Up In Smoke

Title: Black Wings IV: Up In Smoke
Author: Ashlea Ensro
Feedback: to theconsortium6@hotmail.com
Archive: Yes, anywhere
Rating: PG (if you blink you'll miss the sex scene!)
Keywords: CSM/MulderMom
Spoilers: "The End"
Disclaimer: No, not mine. The song "Black Wings" is by Tom 
Waits.

Summary: "The End", as seen through different eyes.

Thanks Anna!

Ramblings: If you've gotten this far, I assume you've read the other 
ones. If not you shouldn't be TOO lost.
"Some say they fear him
Others admire him
Because he steals his promise
One look in his eyes
And everyone denies
Ever having met him..."
                                       - Tom Waits

<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 alright?"

Stupid question. If he was alright 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.