts were 
in vain. I could have danced naked with a rose between 
my teeth and he wouldn't have noticed me.  I was too 
far down on Mulder's food chain to be considered 
remotely appetizing.  

I must have drifted off to sleep.  One minute I was 
thinking about the hierarchy of Mulder's love life and 
the next minute, I was tuned into my nightly episode 
of terror.  This time I didn't wake to the sound of a 
gunshot. I woke to the buzz of insects swarming over 
my body, feasting on my gunned-down remains. 

I screamed and began to flail my arms in an attempt to 
get the bugs off of me.  I could feel them all over my 
skin, in my hair, even in my mouth.  Out of the 
darkness came Mulder's voice, "It's okay, Scully, it's 
only a dream."

"Get them off of me!" I shrieked, slapping at his 
hands when he tried to calm me.  My burst of 
adrenaline must have surprised him because he ended up 
using his full weight to pin me down on the bed. "Stop 
it, Scully, before you hurt yourself."

I felt him lean over to the side table and turn on the 
lamp. He released me and said, "See?  No bugs. You're 
fine. It was only a nightmare."

I quickly pulled up my shirt, unintentionally flashing 
Mulder as I checked my stomach for bullet wounds and 
bug bites.  At least, he had the decency to look away. 
"It seemed so real," I sniveled, pulling my shirt 
down. 

Mulder turned back around to face me. "Nightmares are 
what's known as intrusive symptoms of PTSD," he 
explained.  "During the day, your conscious mind is 
working overtime in damage control. At night, all Hell 
breaks loose."

"Your bedbug sendoff certainly didn't help," I 
reminded him.

"Yeah," he nodded.  "I'm sorry about that.  How about 
I make it up to you with a cup of hot tea?"

Mulder held out his hand.  Still upset, I refused to 
take it.  He contemplated me for a moment before he 
stood up. "Take your time, Scully," he suggested.  
"I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready.

By the time I dragged myself to the kitchen table, 
there was a cup of steaming tea waiting for me.  
Without a word, I went to the refrigerator and pulled 
out a carton of Half-n-Half.  I sat down opposite my 
partner and watched him stir sugar into his cup. "Want 
some?" I asked, carefully measuring out two teaspoons 
of cream.

Mulder shook his head.  "How long have you been having 
nightmares?"

"Oh, I don't know," I said, stirring my tea.

"You do know," he persisted.  "When did the nightmares 
begin?"

I glanced up and recognized the raw determination in 
his eyes.  "This isn't a friendly cup of tea, is it, 
Mulder?"

"Your nightmares go father back than what happened in 
that forest," he remarked.  

"I don't remember."

"Yes, you do," Mulder stated firmly.  "You recall 
every detail so vividly that it overwhelms you.  You 
can't escape it.  It follows you wherever you go.  
And, just when you think that you've got it under 
control, your subconscious manifests a new detail that 
completely undermines all your past efforts."

I felt the spoon drop from my fingers. 

"Why won't you carry your gun, Scully?"

"That has nothing to do with this," I asserted. 

"It has everything to do with it," Mulder said, 
reaching across the table and grabbing my hands.  
"Look at your hands, Scully.  Just the mention of your 
gun makes them shake. Why?"

"I don't know why," I yelled at him.

He held my hands firmly and yelled back. "What 
happened at the Artic Ice Core Project!"

Suddenly, the scene shifted where I was back at the 
Icy Cape.  I could hear the wind howling and see the 
dots of perspiration on my partner's forehead.  He had 
drawn his gun.  I pulled my own and pointed it at him.  

"Mulder!"

"Scully, get that gun off me!"

"Mulder, you have to understand!"

"Put it down!"

"You put it down first!"

"Scully! For God sakes, it's me!"

The tension between us felt like an overstretched 
rubber band.  Except this time, it broke.  And, I 
broke with it.  I wrenched my hands from Mulder's 
grasp and covered my ears.  I waited for the type of 
thunder that frightens small children and FBI agents 
who no longer trust their partners.  

The gunshot never came.

Mulder got up and came around the table. He 
knelt before me and held on the armrests of 
my chair. The flashback subsided and now, reality 
began to unfold in such vivid detail that my emotions 
couldn't contain it.  I started to cry.  

"It was me... I pulled my gun on you," I admitted, my 
voice cracking under the strain.  "Hodge grabbed a 
crowbar and you were just trying to stop him.  But, I 
was afraid that you might shoot him so I pulled my gun 
on you."

"I know, Scully," Mulder said. He reached up to stroke 
my hair back from my wet cheeks.  "It's over.  You 
won't have anymore nightmares or flashbacks."  

"Really?"

He nodded.  "Because, from now on, you're going to be 
able to remember the event without reliving it."  

"Wait a minute," I paused, wiping my eyes with the 
sleeve of my sweatshirt.  "You knew all along, didn't 
you?"

"I put the pieces together this morning, after our 
meeting with Skinner," Mulder admitted, giving my 
shoulders a brief squeeze before getting up and 
walking over to the couch.  

"It was the gun thing, wasn't it?" I asked, following 
him. 

"I'll tell you what, Scully," he posed.  "If you agree 
to lie down here on the couch and try to get some 
sleep, I'll explain exactly how I knew."

"The couch," I eyed it skeptically.  

Mulder grinned at my expression.  "I wouldn't dare  
suggest your bed after that nightmare of yours.  At 
least, not tonight."

Agreeing, I stretched out on the couch and rested my 
head on the pillow. It still held a hint of his 
cologne. I took a deep breath and relaxed.  Mulder 
tucked the blanket around me and sat down on the edge 
of the coffee table.  

"So?" I asked, waiting for his explanation. "How did 
you know?"

Mulder stared off into the distance before gazing back 
down at me.  His eyes revealed a pain that I didn't 
understand.  In a somber voice, he said, "Because, I 
was on the other end of that gun."  

Only then did I realize that my partner had lost trust 
in me. 




End of Book 2