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Title: Black Wings I: Grapefruit Moon Summary: Teena Mulder meets one of her husband's co-workers. Author's Ramblings: First off, I know the dates are screwy. This takes place in February 1961, and I'm not using the timeline suggested by either "Musings?" or "731." Both of those episodes are somewhat conflicting, so I've decided to make my own timeline. Secondly, Scully and Mulder aren't in this. Just a warning. Finally, this is the first story in a developing series. There's more to come if you like this sort of thing. This is dedicated to C.A., whose shadowy presence showed up once more in this story, and who should really quit smoking one of these days. "Now I'm smoking cigarettes There was a killer in her living room and she didn't even know it. He wasn't a killer then, not really, not yet. He was only a boy, his heart, weighed against an ostrich feather, would register nearly free of sin. But a dark future was visible in his eyes, as if at twenty-seven he was already an old man, already aware of what he would become. She stood in the doorway, an apron around her waist, watching the young man sip drinks with her husband. They were about the same age - the stranger was taller and thinner, handsome in a gawky, loose-limbed sort of way. His voice, which he seemed to use rarely, was so quiet she could only make out her husband's side of the conversation. "Can I get you anything?" she asked, clearing her throat. The stranger smiled, shaking his head. "Thanks," he said. Her husband only grunted - he was slipping in his chair. Drunk, she thought to herself. A cigarette dangled limply between two fingers. "Bill?" No response. The boy met her eyes and smiled. She could tell he was on leave - his auburn hair had grown past the regulation Army length, one stubborn lock falling in his eyes. He kept brushing it back - she wished he wouldn't. "This is my wife, Teena," Bill drawled, not introducing the stranger by name. Teena turned and went to stand on the porch outside. "Women," she heard Bill snort. She knew he'd be out cold in a few minutes - she had gone past the point of being embarrassed. She didn't even know his friend, so it didn't matter. Not really. It was night, a full moon. She was staring up at the stars when she heard footsteps behind her. Too light and quick to be Bill's. "Hi." The boy's voice was strangely shy. "Hello." She looked in through the window, seeing the light on in the kitchen. "Where's Bill?" The stranger laughed. "I managed to drink him under the table. Don't ask me how. He's asleep in the chair." A blush rose to her face. "It's okay. I put out his cigarette - he won't burn the house down." She realized how close he had come as he sat down on the porch beside her. She could feel his breath, turning to blue mist like a puff of smoke in the cold air. "You don't smoke," she said. "No." He knit his fingers together in a nervous gesture. "I can't stand the stuff." "Bill's trying to quit - he eats sunflower seeds because he can't keep his hands still." "I know. I've seen him." "Are you good friends with him?" The young man's clear eyes looked up at the sky. "I don't suppose I'm good friends with anybody," he replied. "I'm sorry to hear that." "Don't be. Your husband takes pity on me, you know. One isn't expected to be antisocial in the Army." "Are you?" "Am I what?" "Antisocial." He shrugged. "I don't require the constant company of people I don't like in order to amuse myself, if that's what you're asking." "I can't picture you in the Army," she said. "You don't know me." "Do you like it?" Another long stretch of silence. "I don't mind it," he said. "It's a good life." "So I'm told." "What do you do, I mean, on your off-time?" "I write." She looked at him quizzically. "You write?" "Novels." He laughed again. "Or at least I try. I haven't had much luck at it." He lifted a hand towards her face, then stopped abruptly. "Did you hurt yourself?" She touched her cheek. "Sorry?" "You have a black eye. Did you have an accident?" "I...yes. I bumped into a door." She giggled apprehensively. "Hasn't Bill told you how clumsy I am?" He looked away from her. "He never mentioned it. Maybe you should get it looked at." "It's only a black eye." She half-covered it with her hand, suddenly self-conscious. He had a way of conveying a multitude of thoughts with only a few words. And now he was on to something else, staring up at the sky again. "What are you looking at?" she asked. She felt like a teenager on her first date. "You can see all the stars from here. Where I come from, they're blocked out - lights, buildings. Here you can see everything." She picked at a nail. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" He nodded. "I just keep thinking...about how many secrets there are, how many things we don't know." He lifted a jagged stone from the porch, turned it over in his hand "When I was a kid I used to think there was a man in the moon. That he was smiling down on me. He was my friend, I used to talk to him when I was lonely." He tossed the rock far off into the grass. "But there's nothing up there, really. Just rocks, and dust." She wondered, silently, at the sadness in his eyes. As if the destruction of a childhood dream by modern science could be that important to him. She wondered who this strange, lonely man really was. "Maybe there are things science can't see," she said, regretting the words the moment they left her mouth. "Maybe," he said. And his hand was on hers - he was looking away from the sky, towards her. "Bill is very lucky to have you," he said. "I know." "No, you don't." He touched the bruise on her eye, no longer nervous or shy. "If you were my girl I'd treat you properly." "I don't want to talk about this," Teena said. "We don't need to talk." For a brief moment he looked vaguely uncomfortable. "Teena..." "Who are you?" she whispered. "It doesn't matter," he replied, drawing her in close for a kiss. Afterwards they lay together on the porch, the sky a sparkling blanket above them. It was cold - February, and she curled close to him for warmth. She lay her head against his chest, wondering if those really were tears she saw in his eyes. "Cigarette?" she asked. "I thought you liked me because I don't smoke." She didn't respond, instead pulling out a pack of Morleys from her crumpled jacket. She lit one and offered him another. He shrugged, then lit it, his fingers fumbling in the cold. Inhaling, he coughed, smoke seeping from his lips in ragged puffs. "You've never smoked in your life." "My mother was a chain-smoker. It turned me off." "You don't get along with your mother?" He shrugged. "She's dead. Lung cancer." "I'm sorry." "I was very young at the time." They lay there in silence for a long time. "Bill would kill you if he found out about this," Teena said finally. "I know." He smiled. "And I ought to kill him, for hurting you." "It's...not important." "It is to me." In the moonlight he looked beautiful, not the awkward young man who sat in her living room choking on Bill's cigarette smoke. He was young, yes, but he had never been innocent, his eyes were deep and knowing. No one could hide secrets from him, she thought, not even she who lived in secrecy. Say it. Tell me your name, and tell me you want to take me away from all this. Say the word and I'll leave Bill, I'll run away with you, but you have to say it because I can't. She loved him, this nameless beautiful boy, she could feel life from him growing within her. She had never felt so aware of the universe in all its complexities, the cold snow and the warmth inside her body, the moon and the stars turning the night as bright and piercing as day. She was beautiful when he touched her, more alive than she had ever been in all her life. And if he would only ask her, she would take his hand and run with him to the place where the shimmering ground met the shimmering sky. But he did not say the word. He did not know the words to say. He stood up slowly, looking to the light in the house, at Bill Mulder's slumped form at the kitchen table. "I have to go," he said quietly. Teena closed her eyes, then nodded. "I know," she said. He swallowed hard, then started to walk away. His auburn hair - like a fox's tail, she thought - was the only color against the black sky and the white snow. "Wait." She ran to catch up with him. For a moment they both held their breaths, hoping against hope. He stared at her. "Aren't you going to tell me your name?" she asked. He thought about it for awhile. "It's better that you don't know." He leaned over and kissed her forehead with genteel formality, above her bruised eye. "Goodbye Teena." She watched him turn, walk away towards the car parked at the end of the driveway. Goodbye. |
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Title: Black Wings II: Ashes and Lies Summary: After the events of Redux II, Mrs. Mulder goes to visit CSM. Thanks to Anna. Ramblings: Okay, this is the sequel to "Grapefruit Moon". You probably don't need to read it first, but it might help. "Oh, maybe, in terms of surrender "You shouldn't have called me." She stood in the doorway, silhouetted by fluorescent lights and an overwhelming whiteness. The man lying in the hospital bed shrugged. "They can't hurt me anymore." It was enough of an invitation - she closed the door behind her and sat in the plastic chair by his side. He looked surprisingly calm - he always did - but now it seemed vaguely inappropriate. "But they *shot* you." "They did, didn't they?" He smiled up at her, and against her better judgment she slipped her small hand into his. "They could never have killed me." Oh, but they could have, she thought. She watched him in silence. He had once been the most powerful man in the world - one of them, anyway - and now he looked as frail and vulnerable as a child. Except that he was old. Older than she remembered. It had only been a year since she'd seen him last, but he seemed to have aged about ten. What sort of people would shoot an old man in his apartment and leave him for dead like that? "Those bastards," she muttered. "I saw it coming." Of course you did. That's why you didn't stop it. "It's been a long time, Teena," he said. "Not long enough," she replied. "Don't play games. You wouldn't have come if you didn't want to see me." "I needed to see for myself that you were all right." "I'll live. Can you go home now?" "Did you want me to stay?" He shrugged again. "The way I see it, you owe me one. The last time I saw you I saved your life." "There's nothing I can do for you." "No." he agreed, "But after everything I've done for you and Fox..." She glared at him. "...You could at least keep me company for awhile." he finished. He's lonely. Probably bored. God knows I was bored after the stroke. And he doesn't have any friends - no one knows he's here... She stopped herself short of pity. She would not pity him. Not after everything that they had been through. She had put all of that behind her. But it's so hard... She knew from the doctors that he had refused any kind of painkillers. It was just like him, too. Damn male pride - he was as bad as Fox, or worse. She'd let him suffer, then. God it must hurt. She sighed. "Do you want a glass of water?" His voice had sounded hoarse. He shook his head. "Cigarettes." She smiled - he wasn't that far gone, then. "Can't do it," she replied, "Doctor's orders." "I know." A brief shadow of pain crossed his face, then disappeared. His hands were shaking slightly from withdrawal. "How's Fox?" he asked. "Fine." Well, no, but no use letting him know that. "How long do you intend to stay in hiding?" He blinked. "Oh, forever." "You can't hide forever." "I can disappear. I survived in this game for so long because I kept two steps ahead of the rest of them." "They won't believe you're dead. Not without a body." "They'll believe it." He yawned - she caught a sudden glimpse of the boy she'd once known, once loved - and then he was an old man again. "Walter told me that Fox was crying over me. I find that funny, don't you?" "No," she said. "Then again, he's a sensitive boy. He cries far too easily." The old man looked thoughtful. "I rather like being dead, nonetheless." "He doesn't know. He'll never know, not unless you tell him. Neither will she." "Know what?" he asked, feigning innocence. "What the deal was. About...the sacrifice you made for them. You're still a villain to them." "Better a dead villain than a living one," he said, "At least they can have some peace now." She was quiet, pondering this. "How *did* you escape, anyway?" He laughed, then winced in pain. "Would you believe that the bullet didn't hit any major organs? My lungs are too shriveled to make good targets and...well...I don't have a heart." It took her a moment to realize he was joking. He had caught her off guard, as usual. It had always surprised her that he was not always entirely serious. "Walter rescued me," he said finally, sounding almost embarrassed that he needed to rely on his old nemesis to save his life. To rely on anyone, really. "On the condition that I disappear. Permanently." "But you won't, will you?" "Teena," he said, "That is one promise I intend to keep." "We have work to do," she said, "This isn't over." He closed his eyes. "It's over for me. I'm sick of it. I've done enough." "You can't abandon it all like that." She stared at the pale, wrinkled face, wondering if he was serious. If he could really do it. "There's a safe house waiting for me, up in the mountains in Quebec. I am perfectly capable of vanishing without a trace." "Nothing vanishes without a trace," she whispered. She ran her fingers through his gray hair. She still remembered when it had been auburn, though she had forgotten so many other things - she could form the image of his face perfectly. Some days she could barely even remember Samantha - but she remembered the night she had first met him, sitting out on the porch beneath the stars. She tried to reconcile the memory of the wide-eyed boy with the bitter, cynical old man lying on the bed, and came up with nothing. She pictured him lying on the floor of his bare apartment. She could see the scene perfectly, as if she had been there. She knew about the lighter, the bloody photograph he had left as proof of his death. She shivered, trying to put the image out of her head. "Were you scared?" she asked hesitantly. Terrified. "Nothing scares me," he said. "Did it hurt?" It still does. Hold me, Teena. Hold me and make the pain go away. I love you, Teena, you're the only one who can end this... "Not really," he lied. He wondered what had changed - she had once been the only person to whom he couldn't lie. She kept stroking his hair, soothing him to sleep. He fought exhaustion but it was difficult. He was well aware that this was probably the last time he would see her - he was going away forever and neither of them were as young as they used to be. That's somewhat of an understatement. Look at her. Look how old she's gotten. Look how old I've gotten. Old enough not to care anymore. "Teena...I..." "It's all right," she said, "Just rest now. This will pass...they'll want you back, when it all blows over. They need you." "I told you," he said, once again shaken from sentimentality. "I'm retiring. I'm out of the game." She stared at him, wishing it were true. How many times had she lay awake at night over the years, worrying about him? It had been a long time, but the news of his death had hit her harder than she had ever imagined it would. But she had a duty. She knew it. And whatever she had felt for him once, she would have to put it aside now. "You're needed," she said, "And you'll go back. Do it for me." He looked up at her. "Why? You don't love me anymore." "For Fox, then. You and I don't have a future, but he does." Yes, Fox. Your son, if you don't remember... "He'll never understand why." "One day," she said, "One day he'll know exactly why." An old friend's voice came back to him suddenly, and he heard himself say, "Maybe I'm not the liar." She leaned over and kissed him - not his lips, she knew she would never be able to pull away again - but she kissed his forehead like a mother sending a child to sleep. "You'll be all right?" she asked. No. Never. "Yes," he said. "Good." She tucked the blankets around his shoulders, wanting to hug him, to have his arms around her again, wanting him to be the strong one as he had so many times during her youth. But instead she patted his hand and slipped out of the room. I still don't know your name. Teena Mulder thought to herself, And I still love you. There was a mass of shadows waiting for her in a corner of her hallway, catlike green eyes peering out from the darkness. She turned on the light switch to see the young man leaning against the wall, not at all shocked to see that he had broken into her house. It was his business, after all. "Tea?" she asked, used to the routine by now. "Thank you." He followed her into the kitchen, sitting down at the table. His right hand moved over his left, which was made of plastic. "I can't stay long." "You never do." She listened to the kettle whistle, pouring hot water into two mugs. She brought one over to Alex Krycek and kept the other for herself. He stirred his teabag absentmindedly with his spoon. "So he's alive?" Krycek said finally, "You saw him?" "I'd like him to remain that way, if it's at all possible." The young man laughed. He was a killer, like the man she loved, but a different sort of killer altogether. "Where is he going?" "A safe house, in the Laurentians." Krycek nodded. "I trust we will be able to find him when he is needed again." He doesn't want to go back. He can't do this anymore. He's an old man, let him be dead if that's what he wants. "You'll find him." The young man finished his tea quickly. Then he stood up in one fluid motion and was at the door. "Thank you, Mrs. Mulder. You have been very helpful." And he was gone. She looked out of the open dooway, the night wind howling in the trees. There was no sign of Krycek's presence anywhere. No sign of any human presence at all. It was not late at night - where had everyone gone? The moon hung full, swollen in the sky and the clouds had parted enough for her to see every crevice, every shadow. The man in the moon. She was doing the right thing. This wasn't a love story. This wasn't about her, and it wasn't about a boy she had known thirty-seven years ago. This was about the future. There was a war going on, and even now, an old, old woman, she was fighting it. A tear glistened in the corner of her eye, reflecting moonlight, and slid down her face into the cracks in the wooden porch. |
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Title: Black Wings III: Lipstick on my Cigarette Summary: Teena and CSM in the Laurentians. Ramblings: This is part III of a series, and makes considerably more sense if you've read parts I & II. What am I saying...I just want to make you read my stuff. It takes place between "TRATB" and "The End" Thanks Anna! "And it's passing slowly And lipstick on my cigarette All she could see was snow. She stepped off of a plane into blinding white. There was a train that would take her north and after that she walked against the wind. One old woman versus the power of nature in all its vengeance. And she won. At least for the time being. Teena Mulder 1, winter 0. The cabin among the mountains should have seemed warm and inviting, the wood stained a warm orange-brown, a spot of color amid swirling white. But it looked cold and lonely. For some reason she had expected to see smoke rising from the chimney. It would have seemed appropriate. But there was no smoke. Not even from the fireplace. She didn't knock on the door. She let herself in. It amused her, briefly, that he didn't lock his door. Why the hell wouldn't he lock his door? He was the most paranoid person she had ever met - next to her son, that was, and with better reasons. Powerful men had plotted to kill him. Still, they were gentlemen, the sort of people who would knock first, then shoot. She wondered perhaps if he wanted to die. It was cold inside. She had been prepared for an attack, at least a gun pointed at her head until he realized her identity. But on first glance it appeared as though no one was there, as if no one had ever lived here. It was so cold. She could hear him breathing. It took her awhile to see him, a dark form huddled in front of the unused fireplace. She had thought for a moment he might be another pile of clothing, another broken piece of furniture. His old apartment had been barren, but neat and clean - he despised clutter and filth. This didn't look like the sort of place that he would live. Smoke rose from the dark shape, informing her that it was indeed him. She approached him, cautiously. His face was turned away from her - he hadn't seen her yet. He must have heard her footsteps - unless he had lost his hearing? Was it possible? He was an old man, after all. No, he couldn't be deaf. The thought frightened her. She didn't want to picture him succumbing to a slow decay, the way she had. She touched his shoulder to alert him of his presence. "Hello Teena," he said softly. "How did you know it was me?" He looked up at her. She flinched. He was so pale. "You and Walter are the only people who know I'm here. I took a guess." She knew that couldn't have been true - he couldn't possibly believe it. Except that Skinner wanted him out of the picture, so he would keep the location a secret. And she... Paranoid though he was, he would never suspect her of betraying him. He was trembling, his voice hoarse and his breathing ragged. "You're sick," she said as it dawned on her. He nodded. She didn't know why it surprised her. Everyone got sick. Just a cold, she thought, he's probably still fairly weak. Everyone gets colds. Not him. "Why did you come here, Teena?" "I needed to see you." In case they break their word. In case they do intend to kill you. They won't kill him. Will they? "I'm fine." He looked away again. She sat down beside him on the dusty floor. "Why is this place so cold?" "I'm assuming you do know where we are." She bit down on her lip. "You've got a fireplace." "I'm not cold." Teena touched his forehead. His skin was burning - fever. She wished he wouldn't seem so mortal. He had never been like this before - it made her uncomfortable. She had always had a sneaking suspicion that he had been conjured up out of her overactive imagination - the proverbial tall, mysterious stranger - even as an old man he had still carried that image. It wasn't until she had seen him lying in a hospital bed that it occurred to her that he was a flesh and blood person, subject to weakness, to fear, to death. "I'm going to put some logs on the fire," she said, wishing the mothering tone would leave her voice. "You stay right here." He looked at something in his hand - a bright red something. A cigarette pack? No. A letter. "Out...the back door." She hesitated for a moment, then realized he was talking about the logs. "Right," she said. He flipped the letter over in his hand. She decided not to ask him about it. She went out the back door and returned with a few chopped logs for the fireplace. How the hell did he manage to chop wood? Was there someone else up here? If there was, it wouldn't be so damn cold, now would it? She threw the logs on the fireplace. They were slightly damp, and it took a few tries to get the fire burning. He quietly smoked a cigarette, ignoring her. "You look terrible," she said. "Thank you." "You've got to keep warm. If you get sick up here there's no one to take care of you." "I know." He doesn't care, Teena. He's not afraid to die. "I'm going to get you into bed, okay?" He didn't respond. She put her arms around him and tried to lift him to his feet. Realizing the frail woman didn't have a chance in hell of dragging him up on her own, he reluctantly stood and let her lead him over to the bed by the opposite wall. She covered him with a blanket and sat by his side, though not so close as to actually touch him. He was still holding onto the letter - it seemed to captivate his attention more than she did. "You probably have a good view of the stars here," she said, feeling foolish. "Yes." "Do you like it here?" "Of course I do." Of course he does. This would drive anyone else to insanity. "You don't miss having people around?" He laughed for the first time - not much of a laugh. "I'm antisocial, remember?" "Are you writing still?" He nodded. "I've got all the time in the world now." Oh, but you don't. You don't. She put her hand on the letter. "What's that?" Silence. As she had expected. Deny everything. Or better yet, don't say a word. "It's a letter," he said finally. "Have you got a penpal?" she asked, half-jokingly. Idiot. Who's he going to write to? Fox? Alex? Maybe the old guy with the British accent. Think, Teena. "You could say that. He's not terribly responsive." He held up the letter - she saw the stamp across it: RETURN TO SENDER. And the address. He *is* writing to Fox. But it wasn't Fox's name. "Who is this?" she asked, her heart speeding up. What have you gotten yourself into this time? He paused. He didn't want to answer her. "My son," he said. Silence. He took a drag of his cigarette. "Your son?" Not *our* son? "My other one." You thought you were the only woman, didn't you? Didn't occur to you that he might have had someone else. You don't know anything about him, do you? He never said you were the only one. Oh, but I wanted to be. "I know what you're thinking," he said, and she believed him. "We're not kids anymore, Teena. I wasn't the only one for you and you weren't the only one for me. What's so damn hard to understand?" You were the only one. You were always the only one... "Nothing, it's just..." "Then forget about it. He doesn't want anything to do with me." "Who was she?" "You don't know her." "Is she still alive?" "I'm not sure." He touched the end of his lit cigarette to the corner of the letter, watching it smolder slowly. "You're not going to let me read it?" "It doesn't concern you." He seemed transfixed as the letter burned. "At least Fox talks to me - well, yells at me. Waves guns in my face and that sort of thing. This squeaky little bastard doesn't even acknowledge my existence." She was vaguely curious - no, more than vaguely. "What about the mother?" "We parted on bad terms." "No child support checks in the mail?" "Anonymous." "You put yourself in danger by trying to contact him. The others must know." "Oh, they know. But it doesn't matter, really." "You don't think they'll come after you." "They will. I just don't particularly care anymore." The flames engulfed the entire letter - anyone with sense would have dropped the last bit, but he let it burn, tendrils of flame licking at his nicotine-stained fingers. It wasn't that he was immune to pain, she thought, he was just accustomed to it. She wondered if he would do that if he were alone. "Did you love her?" she asked finally. "No." How many others were there, exactly? Better not to ask. Teena, don't ask him that. Did you love me? Afraid of what his response might be, she kept silent. "Are you going to stay?" he asked after awhile. "I can't stay. You know that." "You could spend the night. The next train won't come until the morning." She realized suddenly that she had never woken up beside him. It was strange - their affair had lasted twelve years, and he had not once been there in the morning. She didn't attribute that to any disloyalty on his part - just fear of Bill's wrath, fear of being discovered. "I'll stay," she said in barely a whisper. He relaxed visibly - she was startled that she could have such an effect on him. He was always deadpan, emotionless. He was the stranger in the shadows - she was the one who wept when he left, whose heart leapt into her mouth whenever he appeared. He didn't give anything away. So he really was sick, then. Hot tears sprung to her eyes, she pushed them back. I will not feel pity I will not... Poor man. What are you going to do, Teena? Feed him chicken soup? Well, it was a thought, anyway. She wondered if he would appreciate the gesture. His hand reached for hers, pulling her close. "Please...don't..." She collapsed against him and he flung his arms around her, holding her tightly. This is going to make everything else so difficult... It's already difficult. This makes it worse. She felt the feather touch of his lips - she tried to pull away, then acquiesced. It had been twenty-five years - and she missed him. She loved him. No you do not Teena what are you thinking what are you doing... One of his hands stroked her hair, the other wrapped the blanket around her body - which meant he must have put down his cigarette... Oh God he'd put down a cigarette for me. ...and he pressed his fevered face against her throat. He was still shaking - she tried to shield him, bury him in her own warmth. "You're too sick for this." the mother in her said. He laughed. "You mean I'm too old for this." She shuddered. "Never mind. Just hold me." That shocked her - it was so unlike anything he would ever say. She slipped her hand under his shirt, touched the gnarled scar on his chest. "Go to sleep," she said. "I will - but don't let go." She moved her hand around to his back, rubbing him gently. "I've got you," she murmured, "It's okay. Are you comfortable?" He nodded against her. "Teena?" he whispered. "Yes?" "I love you." Don't say that, you son-of-a-bitch. Don't say that. Not now. You don't know what I have to do to you. Why the hell didn't you tell me that thirty years ago? You don't know what I've already done... She kissed his cheek. "Goodnight," she said. He woke before she did - he didn't need much sleep. He would have thought that last night had been a dream but she was still lying there, her face slack and peaceful. It was good to wake up to her in the morning. He had a sudden urge to wake her, to bring her outside and show her the sunrise over the mountains - but he decided against it. He didn't like to think of her seeing him in broad daylight. And she would be gone soon enough anyway. He felt decidedly better, throwing on a scarf and an overcoat and stepping outside into the cold morning air. He lit the first cigarette of the day, his frosted breath preceding the smoke, a hazy omen of better things to come. He looked out, into the snow. No sign of them yet. He knew they would come. He knew that she would leave long before they arrived - she would catch the first train out to avoid suspicion. The date had been set - the others needed him - and nothing that had happened would change that. He watched her through the open doorway. She looked innocent in sleep. But she was no more innocent than he. Oh, Teena. You underestimate me, my love. Don't think for a moment that I don't know what you've done, who you're really working for. But it doesn't change anything. I still love you. And so I'll go with them, when they come for me. But Teena, it's not for the reasons you think... |
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Title: Black Wings IV: Up In Smoke Summary: "The End", as seen through different eyes. Ramblings: If you've gotten this far, I assume you've read the other ones. If not you shouldn't be TOO lost. Thanks Anna! "Some say they fear him Dear Son, I know this may come as a surprise to you - I know that it is something you might not want to hear... "Shit." He crossed out the words as soon as they came, crumpled the paper into a ball and scored a direct hit into the wastebasket Feeding a new sheet into the typewriter, he started again. Jack Colquitt sat in self-imposed exile, staring at a blank sheet of paper... The new page was in the trash before the sentence was finished. He leaned back in the chair and lit up a cigarette. He listened to the soft patter of footsteps outside the cabin. In a way, he mused, it was good timing. He would have never have forgiven them if they had arrived just as he was putting the finishing touches on a new story. They would probably burn the cabin down around him and he would be damned if he was going to lose another chance at eternal fame like that. Better they should come when he had writer's block. He didn't feel so bad about it that way. He saw a shadow on the floor, stark black against the light streaming from underneath the door. Without thinking about it he raised his gun and fired through the wood, sending another stranger to hell. And then he made a break for it. Dear Fox, I know this will be hard for you to accept. I know that this will come as a surprise to you, but I have lived too many years with these lies for the truth to come easily... Damn. Why was it always so complicated? Teena Mulder frowned at her neat handwriting, then crossed out the two lines of words, folded the page neatly and threw it in the garbage. What am I thinking? I could never tell him. She was waiting for the phone to ring. She didn't think that they would call her, but she was waiting anyway. It was better than thinking about it. She half expected to see him standing in the grass, throwing rocks at the window of her bedroom like some love-struck schoolboy - he had done it enough before - or come creeping through the back door and startle her. She almost wished he would. Or at least he might have called. She should never have come to him in the first place - she should have let him fade back into the shadows. It was better that way - the memories, even the painful ones. Better to try and forget. She knew he would come. If he was still alive. He wouldn't miss another opportunity for revenge. Sighing, she took out another sheet of stationary and started a new letter. It wasn't enough that they had to call him back into action after all these months, after nearly killing him for chrissakes but they had to make him shoot some innocent woman and abduct a little kid just to rub in the fact that they owned him now. It was just like them, too. To prove his loyalty he would have to go to extremes. They didn't know just how far he was capable of going. He had wanted to drive in silence - the kid beside him in the passenger seat - he might be able to handle it if the brat didn't open his mouth. He looked straight ahead, pretending to be alone. "If you feel so bad about it why don't you just let me go?" Damn kid. "I can't," he said, hoping he didn't sound as helpless as he thought he might. Twelve years old - he could remember Fox at twelve - he wondered if that was why they had sent him when they had a thousand other thugs who were equally capable of bumping two FBI agents and kidnapping a child. "You could make up some lie. You're good at it." And if it wasn't enough already, a child who seemed determined to act as the manifestation of his conscience. I don't have a conscience goddamn it. "Just shut up," he said, "We're almost there." "I know you miss her." the kid said. "Shut up." Not that he could blame the kid. He was just trying to survive - they all were. "She's thinking about you right now. She misses you too." "It's not going to work, okay? It won't work on me." "You could give me to Fox. He'd protect both of us." This was going too far. Goddamn aliens. You start talking to them and they offer you everything you ever wanted. He had given in the last time - let the alien heal him, heal Teena. They knew his weaknesses. And he hated them for it. He wondered if the kid truly believed that he could make everything better. It was his own inner voice that was speaking through the child. Give up the game. You owe them nothing. Hand the kid over to Fox and he'll realize you're on his side. It will be the beginning, the pathway to forgiveness. He pushed the voice aside. He knew he was doing the right thing. He had a role to play and he would play it - even if it meant the kid's death, the continued estrangement from his own children. It was for the good of everyone - for the future. For Teena. "She betrayed you." the kid said in a soft voice, "Why are you doing what she wants?" Because as much as I hate her I know she's right. This isn't for Teena. This is for Fox, and Jeffrey, and the future. Because I love her. "Shut up," he said to the kid, and lit up another cigarette. The look of disgust on his former colleague's face didn't escape him. His own face was expressionless. And the kid stood beside him, not at all frightened. Quick. Now. Do it. Take the kid and run. You have a gun - you could get the old man and Krycek before they knew what hit them. Go. But he didn't. He handed over the kid, made a few cryptic remarks, and walked away. Coward. I'm only beginning. And he was at her door before he knew what he was doing. Teena heard the noise downstairs, tearing her from troubled dreams. Drifting memories - voices - she moved like a ghost in her white nightgown, the images already forgotten. She was getting old. There was a dark shape huddled in her kitchen, the red glow of a cigarette. "Hello," she said, feeling awkward. No response. She hadn't expected one anyway. "Are you all right?" Stupid question. If he was all right he wouldn't have been there. "Why'd you do it, Teena?" he asked softly, "How much did they offer you? Was it - did they say they'd give her back? Was that it?" "How did you know?" He rose, slowly, turned to face her. She shivered, unable to meet his eyes, staggered backwards. "Did you think I wouldn't know?" He slumped back into the chair, no longer so intimidating. He looked old, old and tired. He had lost weight - he had looked too thin the last time she had seen him, and he looked worse now. "You and Walter were the only ones who knew where I was. And he wants me out of the game." "I did what I had to do," she replied. He took a puff of his cigarette. "Why him, Teena? Why Krycek? Did you think he would kill me, or I would kill him first - or did you even care?" "I care," she said. I care about you. "I told you it was over." She averted her eyes again. "Look at me, Teena." His voice, still soft, was a low growl. He grabbed her wrist - she yanked it away, turning from him. "Go away," she said, "Leave me alone." They both realized at the same time that she was crying. "Go," she whimpered. "Teena..." "You sound just like Bill, you know that?" This caught him off guard. He moved around to face her, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her to look up. "Teena," he said quietly, "Teena, listen to me. I'm not Bill. Bill's dead. I will never hurt you." She pressed against him, her arms closing around his waist. He reached one hand up to stroke her white hair. She shuddered, choking back the rest of her tears. "You already have," she said. He listened to her sobbing for awhile, though she was trying hard to make it clear that she didn't want him around. He went upstairs to her bedroom. He didn't think of it as intrusion, really - if he honestly believed a word she said he would have already left. There was a letter on the nightstand by her unmade bed. Dear Fox, This is now the fifth time I've started this letter to you. I wish there was some way for me to tell you without hurting us both. Believe me, I've tried. And I'm very good at keeping secrets, keeping emotions bottled up - but I'm sure you know that already. This is the secret I have never been able to tell you. Thirty-seven years ago, I fell in love with a killer. Times were different then - I was married to your father, and very unhappy. I suppose a modern woman would have up and left, but one didn't do that in those days. I stayed, and I suffered, and I never said a word to anyone. Until HE came. It has always seemed strange to me that a killer could be so gentle. That this man - who promised to protect me, who wanted so desperately to save me from my unhappy life - this man was a murderer by trade. I was young, Fox, young and foolish and confused. Yes, I cheated on your father. I broke up our family. I don't know if I regret it or not - I am only telling you so you will know the truth. This man, this killer, was your real father... The writing went on, but he stopped reading there. He picked up the paper in his hand, paused for a moment, and then held the corner to the lit end of his cigarette. He watched it burn, the way he had burned the letter to his son Jeffrey, the flames flickering in the dark room. He heard her open the door behind him. "Impressive," he said, "You got much farther than I did. I couldn't write more than a sentence." "I'm sorry." "Were you intending to send this to him?" "I..." He turned towards her, his features terrifying in the light cast by the flames. "He is never to know, Teena. We agreed on that." "I know - I just-" They were both silent, watching the words become ashes. And then he walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her. "You're not going to say anything?" "No." He brushed hair from her face. "I don't have much time left," he said, "I'm a killer again." "I'm sorry," she said again. "If you don't stop saying that, then I *will* be angry." "Why did you come here?" "I think you know." He held her tightly, fighting back tears. Forgive me, Teena. Forgive me for I have sinned... "I came back to say goodbye." She kissed him, her eyes shut, imagining for a moment the boy she had once known. Imagining that somehow all the years of pain, betrayal, loss, could disappear and they could be beautiful and innocent again. A remote part of her noticed the white nightgown slipping from her shoulders as he pulled her to the bed - she ignored it, it didn't seem important now anyway. Either of them might be dead in the morning - she fell into his arms as she always had, knowing that it might very well be the last time. She looked like a girl again, breathless in the aftermath, a pale smear of white in the dark bedroom. "I have to go," he said. There's no reason. Bill isn't coming home - he won't find us. You can stay... But she nodded. He had to go. He had an appointment to keep. "Don't leave me." She looked over at the clock - 11:21 PM. "What time are you meeting him?" "Not until the morning." "Then stay." "You don't think they have your house bugged?" he asked. "They have better things to do than watch us." He laughed. "Just stay. You can drive back to Washington in the morning. You're not dead anymore." She was startled at how little persuasion it actually took. He shifted under the covers - not to get up, but to put his arm around her waist. She snuggled against him, closing her eyes. "Then sleep, Teena," he said quietly, "We're both too old for this." They lay in each other's arms, and she drifted off to sleep. When she woke up, she was holding the pillow, and a pale wreath of smoke drifted up from the extinguished cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. It had been a long time since he had sat in the office. He was smiling, as he had once done, though for different reasons. He noticed Skinner had taken down the NO SMOKING sign - it was no longer necessary, of course. He took the opportunity to light up another cigarette, leaning back in the chair. "You still can't smoke in here," Skinner said. He thought momentarily of stubbing it out, reconsidered, and blew a cloud of smoke into the younger man's face. "You have a lot of nerve, coming back like this. You were supposed to be dead. That was the agreement. Do I need to remind you?" Several answers crossed his mind, but he decided to go with the most truthful. "It was not my choice." "And I suppose all is forgiven - you're working for *them* again..." "I have my reasons." "I should shoot you right here. I saved your life, you ungrateful son-of-a-bitch." He smiled, shrugged. "You won't shoot me." "No. But it's safe to say you owe me one." "What do you want from me, Walter?" "The Justice Department wants to shut down the X-Files." He nodded, taking a drag of the cigarette. "And you want me to stop them." "Yes." "I think you overestimate my position in the organization." "Be that as it may-" "If they find out I'm working against them, they'll kill me." "They would have already, if it weren't for me." "Still..." He pretended to be deep in thought for the sole purpose of watching Walter Skinner squirm. "I'd rather be on your bad side than theirs." He put the cigarette out on the wooden desk, leaving a black burn. "I'll do it. I doubt, however, you will like my methods." "Do whatever it takes." "Oh, I will, Mr. Skinner. I will." He stood up and walked towards the door. "And Walter?" "What?" "This is a personal favor. You have nothing to hold over me - I don't fear exposure, and I'm already dead. If you think I'm going to be some sort of informant, reporting against them-" "I thought nothing of the sort." "Good." He let himself out. Now we're enemies again. It was night, and the basement office was empty. He looked around at the poster on the wall, the charming disorder of papers, files, photographs. He moved over to the old file cabinet, lighting up a cigarette. They want to shut you down, do they? Don't take you seriously? I'll make them take you seriously. He rooted through the files, locating Samantha's without much effort. He could probably find it with his eyes shut. He had memorized its location. You won't understand this, Fox. You can't possibly understand. We have roles to play, and I will play mine. And I hope one day, you'll know why. This is for you, my son. His own role was confirmed. He would keep Fox's work alive by opposing it, proving its validity. It was the only way. His action would be a statement, one which even the Justice Department couldn't ignore. I hope you have this all on backup disk...if not you deserve to lose everything... Oh god Fox forgive me forgive me Fox Teena Samantha forgive me... Closing his eyes, he dropped the cigarette, watching the edge of a paper begin to catch. And still clutching Samantha's file, he walked upstairs, towards the light. |
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Title: Black Wings V: Afterlife Ramblings: You've reached the end! Well, good for you. I hope you've read all the others. All done now. Bye bye. Thanks Anna. "But...he loved. He should have been forgiven. He should have been helped. He should not have been destroyed like that. That was wrong." "Checkmate" The boy's voice was lifeless. He was bored. He wished people wouldn't make him play chess all the time. His opponent, an old man smoking a cigarette, paid no attention. "Checkmate," Gibson Praise said in a louder voice. He knew that the old man's mind had wandered off somewhere - he wished he could shut out his opponent's thoughts. "Did you hear me?" The man at last acknowledged the child's existence. "Yes, I-" His dark eyes turned towards the boy. "Gibson, if you are a mind reader you must know that I don't mean you any harm." "I know what they're going to do to me." The old man sighed. He couldn't blame the boy for being bitter. He doubted that he would feel any differently in the same situation. "I know why you go along with them, too." The boy's voice was confident - it was not the voice of a frightened twelve-year-old. "You're not like them, but you listen to them anyway. You hate them, but you do their work for them." "I can't save you." "You could," Gibson said, "But you won't." He took a puff of his cigarette and nodded. "Of course." The boy's eyes met his eyes. "I'm not Fox, you know," he said softly. Then he turned back to the game board. "Checkmate," he said. "Do you think they're afraid for you?" the smoking man asked suddenly. He knew Gibson was aware of who he was talking about. "Do they worry in the same way, I wonder? When you're gone, will they drive themselves to madness searching for you? Will they wake up in the middle of the night, hearing a sound, thinking that it's you, come home?" He stared at the child, so small and fragile. "How human are they, Gibson?" The boy made no response. More human than I am, maybe? "I'm not a monster." the smoking man said quietly. Gibson said nothing. The look in his eyes said enough. His cell phone rang. It took him awhile to realize where the noise came from. It had been so long since he had spoken to anyone over the phone. It was going to take time to adjust to civilization. "Hello?" It was one of his own men - he recognized the voice. "I thought you might want to know, sir-" There was a pause, which he interpreted as nervousness. "What?" he asked, his voice cold. "It's Mrs. Mulder, sir. She's had another stroke." "I'll be there immediately." He hung up. Gibson gave him a half-curious stare. "Aren't you supposed to be watching me?" he asked. As if he didn't know what his captor's next response would be. The smoking man looked around. There were only the two guards at the door, and he could deal with them. He took the boy's small hand in his. "Come on, Gibson," he said, "We're going home." The well-manicured man stepped over one of the dead bodies, wincing with disgust. Death was messy, filthy. The smoking bastard had been right in telling him that he didn't have the stomach for the profession. He had killed before, they all had, but it never failed to make him ill. The two men had been shot execution style in the back of their heads. It had been too fast for either of them to scream, and the killer had used a silencer. He frowned at the brains and blood splattered on the white walls. "Any guess at what happened here?" he asked. Alex Krycek grunted, bashing the locked door open. The corpses didn't seem to bother him, though he held his nose at the fresh scent of death. The door swung open to reveal a room nearly empty except for a chessboard with scattered pieces. "I could take a guess," he said. Seeing the look on his employer's face, he said, "You're the one who let the son-of-a-bitch live." The elderly gentleman shook his head. "Mr. Krycek," he said, "That can always be corrected." He was driving now, away from the Consortium facility, away from the buildings and the gray-faced men and the dark world into which he had only recently returned. The boy sat beside him, silent and small. The window was open and the wind ruffled his gray hair as he sped down the highway. He had a new pack of cigarettes and he knew where he was going. Gibson Praise still didn't look very happy. He didn't like the smoking man's motivations. He wasn't free now - the old man's thoughts were a confused blur, but he could gather that much. He was still at the mercy of a professional killer. But he was at the mercy of a professional killer who wasn't thinking very clearly, one whose mind ran with thoughts of his estranged children and the woman he loved, one who was torn every second between laughing hysterically at his own foolishness and weeping from the depths of his old, bitter heart. At least the cigarette fumes weren't as strong with the window open. The boy had been sure he would develop cancer just by sitting in the same room as the man. Of course he was immune to cancer. But the thought still crossed his mind. He started making mental bets with himself on how long it would be before his captor snapped and went altogether mad. The basement wasn't the same anymore. The fire hadn't done much damage to the building itself, but the furniture, the files, the posters and photographs and paper that had turned the office into a second home, all of those were gone. The crew had cleaned up most of the damage, and now it just looked bare and sterile. At least they had it back, Scully mused. After sharing a cubicle for two weeks she had become quite nostalgic for the disordered basement with no windows and no air-conditioning. She had never gotten her own desk. She would get one now - Skinner had specifically requested it. But the office wasn't the same. Mulder wasn't the same. They hadn't shut down the X-Files yet, although they were scheduled for a hearing before the Justice Department. Scully wasn't optimistic, although a part of her thought that perhaps the fire had inadvertantly helped them - it proved that *someone* out there took them seriously. She was just afraid of who that someone might be. They hadn't been assigned another X-File since the fire. Gibson Praise was still missing, Diana Fowley still in a coma. Mulder was flipping a flattened Morley box over in his hand. She wished he would do something with it, maybe pin it up on the wall and throw darts at it, anything but stare at it like he was doing now. She was thankful when the recently reconnected phone rang. Mulder made no move to get it. She picked it up. It was Skinner. He wanted to speak to Mulder. Her partner reached over to take the phone. He listened for a few seconds, then nodded slowly. "Thank you, sir," he said, his voice a monotone, and hung up. "More bad news?" she asked, her own voice expressionless as well. "Not that we needed any more," he replied, "Scully, can you come with me to the hospital? My mother just had a stroke." Teena Mulder looked as though she were sleeping. She lay on the white bed. Her hair was very white. Her skin was very white. To his eyes, blurred with tears, she seemed to shine in the dim light of the hospital room, a fairy ice princess doomed to eternal sleep. Still holding the boy's hand, the smoking man made his way towards the bed. "Teena," he whispered. He released the boy to take her hand. The doctors had told him that she was still unconscious and it was unlikely that she would wake up again. At her age, and having already had one serious stroke, her chances weren't good. He sat on the plastic chair beside her bed and ran his fingers through her hair. She was so very still. He shivered beneath his heavy black coat. Damn it, Teena. Not this. Not again. It hurt to see her like this, much more than he had expected. Sickness, death, these things were not supposed to bother him. He had seen enough people die - young and old, wise and foolish, powerful and insignificant. He himself had faced death many times. An ordinary man in his position would have been dead years ago - but then again, an ordinary man would never have been in his position. She looked so frail. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. It had not been so long ago that she had sat beside him, holding his hand while he quietly suffered. He would have gladly fought alien clones and assassins for her, but this was an enemy stronger than both of them. He wrapped one arm around her fragile body and lay his head on the pillow next to hers. "Wake up, Teena." he murmured, "Please wake up." A cough alerted him to Gibson's presence. He looked over at the boy, then sat up straight in the chair. Perhaps there would be salvation after all. "Go ahead kid," he said, "Do your stuff." The boy looked at him strangely. "Do what?" As if the kid didn't know. If he wasn't personally acquainted with Jeremiah Smith and the Bounty Hunter, he could certainly absorb the memories of them from the old man's mind. He was just playing innocent. "I rescued you for a reason." the smoking man said, looking back at Teena. "I can't heal her." the boy said, "I don't know how to. I'm not like the other ones." That possibility hadn't occurred to him. He was faintly surprised that he hadn't thought to ask the boy. "But-" "If I'd told you, you never would have let me go." The boy stared at him through thick glasses. "You can't take me back, now. They'll kill you too." "Damn," he muttered. He could have sworn he saw the kid smile. "Guess you're stuck with me, huh?" "Guess so." He stroked her limp hand. "Can you contact one of the others?" Gibson shook his head. "Everything dies," he said softly. He sighed, the pain worse than he ever would have imagined. He had always thought that he would die first. It was funny - he had led a dangerous existence, while she had been a meek, long-suffering housewife. By all accounts he should have never lived to be as old as he was. He had never believed that he would be the one left behind. Alex Krycek sat alone in his apartment, polishing his gun. It had been out of use for too long. He hadn't undergone years of training just to drive around old men and whining brats. He was all too happy to put the gun to use. He had already passed up the perfect opportunity. His gun, an unarmed smoking man, and no one around for miles. Still, he'd had a job to do, and he'd done it. He'd probably never get in a situation like that again. It would be more difficult this time. Krycek leaned back in the chair and loaded a clip into his weapon, a task made somewhat more problematic by his missing arm. nonetheless, he accomplished it with practiced ease. This bullet has a name on it, he thought to himself. Of course, I don't know what that name is... But soon enough, it won't matter anymore. ~~we all have our demons, Mr. Mulder, you should know that by now and on this night, this cold night, I give away my only daughter. she is dressed in white and she has not yet seen her bridegroom. death, do you take this woman samantha Mulder to be your lawfully wedded wife oh god don't take her don't take my baby- to have and to hold not my samantha not my baby girl to honour and to cherish you're a little spy for better or for worse fox, I'm scared for richer or for poorer the choice the choice don't make me choose til death do you part I could have never chosen goddamn you bill teena you can't let them take her- not my baby samantha Mulder, do you take death? i do.~~ He jerked awake, startled by the noise of footsteps in the corridor. I'm getting old, falling asleep at a time like this... Reaching for a cigarette, he remembered suddenly where he was. Not that bylaws and regulations had ever stopped him from smoking anywhere he wanted, but at the bedside of a dying woman seemed like a mildly inappropriate place, even for him. He looked over to see that Gibson was still there. So he hadn't been asleep for that long, at least. The Consortium hadn't gotten to the kid. Teena lay motionless, only the slight rise and fall of her chest and the beeping of the monitor beside her indicating that she was alive. He had fallen asleep holding her hand - it was small and cold and clammy in his. "He's coming," Gibson said. Not entirely sure who the kid was talking about, the smoking man felt for his gun. The reassuring weight of it was hidden underneath his coat, but he hoped he wouldn't have to use it. Not here. Not with *her*. He was relieved to see that it was only Mulder and Scully. Only... he thought, and almost laughed. There was a gun pointed at his head. "Mr. Mulder, I don't think you really want to shoot me in here." He released Teena's hand and went over to Gibson. "She's hooked up to oxygen. This whole place would blow." He met his son's angry eyes. "Besides, I have something you want." Mulder stared down at the boy. "Oh, you bastard..." "I didn't harm the child." the smoking man said, "I brought him back to you." He looked to Scully. "I would suggest you get him out of here, however. *They* will be here soon." "They?" "I believe you know who I'm talking about." He gave the boy a gentle shove forward. "Go on, Gibson." The child needed no more encouragement. He ran over to Scully and wrapped his arms around her. "It's all right, honey," she whispered, "You're safe now." The smoking man went back to his chair at Teena's bedside. "I should have expected to see you turn up here." Mulder said, "I was told you were dead." "I was." He stroked Teena's hair. "Get away from her." He didn't respond. "You heard me. Get out of here. Did you do this to her?" "No." "What the fuck do you want?" "I think you know the answer to that, Mr. Mulder." "Get away from my mother." "I have an offer to make you, Mr. Mulder." "I don't care to hear it, thanks." "I think you do." He looked up at Scully. "My former colleagues will be coming by shortly. I strongly advise that you and the boy not be there when they arrive." "I'd like to know what it is you want." Scully replied. "I'm sure Mulder will fill you in." "You have a charming way of telling people to fuck off." Mulder said. "Mr. Mulder, there are children present." Mulder sighed. "Go on, Scully. Get Gibson someplace safe." She touched his hand. "Will you be all right?" He nodded. "If you need anything-" "I know." He watched her lead Gibson out the door. Only when they were gone did he reluctantly turn back towards the smoking man and Teena. "Why did you come here?" "I came to see your mother." "Almost killing her once wasn't enough for you, was it?" His dark eyes flared. "I would never hurt her, Fox." "I should kill you right now." "You could, but-" "But I'll never know the truth, is that right?" Mulder interrupted, "You keep saying that, but you have never exactly been forthcoming." "I am prepared to tell you everything." Mulder didn't respond right away. He stared at the smoking man in disbelief. "Why the hell should I believe you?" "I have proof. I kidnapped Gibson Praise. I was the one who burned your office down. I know the secrets you have sought for so long." He pulled something from beneath his trench coat. It was a file. He handed it to Mulder. He read the label, but there was no need. He recognized it right away. It was the only file that survived the fire. His sister's. "How did you get this," Mulder whispered. "So what is it? You want me to join the Consortium again? Your last attempt didn't turn out so well." "I don't care what you do. I only have a few days to live at most. My former colleagues want to kill me and they'll be successful this time. What I want is more...personal." Mulder closed his eyes. He had a feeling he wouldn't like this very much. "What?" "Your mother is dying, Fox, and I can't save her this time. I want to be there when she dies. She would have wanted it too, believe me. And after that, I'll tell you everything I know." "Is this some kind of joke?" The smoking man stood up, patting Teena's hand, then releasing it. "Think it over, Mr. Mulder," he said, then slipped out the door. "He wants what?" Scully was hunched over the computer, but she straightened up as soon as Mulder burst in with his news. "You heard me. Doesn't make any sense, does it?" "Do you believe him?" "No...yes...I don't know." Mulder slumped down in the chair, burying his head in his hands. "I don't understand this." She went over to him to run a hand through his hair. "No...I think you do understand it, Mulder. I think that might be the problem." "So is that it? You think I should take him up on it?" "I don't know what you should do," she sighed. "We're going before the Justice Department in a few days. They could shut us down - unless we have some sort of validation. He's not their leader, Mulder. Not even close. It goes even higher up, and if we could get him to testify against the others-" "At what price? My mother's soul?" "But he said she'd want him there." "He said? Scully, he's a liar, we both know that." He gestured at the gutted office. "He's responsible for all this, and worse..." He shook his head. "My father, your sister, you..." "We don't know that. You said yourself that he led you to the cure for my cancer." "Because he *gave* you cancer, Scully. I-" He was staring at the Morley pack again. "God, I hate him. I want to see him go up in flames. But-" "But?" "But I believe him." ~~and even demons dream, mr. Mulder mr. fox and I will wake up screaming every night dear god it's too late and there will be no redemption- I am not a monster I am not forgive me teena for I have sinned and and I won't be there to carry you off into the sunset like you said like we dreamed this bullet has a name on it and it is my name that even you never knew we carry our secrets to our graves to our dreams and do you dream teena are you dreaming now am I there with you in the place between worlds are you there am i? am I a monster there too or does death grant us all absolution wait for me teena this bullet bears my name and I am coming for you~~ His gun followed the old man's movement through the street, but it was broad daylight and so he wouldn't fire. Alex Krycek was nearly invisible in the shadows, dressed in black, his only noticable feature obscured by long sleeves and black gloves. He didn't want to attract attention, not to himself and not to his prey. There was always a chance someone would be around to save the son-of-a-bitch's life again. He didn't want that. Resigned to the waiting, he went back to his apartment. The phone rang the second he walked in the door. He almost didn't get it. Probably just the English bastard again, wanting to know what was taking him so long. He was waiting for the perfect moment. It wasn't the English bastard. "Hello, Alex," the voice, low and smoky, was far too familiar. And he thought he had been subtle. "What do you want?" Krycek snarled. "It's not a matter of what I want, Alex. It's what you want - what *they* want from you." "You're a dead man," Krycek breathed. "So I hear." He could almost visualize the smile, the smoke curling around the receiver. "I want a few more days." "What the fuck are you talking about?" "A few more days, and then I'll give myself up to you. You won't find me otherwise." "I know where you are." "I'm sure you are aware of what happened to the last assassin they sent after me." He was bluffing, of course, there was no way he could have been responsible for that particular death - but it sent a tremor through Krycek's body regardless. He couldn't believe he was sitting here listening to the old dragon plead for his life. "What do you want?" A click. The old man had hung up. Krycek cursed softly and kicked the leg of an already battered chair. He didn't need this. He took the phone off the hook, rolled into bed and fell asleep. Mulder arrived at the hospital to see the smoking man sitting outside of his mother's room. "What?" he snapped. "Are you going to pull a gun on me?" the old man asked, not sounding as though he particularly cared either way. Mulder considered this for a moment. "No." He looked in the door to see Teena lying on the bed. "If you plan on coming in, you'd better put that out." He stubbed out his cigarette and followed his son into the room. The doctors had told him that Teena's condition was unchanged - in other words, worse. He took his seat by the bed and clutched her white hand in both of his. "I wish you wouldn't do that," Mulder said. "We have an arrangement." "Why did you bring Gibson back?" The smoking man glanced up at him out of half-closed eyes. "You'll find all of this out. It will make sense to you soon enough." "Were you sleeping with her?" He said nothing, staring back at Teena now. "Answer me. You were having an affair with her, weren't you? *Weren't you*?" "She's waking up." "What?" The old man smiled. "She's waking up." Her eyes blinked open slowly, focusing on the craggy, wearied face staring over her. Where am I? "Teena." He was stroking her hand again - it took her a brief moment to remember who he was. "It's all right, Teena. You're in the hospital. How are you feeling?" She couldn't speak - couldn't answer him. She didn't know how she was feeling. Another face was looking down at her now - a younger man - handsome, and almost familiar. "Mom?" Mom? "Who are-" She couldn't finish the sentence. The young man's face went pale. "Mom? It's me. Fox...your son. Mom?" "Fox...yes..." She wasn't sure if she remembered having a son, but she supposed she did. "I'm going to call the doctor." the man named Fox said. The older man nodded and squeezed her hand. Yes - she knew this one, although she couldn't remember his name. She could feel his breath on her - cigarette smoke. It was a comforting scent. "Tired," she said. "You've slept for long enough." the old man said with a faint smile. He slipped one arm under her head and wrapped the other around her. "Oh, Teena." he murmured. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the man named Fox coming back in with another man, this one dressed in a white coat. "I'm going to tell him everything, Teena." the old man was whispering, "He has to know." Was he asking her permission? She just nodded, not understanding. The man in the white coat pulled the old man away from her, but he continued to stare at her. She attempted a weak smile, and then everything started to slip away again. They wouldn't let him back into the room. Frustrated, he paced outside the hallway, feeling Mulder's eyes on him. He could hear them talking to her, trying to assess the extent of the brain damage, but he couldn't hear her responses. "She didn't recognize me," Mulder said quietly. The smoking man stopped pacing and turned towards his son. "She said your name." "She didn't know who I was." "She's just had a stroke." "But-" Here it comes... Mulder tried again. "But she recognized you." "At least we know she has some of her faculties intact." He didn't see the younger man's attack until he found himself flung up against the wall with a gun shoved against the side of his head. "Who are you?" Mulder hissed, "And what do you want with my mother?" "Let me down." Mulder put the gun away, realizing a young orderly was staring at them, and released the older man from his grip. "You need to work on that anger problem of yours, Mr. Mulder." the smoking man said. "What do you want with her?" "Call it nostalgia, if you like." He saw the doctor leaving Teena's room. "We should go see how she's doing." Scully arrived at the hospital after work. Mulder was sitting at his mother's bedside, holding her hand. The smoking man was slumped in a chair with his head on the pillow beside Teena's. He was asleep. Scully put her arm around her partner's shoulders. "How is she?" "She...regained consciousness this morning." Scully smiled, but there was something wrong with his tone. He should have been happy - but he was holding something back. "What is it, Mulder?" She looked over at the old woman, asleep as well now, one of her hands entwined with the smoking man's. "Oh." "It's not that," Mulder said, "I mean it *is* that, but-" He cleared his throat. "There's brain damage," he said finally. "It's to be expected, we both know that-" She looked at her partner's ashen face. "I'm sorry, Mulder." "How's Gibson?" "Under 24 hour protective custody. They'd have to have someone on the inside to get at him - we know they do - but if he's not safe now, he won't ever be safe..." She trailed off, her gaze on the old man sleeping across the bed from Mulder. "How long has he - I mean-" Mulder laughed. "You don't know how many times I've been tempted to steal his wallet and find out what his real name is." "Has he told you anything yet?" "No." Mulder shrugged. "I don't think he will." He stared at the smoking man, at his mother's slack face. "You wouldn't know it, by looking at him, would you?" "Know what?" "What an evil son-of-a-bitch he is." "Not now." She took his hand. "Mulder, it's going to be okay." He looked up at her and smiled. Neither of them saw a young man, dressed in black and carrying a gun pass by the open door of the hospital room. Alex Krycek stared at his distorted reflection in the mirror on the inside of the elevator. The gun was hidden underneath his leather jacket. No one had taken a second look at him as he passed through the hospital doors. He stepped out onto the floor. Mulder and Scully were in there, with Teena and the smoking man. Krycek didn't have a clear shot from where he stood outside of the room, but he had the sudden awareness of holding all of their lives in his hand. This must be how *he* felt, before everything changed. Power is a drug, a disease. Worse than heroin. Worse than cigarettes. Krycek laughed softly. They didn't see him. He was under orders not to harm any innocent bystanders, and so the smoking man was safe. For now. He slipped away quietly and no one noticed him. Do they come for you, in your dreams? Will you always hear the shot, the shattered glass upon the instant of awakening? Do you wake up screaming? Is there anything that you fear? Inside the room, the old man stirred. And Teena was dreaming. ~~a little girl with dark pigtails, mommy mommy fox keeps pulling my hair make him stop make him play with me mommy do you know there's a bird's nest in the tree outside with five eggs in it- and mommy do you know- and fox is calling from out in the backyard, it is Summer and the choice is still to come these are sweet days, before the fall before the children are playing, their father watches them and they do not see his shadow over the grass he steals her hand from underneath her husband's gaze I'm going to tell him, teena I'm going to tell him everything he needs to know, I'm~~ "I'm going to tell him soon." The old man was talking more to himself than to her, but she heard and she understood what he was intending to reveal. She couldn't remember why it was important, just that they had agreed - he had *promised* her, even though she had tried to break that promise more times than he. There was a red-haired woman sitting beside the man named Fox. The memory of her was even foggier than that of the others. A girlfriend, a wife maybe? She was smiling in that same kind, tired way that everyone had been smiling at Teena, as if she knew something no one else did. And Teena realized then that she was going to die. There was something she had to tell the old man, something she had to tell Fox too, and it was very important, but she couldn't remember what it was anymore. So instead she let the old man cradle her in his arms, leaning her head against his chest, feeling warm and safe in his presence. He was murmuring her name, rocking her. She was very tired. He was tired too. Something had woken him from the first sleep he'd had in days. He wasn't happy about it. He held Teena and ignored Mulder and Scully's angry glares. They didn't matter at the moment. He believed that everything happened for a purpose - he knew that he had woken when he did because both he and Teena were going to die very soon. "Teena?" he asked, "Are you there? Can you hear me?" She nodded against him. "Is there anything I can get you?" "I want-" She thought about this for awhile. "Is there a window?" she asked. "Yes." "I want to look outside." He tried to lift her. "What do you think you're doing?" Scully asked. "You heard her. I'm taking her to the window." It was only a few feet away - he didn't think it would be difficult to drag her over there. "You can't move her." He scowled at her. "Yes I can." He managed to carry Teena over to the window and placed her in another chair. Mulder moved to stop him, then reconsidered. Teena pressed her face against the glass, looking out at the night sky. The smoking man struggled to hold her up and keep her from falling out of the chair. "You can't see the stars from here," she said, sounding disappointed. "Too...smoggy." He ran his fingers through her white hair. "You get better, Teena, and I'll take you out where we can see the stars. I promise." She smiled. "Promise..." she said. "I love you, Teena. I always did." "I know." She smiled up at him. "Who are you?" "It doesn't matter." "Oh." She raised her face to his and he kissed her - This isn't about death, Teena. This isn't about men with guns. This was always a love story. If I had a heart, it would break now... - and he felt the last breath of life leave her lips. "Mom!" He heard Mulder's voice behind him as Scully rang for the doctors. He knew it was too late. He couldn't move. He was still sitting there stunned when they dragged her body away from him and pronounced Teena Mulder dead. He wondered if he would ever be able to leave. Mulder was sobbing, his face buried in Scully's hair. She didn't know how to comfort him. She knew that she was all he had left, and she had no idea what to say. "Mulder, I-" "It's okay, Scully." He wiped the tears from his face, staring in the hospital room at the smoking man sitting by the window. "I should go talk to him before he slips away again." "Are you sure you can handle it?" "No. But-" He reached down and grabbed her hand. "You'll be with me." "I'm sorry, Mulder." He nodded. "Let's go." They went back inside the room. Their longtime enemy raised his head slowly, looked over at them. "You don't need to remind me," he said. He stood up, looking old and feeble. "I said I'd tell you, and I will." "But..." Scully said. "But I'm going to go out and have a cigarette first." Scully rolled her eyes. "How do we know you won't just disappear?" Mulder asked. "You don't." He made his way to the door. "You'll just have to trust me." "Am I supposed to trust a man who tried to kill me, who was behind my partner's cancer and god knows what else-" "You can spare me the list of things I've done, Agent Mulder." the smoking man said, "Don't think that I am without regrets. I lost my children to the Project." He stepped out into the hallway. "You can trust me this time." Neither of them made any attempt to stop him as he made his way down the corridor. His hands were shaking as he lit the cigarette. It was dark, the red glow a stark contrast to the night. He heard footsteps behind him. "Hello, Alex," he said softly. "How'd you know it was me?" He turned to face his killer. "I let you find me." Krycek drew his gun. "This is going to give me great pleasure." "I'm sure it is." "So what is it? What was this thing you had to live for?" The smoking man smiled. "You'll never know." "Get on your knees." "Let me finish my cigarette." Krycek groaned, but stood by and waited. Neither of them said a word. When he had finished, the old man extinguished the cigarette and knelt down on the cold concrete. He felt the gun against the back of his head. "Close your eyes," Krycek whispered. The old man complied. A car drove by, the bright glare of the headlights illuminating his face. For a moment he looked younger, almost handsome, and Krycek shivered in the darkness that followed. "It won't hurt," he said gently, "Not this time." He was reassuring himself - the old man had never been afraid. It hadn't been his life he had pleaded for - it was something else, something very different... Krycek took off the safety and cocked the weapon. Then he leaned over and kissed the old man's lips. "I'll see you in hell," he said. ~~and there is pain, but not much, and I feel his lips on me, burning where they touch for a moment I look into his eyes and his face glows in the night the angel of death my angel come to deliver me and in death are we all pure again? I will reach out my arms, reach for her and she is the one who will carry me away her arms around me, hold me teena hold me and take me with you and you do not know it but you have given me what I want because she because she is there and this is all I want this bullet that bears my name and offers me what all the power in the world could never give me absolution die ?warheit? and it is a very intimate thing, killing a man, I've done it enough to know your life and his life all the same and you give the orders and watch the buried boxcar, his tomb, you watch it go up in flames and yes I believe in sacrifice but all the time you are praying he isn't in there I believed in sacrifice but all the same- wait for me teena wait for me~~ A single shot ripped through the night. The old man looked up, into the beautiful, dark green eyes of the Angel of Death. The Angel of Deliverance. "Go on," Krycek said softly, "Run." He stared at his would-be assassin, not entirely comprehending. "Go," the young man said again, "You're dead. Get out of here before I change my mind." He stood, slowly, rubbing the back of his head. His hand came away sticky with blood from where Krycek had struck him with the revolver. "Why?" he asked, knowing full well he wasn't going to get a response. "Thank you," he said finally. "Just go. If they ever find out about this they'll kill us both." Understanding at last, the smoking man made his way into the shadows of the dark alley, his hand trailing blood over the brick wall. Alex Krycek watched him for a moment, and then went back to the car. The gunshot and the squeal of a car speeding away awakened Mulder, who had just started to drift off. "Shit." He and Scully were down the elevator and out the door in a second, searching the dark alleys for any sign of the smoking man, who had somehow gone from mortal enemy to informant to dead in the blink of an eye. Not again... "Mulder, come look at this." Scully's voice was grim. He followed her down a back street. Her hand had brushed against something warm and sticky - it was too dark to see what it was, but when she raised her fingers to the street lamp, she saw red. A cigarette butt crunched under his shoe as he went to join her. "Damn it." She stared at the blood on her hand. "He's dead, Mulder." "Again?" A pitiful attempt at a joke, but he couldn't help it. "Something makes me think we're going to have a difficult time finding the killers." "Yeah," Mulder said, "And the body." He kicked the brick wall, hard, then winced with the pain. "There's nothing you can do." "Scully, he-" "I know. Don't say it, I know." He said it anyway. "Do you think he was my father?" "Since when did you believe anything that man said?" "He said he lost his children - Sam...and me." "Maybe. You don't know that." "There's so much we'll never know, now..." "We'll find the answers. We just have to keep looking." He nodded dully. "He was going to tell us, Scully. Everything. I truly believe that." "So do I." And she wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly, listening to the sirens in the distance. And in the end, he was alone again. In the distance, he could hear the roar of cars along the highway. He finished another cigarette and tossed it into the grass. The air was fresh and clean and he had never felt so alive in his sixty-five years on the planet. Why Alex Krycek had decided to spare his life was beyond his comprehension. He wasn't sure if it was meant as an act of mercy or the ultimate punishment. Maybe there was more to that boy than he had thought. It didn't matter. He was alive. The angel of death had passed over him and left him unscathed, more or less. He started to laugh. The world had gone mad and he had lost everything, but it was a bright Summer day and he was free, free and alive and awake. And so he was going to live. He lit up another cigarette, and started the long walk towards the highway. The End
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