Whiteout Series
(Book One)

By: Paige Caldwell-Hunt
paigec38@yahoo.com


RATING:      PG-13
CATS/KEYS:   MSR, Post-Ep for "Ice"
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!
WEBSITES:    http://www.iwtbxf.com/paige             

             


"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!"


I woke to the sound of a single gunshot.  It reminded me
of a loud clap of thunder, the type of noise that
frightens small children and FBI agents who no longer
trust their partners.  I curled forward into a tight ball
of pain, wrapping my arms around my abdomen as the
imaginary bullet settled somewhere near my spleen.  After
a few minutes, I worked up the courage to lift my flannel
pajama top and gingerly prod the area below my ribcage.
Nothing was there, but I needed tangible proof to move
from terror to introspect.

I deliberated the symbolism that my subconscious had
chosen. The spleen.  Ancient Greeks recognized the
connection between one's spleen and melancholy. I wondered
if an Oxford educated psychologist could figure out the
same.

Six weeks had past since our artic adventure.  The
experience had left my self-confidence feeling as if it
had been freeze-dried. Mulder had no problem leaving
behind what he jokingly referred to as my natural habitat.  
Clearly, he must have been referring to my cold
objectivity.  At least, that was what I told myself on the
bumpy plane ride back from Alaska.  

Our layover in Seattle did little to thaw my attitude.  
The next morning, Mulder ditched me for a stewardess while
I was flagging us a cab in the rain.  I flew home without
him, wondering why I felt so rejected over a man I had no
interest in. He returned to D.C. three days later with a
tan and an apology disguised as a cheap bottle of tequila.
We never spoke of the incident, although I found the
flight attendant's insignia in the top drawer of his desk.  
I ended up piercing my thumb with the pin when I tried to
dissect its little bronze wings.

I glanced over at my alarm clock.  It was only 5:00 a.m.,
but I got up and showered like I was running late for a
briefing with Skinner.  In truth, I just wanted to get to
our basement office ahead of Mulder's scheduled arrival.  
Being the first one there gave me time to prepare for our
daily verbal showdown.  Mulder had pulled a gun on me.  I
needed to think fast on my feet.

As I sat in his chair behind his desk, I reached for the
bottle of tequila.  I had never taken it home because I
don't believe in drinking alcohol that has a worm at the
bottom of the bottle. Under the light of his desk lamp, I
watched it float around in the gold liquid and wondered at
the irony of such a gift. A similar worm was still buried
200,000 feet down in the ice.  I had told Mulder to leave
it there.  I wish I could do the same.

"Morning, sunshine," His chipper voice interrupted my
thoughts. I looked up at his still bronzed face and put
the tequila down.  

"Good morning," I responded, not returning his smile.  

He took off his overcoat and hung it on the back of the
door.  Giving me an odd look, he said, "Actually, you
could use some sunshine, Scully. You look a little pale."

"Mulder, it's mid-January," I commented, getting up from
his chair.  "Not to mention that it's snowing outside."

"Haven't you ever heard of a tanning salon?"

"I think that bottle of Hawaiian Tropic has gone to your
head," I said, glancing at my watch.  "Besides, I don't
have time to waste.  I have an autopsy class scheduled at
9:00."  

I passed under his arm, avoiding direct contact with him
on my way out of our office.  I was less than three feet
away from making a clean getaway when he reached over my
head and pushed the door shut.  I did my best to turn
around completely composed although inside, I was
flinching. "Is there a problem, Agent Mulder?" I asked.

Mulder perched himself on the side of his desk and folded
his arms.  "I don't know, Scully.  Is there?"

He had an annoying habit of answering my questions with
another question. It was a classic bait and switch, where
he baited me until I switched from a rational scientist to
a raving lunatic. But, not today.  I had learned a new
stratagem of my own, just two little words that I hoped
would deflect him.

"I'm fine."


Mulder gave me a scowl of disbelief before motioning me to
a chair. "Have a seat, Scully."

"Excuse me?" I gaped at him.  Technically, he was the
senior agent but unofficially, I was sent to spy on him.  
From my perspective, that made us even.

"Your autopsy class isn't today," he advised.  "It's
tomorrow.  I checked your schedule with the Academy."

"So, I'm off by a day," I said, shrugging.

"You're off by more than just a day," he remarked.  "In
fact, you haven't been yourself for weeks."
 
I rolled my eyes and suppressed a laugh. "This is
ridiculous, Mulder.  I told you that I'm fine.  And, even
if I wasn't, it really isn't any of your business."

I noticed how his hazel eyes seemed to grow darker as they
fixed on my guileless expression. "We're not tennis
partners, Agent Scully," he reprimanded.  "We work for the
FBI.  If there is something going on with you, it is my
business.  I rely on you to cover my back."

Because I was his sidekick, I guess he wasn't too
concerned about covering mine. "Are you questioning my
fitness for duty?" I asked.

"Scully, for God's sake, it's me!"

The memory of him pleading over the barrel of his gun
flashed before my eyes. Panic flooded through me.  I could
feel the cold sweat break out across the back of my neck.
"What did you say?" I gasped.

"I asked you why you couldn't talk to me," Mulder said.  
He leaned his head to one side and gave me a scrutinizing
look.  "Why, what did you think I said?"

"Nothing," I lied.  "Look Mulder, I appreciate your
concern but I can assure you that your back is quite safe
with me."

I reached out to open the door, but my hand was trembling
so hard that I couldn't turn the knob.  I clenched my
fingers into a tight fist while Mulder leaned over and
opened the door for me.  He didn't say a word, but I could
tell that he'd seen my hand shake.  In the Bureau, it was
a telltale sign that he wouldn't be able to ignore.  He
had the professional and ethical duty to report his
suspicions... that his partner had lost her nerve.  


**********   



An hour later, I was still in the small, two-stalled
bathroom in the basement of the Hoover Building.  Because
I was the only female agent on the floor, the ladies room
had become my refuge, a place that I could call my own.  I
even added a few personal touches such as antibacterial
soap, a bottle of hand lotion and a bowl of lavender
potpourri that I placed carefully on the windowsill.  The
sweet, aromatic scent generally calmed me.  Not today. I
could have snorted the delicate little flowers without any
effect.  

I had forgotten that Mulder was a profiler.  The FBI
considered him the best analyst in the Violent Crimes
Unit.  He knew how to get into a person's head.  And, here
I was worried about my spleen.  

I stared into the mirror and addressed my reflection.  
"What am I going to do?"

The face that stared back was devoid of makeup and looked
pale and frightened.  Could I have made it any easier for
him?  I scavenged my purse for some rouge.  I found
lipstick, but I doubted that mandarin orange could be
mistaken for a healthy glow. I remembered a girlhood book
in which the heroine pinched her cheeks in lieu of
cosmetics.  I tried it now.  Instead of rosy, I ended up
with broken capillaries.  

While splashing cool water on my face, I heard a knock at
the bathroom door and quickly reached for a bunch of paper
towels. I debated whether or not I should answer.  Before
I could decide, the door swung open and my partner
nonchalantly crossed the sacred threshold.  "You can't
come in here," I exclaimed.  "It's the ladies room."

"Like what you've done with the place," he remarked,
taking a look around.

"You need to leave, Mulder."

He nodded, taking a step back and opening the door.  "You
need to come with me, Scully," he said, refusing to meet
my eyes.  I crumpled the paper towels and threw them in
the basket on my way out.  In the hallway, I confronted
him.

"What?" I asked in an acerbic tone.  "Is this the point
where you tell me that you ratted me out to Skinner?"

"Nope," Mulder responded calmly.  He steered me by my
shoulders back to our office.  "This is the point I tell
you to put your coat so we can get out of here."

He held up my winter coat with a no compromising look.  I
slipped my arms through the sleeves.  "Where exactly are
we going, Mulder?"

"Are you familiar with the term Post Traumatic Stress
Disorder?"  

"Of course, I'm familiar with it."  I frowned and dug my
gloves out of my pockets.  "I went to medical school,
remember?"

"Yes, I remember," he said, putting on his own coat.  
"Give me your hand, Scully."

I very smartly tugged on my leather glove and extended my
hand with my palm up.  It didn't shake one bit.  "Well?" I
asked, arching my eyebrow like a question mark.  

"Now your right hand, Scully, but without the glove."

I dug my dominant hand deeper into my pocket.  "This is
all very amusing, but can you please just cut to the
chase?"

"Your hand is shaking, you're irritable, you look like you
haven't had a decent night's sleep in weeks," Mulder began
to list.  "Do I need to continue?"

"No," I murmured.  Each one of his observations made me
feel an inch shorter. At this rate, I'd be nipping at his
ankles before noon.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Scully.  PTSD is something
that happens in our line of work. The FBI has a staff of
psychologists who can help you with this.  They can offer
you cognitive behavioral therapy, even medication if you
need it."

"Anti-anxiety medication?" I cut him off.  "Oh, that would
look great on my record."

Mulder peered over my shoulder as another agent walked by
our office.  "Hey, let's get out of here," he suggested.  

Because I needed him to keep my secret, I agreed.  "Where
are we going?" I asked.  "In search of little green men or
shrinks in white lab coats?"

"There's a new diner a few blocks from here.  How about
some breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry," I protested.  

"Then I guess it's a shrink in white lab coat."

"A bagel would be nice," I conceded.  


**********


"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!"


I woke to the sound of a single gunshot.  It reminded me
of a loud clap of thunder, the type of noise that
frightens small children and FBI agents who find
themselves snowed in with their partners.  Instead of
curling forward into a tight ball of panic, I jumped out
of bed and peered out into my living room.  


Some men know how to inveigle their way into a woman's
bed.  Mulder had managed to make it to my couch through a
combination of inclement weather and good old-fashioned
blackmail.  Until I agreed to make an appointment to see a
psychotherapist, he wasn't going to let me out of his
sight.  At first, I didn't take him seriously.  Neither
did I believe that the entire Mid-Atlantic was under a
blizzard watch.  By the time we left the diner, the watch
was a warning and Mulder didn't think my shaking hands
could navigate a car through snow.

At least, that was his excuse.

The minute he stepped foot into my apartment, I was
pulling out the phone book and searching the yellow pages
for a mental health provider.  My phone cut off mid-dial
when the power flickered and my apartment went dark.
Unfortunately, the power outage wasn't limited to my
building.  Mulder confirmed on his cell phone that a state
of emergency had been declared and that it wasn't safe for
him to drive home.

I declared my own state of emergency by lighting some
candles and pulling out my Monopoly board.  I was not
about to spend a snowbound afternoon with Mulder profiling
my every shaky move. For hours, we battled like two real
estate moguls one hotel away from beating the other.  As
dusk settled into evening, we ate cold sandwiches and
listened to the wind howl outside.  I must have nodded off
because I woke up later with my head on his shoulder and
his arm around my back. Mortified, I brought him a pillow
and a blanket before racing off to bed.

It was a little past midnight when my nightmare struck.  
The power was still out and I had to use a flashlight to
navigate safely to my kitchen.  I should have known
better. Like a moth to a flame, Mulder woke the second the
beam hit the carpet.  His head poked up from the couch,
squinting at the light with such anticipation that he must
have thought I was an alien about to abduct him.  

"Mulder, it's me," I turned off the flashlight.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes.  "You okay, Scully?"

"I couldn't sleep," I said, shivering at the room
temperature.  "It's a little cold out here."

"I don't think the heat is working," Mulder noted, drawing
the blanket around his shoulders."

"That's impossible, I have gas heat." I walked over to the
thermostat and tried to turn it on.  "You're right,
Mulder, the heat isn't working."

"It probably has an electric thermostat," he figured.
"Does your fireplace work?"

I hurried over to the fireplace and moved away the screen.
"Can you help me?  I don't think the damper is open."

Mulder came over and kneeled down on the hearth.  I
watched him tremble as he reached up the chimney to pull
the damper open.  "Look whose hands are shaking now," I
teased.  

"That's because I'm freezing," he said.

"Here, let me light it," I offered, crouching down and
taking the matchbox from his fingers.  I noticed how warm
they were.  "Mulder, are you feeling okay?"

He pulled the blanket around his neck and shivered. "For a
walking popsicle, sure," he said.  

I reached up and felt his forehead.  "You've got a fever,"
I diagnosed.  "Here, let's get you back on the couch."

I tried to help him up, but he motioned me back to the
task at hand. "Fire, Scully.  Light the fire."

I quickly scrunched up newspaper and lit the kindling.  
Glancing over at Mulder, who was shivering on the couch, I
said, "It should only be a few minutes."

Once the logs caught fire, I put the screen back in place
and hurried into the kitchen. I returned with my
thermometer, a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol.  
Sitting down beside him, I shook the thermometer and put
it in his mouth.  I already knew his fever was high by how
badly he was shaking.  While I waited two minutes, I
recounted how much time he had spent in the bitter cold
digging my car out of the snow.  

His fever was 103 degrees. "Take two of these," I
instructed, putting the Tylenol tablets in his hand

"And, call you in the morning?" He asked, popping the
pills in his mouth.

I passed him a glass of water.  "I'm going to spend the
night out here with you."

"Sounds like a lot more fun than Monopoly."  

His grin was forced. I urged him to lie back down on the
couch.  I went into my bedroom and dragged my comforter
and pillows back out to the living room.  

"Are we going to make a tent?" he joked.

"Mulder, are you always such a clown?"

"Only when I have a captive audience," he said, his teeth
starting to chatter.

I dropped my bedding and went to my hallway closet to
retrieve another blanket.  When I came back, he was
huddled on the couch with his feverish eyes focused on the
fire.  God help me, he looked so young and vulnerable. I
tucked the blanket around him and tried to comfort him as
I would a child.  

"Did you know that chills are caused by rapid muscle
contraction?" I asked, using my best Dr. Seuss voice.  
"It's the body's way of generating heat when it feel like
it's cold."

He gave me an agonized look.  I pulled back self-
consciously and gave him a little laugh. "So much for my
bedside manner, huh?  And, yet another reason why I joined
the FBI."

"You'd make a good doctor," he said, closing his eyes.  
"But, you're an even better partner."

I waited for him to drift off to sleep before I settled
down on the floor on my makeshift bed.  For a long time, I
listened to the wind outside. Every so often I heard the
sound of a tree limb cracking in the distance. I wrapped
my arms around my knees and started to rock back and
forth.

"Do you remember the artic storm that stranded us at the
Icy Cape?" I mused out loud. "We were arguing about
whether or not we should have killed that worm. Remember?"

Mulder didn't answer.  I got up and checked his fever.  
Dots of perspiration on his forehead confirmed that it was
breaking.  Relieved, I moved to the fire to stoke the logs
before settling in a chair by the window.  Bits of snow
and ice pelted against the glass.  I couldn't see the
street past the blinding snow.

"Whiteout conditions," I told my partner, tracing circles
on the frosted glass.  "Maybe that's why you couldn't see
what was going on right in front of your face."

If I was suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, it
was because of him.  


 
End of Book I