Title: The Geometry of Loss
Author: Kudra (kudra_x@yahoo.com)
Disclaimer:  These characters aren't mine.  They 
belong to Chris Carter, 1013 & Fox, but they sure 
are fun to play with.
Category: Post-The Truth, MSR
Summary: Mulder and Scully struggle with the 
reality of their new existence months after the 
events of "William" and "The Truth."
Archive: Feel free, but please let me know where.

Author's Note: Thanks a million to the lovely and 
talented Elizabeth Rowandale for setting such a 
high standard with her terrific (and patient) beta.


"The Geometry of Loss"
by Kudra 

**Cassandra ... the Cassandra of myth, not 
Spender... went insane when she was granted the 
gift of prognostication.  Although she had foreseen 
a future of certain doom, she was doubly cursed...  
for no one believed her dire predictions.  Her 
cries unheeded, Troy burned while she shrieked.

These days Scully and I find ourselves in a similar 
predicament.  Gifted with scraps of wisdom from the 
gods, we have no seal of authenticity.  Not that 
this is anything new.  I've been a voice crying in 
the wilderness for years now, but Scully... 
Scully's still green at this game.  

And now she's got nothing to put her back against 
except me.

Funny how now that there's no longer anything left 
to lose, it's finally the time for us.**

******

"Are you thinking about him?" Scully asks, lazily 
twirling a now brown curl around her finger.  

Him.  Of course she means William.  Their son was a 
baby elephant in the room most of the time, the 
issue they were continually stepping around.  
They'd made verbal peace with the adoption, but it 
would never be entirely resolved in their souls.  

There is a strange geometry to loss, the way we 
sharpen the angles, soften the edges, and reshape 
ourselves, reconciling that which has been removed.  
By now the two of them were masters in that field.  
As a means of assuaging wounds they couldn't speak 
of, they made love with intensity and a freedom 
they'd never had before.  

Strange currency to barter.

*Freedom.*

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to 
lose," Scully has reminded him.  "Shut up, Janis," 
he answers her.  He wants to kiss away her 
cynicism, fill up her empty places with hope, but 
he remembers his part in building her fortress.

"I was," he replies, fingering his still unfamiliar 
beard, "I was thinking he's probably said his first 
few words by now."

"Yes," she smiles, eyes far away.  "I wonder what 
they were."

"Let's hope for his parents' sake they weren't 'me 
- want -  believe.'" 

She laughs in spite of herself.

After all the pain that had passed between them, he 
feels he can pay his debt by balancing darkness 
with light.

******

The wind whips through her hair as they head for 
the next town, the desert a burnished jewel before 
them.  It almost feels normal, the two of them in a 
car.  Funny that the nostalgic everyday things she 
longs for most are not cozy evenings spent by the 
fire, but drives to shadowy stakeouts or meetings 
with crackpots with leads.

******

Sometimes the tension builds and they drag out 
their old scripts.  "You should go back home, live 
your life, Scully." Mulder says earnestly.  "You 
don't deserve this kind of existence, always 
running.  This isn't living, Scully." 

She plays her part, a command performance.  "And 
you deserve it?  Mulder, you are my life now.  This 
is what we are."

They've danced too many versions of this same tango 
to count.  Mulder takes the lead ... Lead Martyr, 
as usual, and Scully follows, offering her own 
sacrifice.  She wonders if they frequent this path 
periodically to give their existence the drama and 
meaning it is beginning to lose.  

Who are they without the quest?  They expected to 
be watching their backs continuously when they 
began this nomadic lifestyle, but gradually they 
realized no one seemed to be tracking them.  Were 
they actually running from something?  Or had they 
become so conditioned to expect tragedy that they 
couldn't accept the possibility of peace?

******

When he'd left the last time, he'd thought the 
safest thing was for him to be far away from them.  
With a child, the stakes were far too high for him 
to selfishly stay in her life.  Scully had lost too 
much already, and bit by bit, their son was healing 
her scars, closing her wounds.  Besides, he was 
sure William was more likely to become a functional 
adult if he stayed on the periphery.  As usual, 
he'd assumed it was all about him, and he kicked 
himself daily for his ignorance, his arrogance.  

******

Once, in those heady days of what some would call 
courtship, he'd taken her to see "The Matrix," and 
she had laughed bitterly throughout the film.  
Mulder had glanced nervously around the theater, 
certain they were breaking the geek code of 
composure for science fiction movies.  "Scully," 
he'd whispered, "I don't think this is supposed to 
be a comedy."  

"Mulder," she'd sighed, "this is no comedy.  This 
is my life."  Pulling her closer, Mulder had a 
sudden flash of her soul taking one more step away 
from its center, even as his reached ever closer to 
balance.  They were meeting in the middle, smiling 
at the same absurdity underneath the madness in 
their lives... finally on the same wavelength... 
but he'd felt more than a twinge of guilt at what 
that had cost her.   

******

They had decided South Dakota would be a nice place 
to go next.  Nothing but time.  Two drifters, off 
to see the world.  Such a lot of world to see. 

How do you fill the hours until the Apocalypse?  

Mulder was intrigued by the alien landscapes he'd 
seen in books about the Badlands, and Scully kept 
hearing how scenic the Black Hills were during 
meaningless conversations with sunbaked strangers.  
All those years of intrigue and deception and 
living on the razor's edge of duty and sacrifice, 
only to end up as tourists before the end of the 
world.  Mulder had envisioned many scenarios for 
the finale of his quest, but none of them had 
included a slow and numbing existential struggle.  

Months ago, they'd started their journey with 
promise and hope, but grew increasingly discouraged 
with the lack of leads, the dearth of information. 
Without the resources and credentials of the FBI, 
they were left with only fruitless Internet 
searches, expeditions that sent them in endless 
circles, whispers and rumors.  

As much as they'd considered themselves renegades, 
two people against the world, there had always been 
fellow travelers along the way to help them.  The 
Gunmen... Skinner ... trustworthy analysts in the 
lab.  When it served their purposes, even those 
affiliated with their enemies had occasionally 
aided their quest.  Now Mulder was bewildered by 
visions, shadows of former friends and foes that 
spoke to him in the darkness and whispered things 
he could not yet comprehend.

A man, a warrior, without purpose is a dangerous 
vessel.  Teetering on the fringe of madness was 
familiar to him, but this lack of direction... this 
paralysis...

Her touch kept him from falling.  He was bound to 
her now more than ever before... if no longer sword 
to sword, then certainly soul to soul.  They would 
find their way out of this maze. 

******

Before they leave, Scully flicks on the television 
to check the forecast.

"... authorities questioned in a three-state 
manhunt.  But there were no witnesses to a crime 
that happened silently in the middle of the night.  
A two-year old was taken from his bedroom in 
western Wyoming during the early hours of Wednesday 
morning.  There are no signs of struggle or stress, 
only unidentified burn marks on the child's 
pillowcase and the floor beside his bed.  If anyone 
has seen this child, you are urged to contact your 
local authorities."

A photograph fills the screen.  A healthy toddler 
with reddish curls, a sprinkling of faint freckles, 
twinkling blue eyes.  A name flashes, "William Van 
De Kamp, Age 2, Worland, Wyoming."

"Mulder," says Scully, frozen.  "It's William." 

"They're flushing us out, Scully."   

*********************

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