rating: Some guidance needed.
MT and angst.
Mulder is trapped. How will he escape?
for the March Mulderís refuge Fanfic challenge.
is the mother of invention. *
Fox and Cc own The X files and characters therein.
has to think carefully about his situation. But itís so hard, because heís
cold, wet, and exhausted, he has know idea where he is and donít forget,
heís hungry too. His stomach growls at its emptiness and the headache that
heís been fermenting for hours is reaching meltdown. He is in such pain now
but he canít afford the luxury of giving into its dark fingers. His right
ankle is swollen, sending waves of agony up and down his leg; injured somehow
when he was thrown into this dark abyss. How does he keep getting himself into
these situations he wonders?
begins to laugh softly, half in stupefaction at his own stupidity and at some
crushing level of despair, tears running down his face from his tired abused
eyes. He could die here in this dark basement. Nobody at all knows that heís
here, his cell phone is dead from the first fall and he has exhausted every
possibility of climbing out, due to hours of exertion trying.
only heíd told his partner where he was going, who he was going to meet with.
This could have been a lot different. Or maybe she would have been in danger
too. That didnít bear thinking aboutÖno!
it was good that this was his stupid fate alone. He chocked back at sob at the
thought of Scully and her lovely face, turning to anguish as the time rolled by
when they couldnít find him. Her anguish cascaded into grief when no trace of
him could be discovered. Heíd keep trying to cry for help, but his voice was
little more than a croak, his throat raspy and sore.
his last unfortunate attempts, he decides he canít just sit here and give in;
he has to try again.
found something that passed as furniture near the musty wall, just below the
dirty little window, after stacking it as high as he could he began to climb
very cautiously. But the wood was rotten with damp and without warning, the
furniture crumbles under him with his weight and the wet moldy ground comes up
to greet him again in the most painful way. Heís soon soaked again as he rolls
into a puddle of foul smelling water, coughing and trying to regain his breath.
He doesnít want to think about what might be in it, trying to wipe the worst
of the slime off on his pants.
back is now killing him, and he is soaked through just to add to his overall
misery and discomfort. Shaking his painful head, he takes a good look around
him, trying to gather his thoughts.
needs to search another means of getting out of this hell. Shivering now in
earnest, he rocks himself, his arms hugged tightly against his chest. The dim
light begins to fade and he feels a strong slither of fear and loneliness;
heís going to be in the dark in a few minutes.
sit here. Just canít give up.í
face haunts him behind his eyelids and spurs him on to act. Itís almost like
sheís with him if he thinks about her and keeps her face in his minds eye,
like she is guiding him, giving hi incentive and a fresh infusion of strength.
pulls himself up, and searches something, anything. His pace is frantic, almost
manic. His heart is racing like a hammer against his ribcage, and he knows that
Scully would say that heís wearing his panic face now. He canít panic.
Panic means he will almost certainly never get out of hereto see her
again. Heís been through worst in the past. A fiery boxcar buried alive,
Mutants. Conspiracy. Serial killers. He canít die here.
owes it to her to escape; to return to her side and continue their relentless
search for the Truth.
maybe, he thinks ruefully, thatís what made him end up here. After the first
blow, he saw very little of his attackers and they grabbed him from behind.
is running down his forehead in spite of the cold. The shadows seems to want to
swallow him. Old fear from his childhood threaten to resurface. The nightmare if
his sisterís abduction left him a legacy of a thousand night terrors. Shadows
eat children. Monsters hiding in damp dark corners. He shudders, suddenly
be such a coward. Itís only a basement. A very cold, very dark and horrible
smelling wet basement. Itís okay. Keep your head Mulder. Youíre ok.
Think, think. You can do it. Try using force against this damn door
his hand on the floor, he searches for something like a crowbar. He eventually
closes his eager fingers over a pipe in a dark corner. Holding it firmly in his
trembling hands like a treasure, he climbs the old stairs leading to the
pipe is rusty but seems solid enough. He holds it against the hinge-pin, takes a
deep breath and pushes, hard with everything left in him.
But in spite of his exertions, nothing changes. The door doesnít budge
a centimeter. He just succeeds to hurt his hands on the sharp splinters. They
are bloody and hurt just like the rest of his body. When did he have his last
tetanus shoot? His mind suddenly supplies as he sucks the sore fingers into his
mouth, tasting blood.
collapses onto the stairs in a messy haze of fatigue, despair and frustration,
and a sob rises from his chest.
on, Mulder! Use your mind! There has to be a solution. I have to get back
toÖno need to get back to Scully. Before she gets pissed at me.í
has never been a practical man. His IQ isnít useful in a situation like this.
Heís no MacGyver.
skinny little window is his only way to get out now that heís failed miserably
with the door. He looks at it with mounting anxiety. The tiny slither of light
mocking him as he stands there. So close but yet so far.
to reach it?
his generous height, he still isnít tall enough to reach it without the help
of standing on something. Even if was to jump up there he needs ropes. The
window has cast iron rails. If he succeeds to reach them, maybe he can work them
loose from the old fittings. He can climb against the wall. But there is nothing
useful here for a foothold.
groans as he sees the light fade. His hands and the rest of his body throb like
a base drum; thereís blood all over his fingers, slippery and slick. He can
smell it in the dark, even over the damp decay all-round him and on him.
Wiping his hand on his pants again he cringes against the rough material,
and then a thought occurs to him.
Use it to make a rope. He removes his pants hastily, shivering when the cold hit
his bare thighs. He tears them in two, using the rusty pipe and ties it
together. Itís just long enough to reach the railings. Now he has to knot
something heavy around his makeshift rope to wedge around the rails. He seizes
the metal bar he used earlier. ĎAction Mulder, he muses with determination.
You have to succeed!í
drinks in Scullyís face from his mind and breathes deeply. This has to work,
for both their sakes.
tries were necessary but finally the metal bar is wedged in-between the
glistening bars with a satisfying clang. Mulder climbs painfully against the
wall, ignoring his screaming body and when he reaches the window, he nearly sobs
with relief. A loud crack announces that the rails have given way under the
stress of his weight. He has just the time to grip the remaining bars to prevent
him falling again. His situation is precarious at best as he hangs there
panting, hanging on by his fingertips and his feet dangling in a dark void. He
bangs his shoes against the musty wall, hoping to make a foothold in the
sandstone. He grits his teeth against the pain, but after several attempts, he
succeeds to gauge out a nook to get his footing. He feels like Spiderman just
the faint light he sees his car; tantalizingly close, waiting for him outside
where his attackers must have left it after they had kidnapped him.
is almost saved with his freedom almost palpable. He breaks the final barrier,
the windowpane with his bare hand, adding several deeps slices across his
knuckles, wincing against the pain. He feels the cold wind in his sweat soaked
hair, and takes a sharp breath. The smell of snow is in the air and itís
freezing outside. In the few days since heíd been forced to endure lodging
here the weather had taken a wintry direction.
other rails donít prove too hard to remove and slip their moldings like old
rotten teeth. He uses one of them to bash out the remaining glass shards, trying
hard not to cut himself further. With a great deal of effort he manages to
squeeze himself through the tight gap, scarcely daring to breathe less he get
stuck. Mercifully, he pulls his
body clear and drops down with a painful thud onto cold gravel. He sneaks out
with difficulty and almost collapses headfirst into the frigid grass, half way
to the car in his haste to get away and not alert his captors. It seems that
everything is going in slow motion and his body is at last giving up on the
adrenalin thatís had kept him going through his escape so far. He falls
heavily across the front of the car, panting and feeling sick and dizzy.
God heís out. Frozen, covered with blood all over him, but free at last.
Wearing only his torn boxers and tee shirt, he shivers thinking he will die of
exposure if he doesnít get out of the worsening weather soon. He pulls himself
upright with difficulty only to discover that his car keys are in the remains of
his jeans, inside the basement. He slaps his head, which hurts his hand, and he
groans. He can't believe it. He
canít believe it. How can he be so stupid? The pain and the cold cloud his
mind now. He hopes this isn't far from civilization and in the distance he
thinks he sees a house on the horizon. He needs to walk.
is freezing to the bone now, which in one respect is keeping his mind off the
pain. The wind sends out an icy embrace, making him blink and gasp. Itís so
dark now around him now. Adrenalin
has worn off now that he is out, he can feel all his injuries. The pain of his
ankle, twisted when he dropped from the window is excruciating, his back almost
crippled by the suffering of his beating and repeated falls. His thighs are
covered with tiny cuts, as are his hands. His teeth are chattering.
a little voice in his head tells him. Sheís looking for you.í So he walks.
uses every last molecule of his strength to arrive at the little house and sobs
with relief when he sees the front door. Itís snowing now and he is like a ice
brick. Mercifully someone seems to be home and he almost collapses on the steps,
out of breath. Thereís a light on and some sound from inside. And he knocks at
the door, once, twice, and finally passes out when an old woman open it. Her
kind smile is the last thing he registers.
awakes some time later, surprisingly feeling warm. There is a fleecy cover
pulled up over his up his bare chest. Old eyes are looking at him, soft and
caring. He tries to sit up, but old hands keeps him down gently under the cover.
A warm cup is offered and he drinks greedily, savoring the heat in his painfully
stiff body. His hands are bandaged and she seems to have taken care f all of his
other woe too. He blushes when he sees he is just in his boxersÖbut they
donít look like his. Hiding his embarrassment he expresses his thanks and asks
for a phone call.
Itís me. I erÖhad a bit of a run in. Iím ok though. Can you give me a ride
gives him a caring look and ruffles his hair with affection, almost as often as
she sighs. She canít believe what he has done to himself in such a short
period. Getting jumped on by his bogus informant and being dumped in a cold
festering cellar when all he was doing is following a lead on some strange
lights. Heís asleep now, covered in a thick blanket in her warm car, safe, no
life threatening injury, only cuts and a sprained ankle, bruised pride and a
chill. He would probably need some anti-congestant and some warm TLC later from
the cold he will most certainly have.
had told her of his pitiful escape attempts, and his subsequent success and the
only thing that kept him trying against all odds was the thought of seeing her
again. Telling her what he was searching this old house for his informant when
he was attacked and dumped miles from anywhere in some old run down farm
property. She had smile, stroking his soft hair. Thanking the old lady and her
husband she closed her car window, ready for the long trip home.. No lessons. No
anger for his ditching. Not this time, he looked so pitiful and exhausted she
didnít have the heart. It wasnít really his fault and he did sort of rescue
himself. Maybe he would remember to let her know his plans before he went
wandering again. It was time to comfort him now.
Time to take him home.