"Trusting No One" -- Missing Scene: Ice

by G. Harbowy  grh@teatime.com

feedback appreciated



Archive: OK

Rating: PG

Classification: V A

Spoilers: Ice

Summary: Mulder's thoughts while locked in the storage room.



[note: St. Elizabeth's is a mental institution in the metro D.C. area]



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Darkness, pure and absolute.  Even if I had a window, there wouldn't

be any light to filter through it. I suddenly miss the comforting glow

of my empty fish tank back home.  Home seems very far away.



Sure, I could turn on the single bare bulb overhead, but its glare is

worse than the darkness. Worse than eyes straining, finding nothing

but the geometric patterns that dance inside my lids.



My jacket, doubled over, might have been a thick enough pad to make

the cold concrete floor bearable.  Too bad I've been volunteered for

isolation without it.  I've gotten over my anger by now, burned off

the rush of energy by jogging in place.  It must be the worry, then,

that's keeping me awake.  It sure as hell isn't the scenery.



One of them is infected, and she's out there.  Hell, a little part of

my mind keeps telling me, it might even be her.  But I know it isn't.

She hasn't been exposed any more than I have.



This quarantine is stupid.  I didn't kill anyone, and I'm not about to

start.  If only she hadn't drawn her gun on me. . .



Pointless to start with the if-only's.  I'm in the storage room, and

she's out there where I can't protect her.



I wonder, not for the first time, when they're planning to let me out.

I hope it will be soon.  If they leave me too long, I'll start to

worry that they've all killed each other, leaving me stuck in here

forever.  I can't hear conversation through the door.  I wonder if

gunshots would carry.



Yeah, I'm paranoid.  I know.  What else is new?  But at least I have a

good reason to be.  My life depends on those three people out there

finding a solution.  There is nothing I can do.



I'm a born problem-solver.  An observer, a thinker.  But to be useful,

I need people to observe; problems to solve.  In here, I have neither.

Feeling out of control isn't my thing.  After a few hours pass,

though, I start resigning myself to it.  It's either that or go crazy,

and here I am, already talking to myself.



I hope they're okay.  I hope *she's* okay.  I hope they remember to

feed me.  I hope she's okay.



Figures they'd give me a female partner.  Someone for me to feel

paternal and protective over.  A pretty, younger woman on whom I can

replay all of my Samantha anxieties every time we got into trouble.

Because sure enough, that's what's happening.  I literally feel sick

to my stomach at the thought that she's in danger and I can't protect

her.  I freeze with fear, just like I did when my sister was taken.

And they must have known that I would.  She is their tool to bring me

down, and it's working.  I care too much.  I am too protective.

They're using that against me, and there isn't a damn thing I can do

about it.



Just sit back and watch her destroy everything I'm working so hard

for.



I don't get to see her reports, but I've got a fair idea of what they

say: that I'm nuts, that my cases involve no real investigation and no

prosecutable offenders, that I'm a waste of Bureau time and resources.

It's amazing that they've let me go on this long, but it's obvious

that this case is the opportunity they've been waiting for -- the

chance to let me hang myself.  For all I know, the other scientists

were FBI goons as well, and they all hopped a plane as soon as I was

thrown in here.   At least this way, it's more dignified- sounding

than a well-timed "accident" or a simple dismissal.



Fox Mulder, son of William Mulder.  Killed in the line of duty.  A far

cry from Fox Mulder, washout and space cadet, reassigned to a padded

office at St. Elizabeth's Bureau for the Criminally Insane.



I can't hear a thing out there. How thick is this damned door? I've

got my ear pressed to it, but it's not helping. There's no sound. I'm

positive that they've all gone. They're flying first class back to

D.C. and I'm stuck here until I freeze, or starve, or maybe just rot

alive.



I sit back down.  No sense in turning the light on, then.  Best to

save it for when I need it.  After this bulb burns out, I doubt

there'll be another.



There's a scraping sound at the door, then a flood of light.  I wince

and cover my eyes, getting used to the brightness and eventually

discerning a Scully-shaped darkness in the middle of it.  I scramble

to my feet.



Anger returns in a flood.  It seems safer than relief; after all, I

still don't know whose side she's on, and I don't want to show any

weakness that can be used against me later.



"It's just you?" I ask cautiously.



"Yes," she answers, turning on the overhead bulb.  I squint against

the sudden brightness, then look at her as my eyes adjust.  She pulls

the door closed and turns back to me.



God, she looks awful.  Her eyes are puffy and red-rimmed, but they

don't look at me.  Her hair is falling out of a makeshift ponytail in

limp strings.  I don't think I've ever seen her without makeup before.

She's not infected -- I'm sure of it -- but she's not doing too well,

either.  I know that if I want to get out of here, I have to make the

overture and show that I trust her.



"It's one of them," I say.  Now it's her turn, to say she agrees.

Then we can be on the same side again.



"No one's been killed since you've been in here."



That's her proof of my infection? No wonder she can't look me in the

eye.



"We found a way to kill it," she starts again.  "Two worms in one host

will kill each other."



She says this like it's good news.  Does she really believe there's a

worm in me?



"You give me one worm, you'll infect me," I answer slowly and firmly.

She averts her eyes. She does believe it.  I may not have known her

very long, but I do know one thing: Dana Scully can't lie for shit.



"If that's true," she whispers harshly, approaching me, "then why

didn't you let us inspect you?"



I lean over her, using my height for the psychological advantage.



"I would have," I hiss, anger boiling again, "but you pulled a gun on

me."



Temper won't resolve anything -- it'll just get us yelling at each

other again.  Right now, it's very important for me to appear calm.



"Now, I don't trust them," I say, gesturing beyond the closed door.

"I *wanted* to trust you."



That stings her.  She backs off and blinks back tears.  I feel a

little guilty for playing her that way, but let's face it. I don't

want death by parasite. I don't want to be locked in here again. I

tried the trusting approach, and it didn't work.  Paradoxically,

distrust seems to be much more effective. I can see her melting,

thinking. . . trying to earn my trust back. It's what she's here for,

she must be reminding herself -- to earn my trust and feel out my

insanity.  Funny how threatening her agenda works better than playing

along with it.  Maybe when I get home, I'll write a paper on it.



"Okay," she says. "But now they're not here."



She's trying hard.  I give her credit for that.  Now she wants to

examine me.  If I pass, she'll have no choice but to let me out.  I

turn my back to her and lower my shirt collar a little.  I could be

considerate of the height difference and crouch down for her, but I

don't think she deserves it.  She wants my trust back -- let her work

for it.



Her hand is warm on the back of my neck, and a little sweaty. I grin

smugly to the wall.  Proof of her nervousness.



The kneading examination is much too short.  Just this light touch has

started to melt my tension away. The feelings of familiarity and

relief that come with physical contact after a period of isolation are

overwhelming. I was really beginning to think I was stuck in here, and

now I know I have a chance. I want to hug her.



No. It's important to keep my advantage, my power.  Keep her thinking

about why she's here.



I turn around and see her grin sheepishly at me.  This is her way of

apologizing.  She turns to the door, and I put a firm hand on her

shoulder.  She freezes in place with a little gasp and a start.  I'm

back -- I'm in control.  I pull her shirt down past her shoulder

blades. Firmly. If this were sex, I'd rip it off her, scattering the

buttons to the corners of the room.



But it's not.  It's work.  Which is strange, too.  Touching my partner

isn't something I'm used to.  It's one thing when I'm in a suit and

tie, soothing the victim or witness to get more information, but

another thing to touch the soft creamy skin I see every day.  I'm

uncomfortable touching her like this -- it would be so much easier if

we were having a one-night fling.  Then I'd know what to do.  But what

rules govern this interaction?  I don't know.



I don't have time to think about it now.  Instead I go through the

motions of checking her for the worm.  I push her hair away gently,

and wrap one of my hands around the back of her neck.  I'm reminding

her that I'm much larger and stronger, and that without a parasite to

blame for my short temper, she's stuck with the burden of not pissing

me off.  I give her neck a little squeeze.  I feel the artery jump as

her pulse suddenly races.



Maybe she doesn't really know if she's infected or not.  She's afraid

that I'll find it. When I release her neck, she turns to me with a

look so full of terror that it must be genuine. She melts a little

when I nod my reassurance that I found nothing.



This is real, then.  All the uncertainty out there wasn't an act to

lock me away.  There really are worms, and they really are

uncontrolled.



Relief.  I may yet live to see home.  And a new kind of fear.  If this

whole thing wasn't staged, there's nothing to guarantee that we can

beat it.



I'll have to trust her, after all.

--

G. Harbowy -- grh@teatime.com  X-PHILE: GAEB; OBSSE

Specializing in reverse psychology. Please don't visit my web page at

http://www.teatime.com/grh/