TITLE:  TERMS OF BETRAYAL
AUTHOR:  MystPhile@aol.com
SUMMARY:  Post-SR 819.  Scully has insomnia.
SPOILERS: SR 819
CLASS:  V,SA, MSR
RATING: PG
DISCLAIMER:  THEY'RE NOT MINE
ARCHIVE:  ANYWHERE; JUST LET ME KNOW


Terms of Betrayal
by MystPhile@aol.com


Pound the pillow. That's it.  If I can maneuver it into the right position,
I'll have a twenty-six percent chance of getting to sleep within 45 minutes. 
That's what I paid the big bucks to learn in med school.  Yeah, right.

So, what's the problem here?  How I long for the days when my eyes snapped shut
like castanets the instant my head hit the sheets.  Now I practically need a
lullaby and a pacifier to get even mildly sleepy.

It's Skinner.  Face it, babe.  You've been had.  Three weeks ago, you stood at
his bedside.  Noble, brave, loyal.  Shit, I sound like Lassie.  

You could be a hero then, couldn't you, smug little twit?  The all-knowing
doctor with the lifesaving plan.  How  goddamned inspiring.  If I didn't want
to be quiet, I'd snort at that one.  The intrepid agent, always on the lookout
for the big clue, the one that will solve the mystery, save the day, foil the
villains--quick, drown that clich before it chokes you.   

The brilliant scientist, seeing poison where others saw a simple bruise. 
Incisive, original.  Bring on the Nobel.  Hand it to Dana Scully, savior of
potentially lost limbs.  See how that title looks on your desk.  

Damned pillow.  Maybe I need to go shopping for a new one.  There's something
downright inadequate about a pillow that gives this little comfort.

Maybe the role that hurts the most was being his friend.  Or thinking I was.
But that's because I'm a fool.  There I was, at his deathbed, most likely.  It
looked like SuperScully was at the end of the line, except for one very chancy
procedure.

The deathbed is supposed to be a special place.  When you die, you're entitled
to ...what? I figured he needed someone who cared about him, someone to offer
support. And it's supposed to be a place where truth is spoken.  Even the
courts, not the fount of wisdom and justice we like to imagine, respect the
hell out of deathbed declarations.  The theory goes, if you think you're going
to die, you have nothing to lose.  The truth's gonna come pouring out at last.

So, was I really that much of a sucker to believe what he said?  Damned pillow.
 I feel like ripping it to shreds.  It's useless.

My heart opened to him.  Maybe that's why I feel so stupid now.  Isn't it
natural to trust someone's dying words?  And I'd swear he meant them at the
time.  He sounded so damned sincere.  Shit.

"I'm in your hands," he said.  My heart swelled. That's so flattering, to feel
that he trusted me and my medical judgment.  How could I not trust him in
return?

Especially when he started to apologize for not supporting our quest, to put
himself down for living a useless life.  My heart opened up and gathered him
in.  How could I help it?  I was faced with death myself, not too long ago. 
And what did I want to do?  Claim responsibility for the corpse in Mulder's
apartment.  I remember telling Mulder, I wanted my death to mean something.  I
wanted to save him, give more meaning to my life.  And my death.

So of course I believed Skinner.  I just don't think there are a hell of a lot
of people on their deathbeds who congratulate themselves on their
accomplishments.  Just about everyone, as far as I know, wishes they'd done
more.  Or done things better.  Or grabbed the chances that life presented.  I
did.

Skinner and I are alike.  Well, not really.  I just thought we were.  That's 
because I'm a credulous fool.  What is wrong with this fucking pillow?  Am I
going to have to shoot it?

We're both kind of straight arrows. Then, with our luck, some mysterious archer
with a sick sense of humor came along and  placed us in a quiver. In close
proximity to a twisted arrow.  A magnificently twisted arrow, one that often
hits the bull's eye, but twisted nonetheless.  So these two little straight
arrows had some decisions to make.

I've become less straight as the years passed and the horrors piled up.  I
realized that day how totally twisted I am now.  "Don't touch that blood," said
Dr. Plant.  I ignored him entirely.  "Get out of this room," said that
nasty-eyed surgeon waiting to perform her version of a "Farewell to Arms."  It
never occurred to me to leave.  I've been infected by a twisted arrow.  And I
grow curvier all the time, no pun intended.

So I sympathized with Skinner.  He really seemed to have been caught in no
man's land.  He said he should have supported us, gotten off the fence.  As
someone who took a while to develop some bends, I understood.  I believed.  I
believed that if he lived...well, I didn't really think he would live.  But IF
he did, I thought he was sincere.  That he wanted to give meaning to his life. 
That he'd be with us in the future. It's lonely sitting on a fence.  I know
that!

And agony to have a pillow that's become the prime object of hatred in your
life.  I've doubled it, pummeled it, punched it, shaken it, and done everything
but spit on it.  Maybe if I got a knife and slit it and took out its
insides....oh, great.  Surgery on a pillow.  Maybe a forensic study. Shit.

I guess I  also identified with how little control we had over what was
happening in his body.  Just as my tumor ran amok, his vascular blocking was
beyond any remedy.  Both of us, victims not of nature, but of people who try to
control nature.  Harness it, change it, control it.  Who says pure science is
good?  It depends on who makes the discoveries and oversees the applications. 
As in SR 819, now defunct.  As defunct as my faith in Skinner.  Hell, in
humanity.

Who can I trust if I can't trust a man who's supervised us, helped us, even let
us help him.  A man who was dying and knew it.  He said he wished he'd helped
us.  He said his life meant nothing.  I felt terrible for him.  I tried to
comfort him.  I gave him my trust, my love.  My heart.  If I was the last known
face he was meant to see, I wanted it to be a loving one.

Then, this afternoon, the fucking bastard sat in his office, healthy as a
horse, and told us essentially to fuck off.  Fucking traitor.  Liar.  How? Why?
 It makes me want to puke.

This pillow situation may drive me out of my few remaining wits. What's this?
Mulder's hip.  He's on his back.  Wonder what kind of pillow he'd make. 
Anything's gotta beat this one.  Hell, I HAVE been beating this one.

I turn over and carefully climb on top of Mulder's body, burying my face in his
neck, inhaling and nuzzling.  My feet rest halfway down his calves, and I
burrow between with my toes.  The area in between my head and feet isn't
exactly soft and cushiony, but for some reason I'm comfortable, even if his
ribs are hard and his hip bone protrudes too much.  I squirm around a bit,
trying to make all the places fit together.

Although I've been suffering from insomnia, Mulder hasn't.  Chances are good
that I can pound him around like a human pillow without waking him. OOPS. 
Wrong again.  As usual.  I think I've got some serious confidence problems
these days.  Always being wrong will do that to a person.

"What is it?" he whispers, pulling his arm from behind his head and starting to
stroke my hair.  His other arm appears from some unknown location and falls
across my waist.

"Skinner."

"We'll find out what happened," he says, his hand now moving up and down my
back.  Suddenly the insomnia begins to fade.  Muscles large and small begin to
relax, stretch, lounge.  I picture the muscles sitting with their feet up
having a drink.

"He lied to me," I say, not willing to let it go.  "I told you what he said in
the hospital."

"Umm hmm," he murmurs, continuing a leisurely back stroking. "He may have a
reason for what he said today."

"Such as?"  My voice is fading; my bones are melting.  I think I should move
off of Mulder before I fall asleep and crush him, but I lack the will.  I do
manage to gather enough energy to kiss his neck and jaw.  He hasn't shaved; I
rub my lips across the stubble.  I don't feel nearly as disturbed or unhappy as
I did a few minutes ago.  Perhaps I should patent Mulder. What slogan would I
use, I wonder groggily.

"Don't know," he murmurs. "Maybe he's going to investigate on his own.  Maybe
he knows more than he's telling us."  His hands reach all the way down to the
backs of my thighs. They are strong and warm.  If I were a cat, I'd purr and
sharpen my claws on his chest, eyes slitted blissfully. As it is, I lie
boneless, eyes closed.

"I feel so stupid for trusting him," I say, relaxed and open.

"Then you're not alone," he says.  "I think he was probably sincere when he
talked to you.  We just don't know what happened to make him say something
different now."  His hands knead my lower back, then move up to work on my
shoulders, slowly, gently.  With love.  "I still trust him too."

"You?" I say through a gigantic yawn.  "Mr. Trust No one?"

He kisses my hair, my ear, my closed eye.  "Guess you've taught me to trust. 
Selectively, anyway."

My lips find his in the darkness, trusting that when day comes, my vision will
have cleared.  I'll try to keep searching for illumination, and avoid the
blindness of disillusionment.  Even in dark nights of the soul, Mulder shows me
where to find the switch.

END