Title: The Geometry of Loss (Chapter 2) 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 "Truth" Archive: Feel free, but please let me know where Author's Note: Many thanks to Elizabeth for rockin' through Hurricane Isabel to beta this thing. "The Geometry of Loss" by Kudra Chapter 2 *In perhaps the darkest of Greek tragedies, Medea kills her own children to avenge Jason's betrayal, his desertion. It's an act of mad and utter desperation that shatters what is left of her soul. I know I am not Medea, even in my blackest moments, but did some part of me believe the loss of William might bring Mulder back? He'd left... again. I told him to leave. Did I want him to suffer? And in giving my child away, have I condemned him to death as surely as if I had cut his throat myself?* ********* They drive to Worland in a silence that grows heavier with each passing mile. He grips the steering wheel, his mind spinning, finding angles, making connections. Questions and answers collide in his mind with lightning speed like the insects that splatter against the windshield. Back to business as usual. Only there's little exhilaration this time. She breaks the silence first, her voice hushed and distant, as through a confessional screen. "There's been one thing that's kept me going all this time... and that is believing that he was safe, that he didn't have to live his life like this." "We didn't have any assurance that he would be safe," he notes, his eyes locked on the road. "But I believed it. I had to..." she says softly, looking out the window. "Otherwise, letting him go was all for nothing." She closes her eyes. "But, then, I never really let him go." He clenches inside. Years of disbelief, accepting nothing that wasn't rooted in science, yet the most precious things she has always taken on simple faith. Sometimes the paradox of her tears him in two. "Scully, you gave him up." And he regrets it the instant his words hit the air. "No, Mulder, *you* gave *us* up." And he recoils inwardly, as if she had slapped him across the face. They return to the comfort of silence. *You told me to go, Scully...* *I told you to go because I knew you weren't ready to stay.* ****** Scully fights tears as her mind wanders, tripping on its own journey while they pass by mesas, buttes, snowcapped peaks. She feels a strange kinship with these solitary pillars crowned by ice. And she thinks about soft blue hats and off-key lullabies and the sweet, powdery scent of a fuzzy little head and how she loved to nuzzle him closely, drinking it all in, this union of he and she. He... cold in the grave... snow on the ground, winter in her heart, spring in her womb. She remembers the battle between the death in her soul and the new life within her. She remembers how he looked at her through weary and puzzled eyes and asked, "Who are you?" She'd been momentarily thrown until she noticed that twinkle and knew that had to be him. No clone would ever stoop to Mulder's gallows humor. She remembers how his eyes caught the swell of her belly and how he reached toward it with wonder, as if touching the stars. It tugged at her heart, because she knew he wasn't ready for this, didn't know if he would ever be, but she whispered, "We did this, Mulder," believing it herself for the first time. And she remembers sitting in his nursery after driving away without him, surrounded by toys and colorful blankets, and utterly, desolately alone. Ignoring Monica's concerned yet chirpy messages on her answering machine, she sat in his room and thought of fire, a sweeping, merciless flame that could consume it all. Hadn't she all but thrown herself on the pyre after Mulder left? ****** "Scully," he asks, placing his suitcase on the bed, "you know he's not going to be here, don't you?" "Of course I know that, Mulder," she says, always impatient when he states the obvious, "but I do think it's important that we check out the scene of the crime and what's going on in the area." He nods, letting her have control of the plan. It's not at all their usual protocol... reckless, even, but he knows why they are here, what she needs to see. There's something raw and vulnerable underneath her rationalizations, something he can't quite touch, and although he feels it, he doesn't speak of it. "Okay, one more question, Scully," he flops down on the bed, long legs sprawled, "Are you sure it's a good idea to just go waltzing into a police station?" "It's rural Wyoming, Mulder," she replies, "I can be discreet and professional. Besides, that's the best place for me to ascertain the situation locally." "I'll go with you," he offers, even though he knows what her answer will be. "Mulder, you're a fugitive from a federal murder charge. You know as well as I do that it's too much risk for you." "But you've been aiding and abetting, Scully," he grins, "And I've got a beard now..." "Forget it, Mulder," she orders, smiling now. "You stay and work on finding out what's available online. Between the two of us, we can hopefully figure out where to go from here." *We've been saying that for months now, haven't we, Scully?* ********* She marches into the police station, just as she has a thousand times before in thousands of such offices. "I'm here to inquire about the William Mul---Van de Camp abduction case," she declares, with an authority she no longer believes. "And who are you?" asks the officer. Before she thinks, she blurts, "I'm his mother." Has she ever been this rash, this uncalculated? Since William came into her life, her womb, she's begun to feel again, the joy and the sorrow she'd put away years ago. Even after two years, it's still new and disconcerting in its unfamiliarity, and since he's been gone, she sometimes thinks she'd like to rip out her heart just to establish control again. "Well," answers the officer, forcing her back into the moment, "then this case is getting more complicated by the minute." He gestures at a couple sitting bent over their coffee cups, huddled with a loss that Scully understands all too well. "Linda," he motions to the woman, "come over here." The woman looks up expectantly, hope in her eyes. Realization hits Scully and she grips the desk for stability. "Tell her who you are," he asks gently, as Linda walks over to Scully. "Good evening," she says, warmly. "I'm Linda Van de Camp, William's mother." She extends her hand to Scully with a smile. "And you are?" Then she focuses on Scully's features, taking in the stubborn reddish streaks shining through the brunette dye, the pale skin, the clear blue eyes washed through with pain. Scully watches as recognition dawns and Linda's face crumbles. "You're William's... birth mother..." she breathes, almost inaudibly, "Oh my god..." and her eyes cloud over as she grips Scully's hand tighter. Scully knows that her heart beats with the same rhythm - -- the same pitter patter of the same tiny feet--- as the woman before her, and she wants to reach out to her, to comfort her, mother to mother, but a familiar, cool precision takes over. *Relax, Dana, I'll handle this.* "Yes, my name is... Deborah Newland," she says, measuring her words carefully. She's never liked the aliases they've been forced to use, but she knows she's painted herself into a corner. Each time she offers a false name, she feels she is forfeiting another piece of herself. In this case, however, her uncharacteristic slip of the tongue prompts her to send a silent prayer of thanks to Melvin Frohike for allowing them to get this far on stolen identities. "I am also a former law enforcement officer... with experience in multiple cases of missing children. I'm interested in assisting with William's case." She pauses, a steel resolve overcoming her doubt. "I have reason to believe that this is not an ordinary kidnapping." ******** Mulder stares intently into his laptop, its blue glow piercing the orange and brown landscape of the motel room. Searching for facts about the area and its geology, scraps of information about his son's case, he uses every bit of hacker's technique he ever picked up from the Gunmen. Arguably it wasn't much, but he's certainly had the opportunity, not to mention the necessity, to sharpen his skills over the past year. He's sitting in the dark, his computer and the television the only lights in the room. If Scully were here, she'd insist he turn a light on to save whatever is left of his eyes, but she's still out. And he likes sitting in the dark, always has. These days he feels more comfortable wrapped in the shadows than perhaps ever before. Tonight he's getting nowhere and hopes she is having better luck. He munches on sunflower seeds and glances absently at the television when a shadow begins to move. "You realize it's not at all as it seems, of course," a voice begins. The shadow vibrates, emerging from the gloom, taking shape and form, the black of its hair remaining one with the darkness. The voice is all too familiar and Mulder feels a surge of anger charge through his body. "No shit!" says Mulder, "I was wondering when you'd show up. All I want to know is who's next... a parade of my dead fish popping up to offer advice?" He glares at the shadowy figure. "Why is it always you, Krycek? You've never told me anything but riddles, even when you were alive." "I am helping you, Mulder," Krycek sneers, "in the only way that I can now." Mulder looks blankly at him. He always imagines the smell of brimstone whenever Krycek appears. Maybe it's the romantic in him. "So where's William? You know that's what I want to know," he asks, but Krycek offers no reply. "You don't know, do you?" Mulder complains, "Just my luck. I think they keep you as in the dark in the afterlife as you were before." "I've come tonight to tell you that someone else is coming. Someone is being sent to help you," Krycek says. "Let me guess," snaps Mulder. "Queequeg? The Ghost of Christmas Past?" "You're a man without allies now, Mulder. It doesn't help your cause to laugh in the face of fortune, no matter where it comes from." He focuses on Mulder, with dark, bottomless eyes. "You can either accept what's happening to you---what's happening to the world---and try to stand and fight, or you can go back to wandering in obscurity. It's always been your choice." Krycek fades, leaving behind only shade. Mulder closes his eyes and rubs his temples, taking deep, labored breaths, his head spinning once again. His mind fills with images, circling in a kaleidoscope of memories and visions, and he is unable to discern which are real and which arrive courtesy of an ever encroaching madness. "Mulder," Scully calls, unlocking the door with her key, "Are you in here?" He reaches for her, as he always does after these visitations, the anchor in his storm. Although he rarely speaks to her about what he's seen, what he's heard, he needs her in order to return to this plane. She is the only reality he accepts anymore without question. "I met William's parents tonight," she tells him. He says nothing, but pulls her closer, tightening his grip on her, clinging to her to keep from floating away. "Mulder," she asks, concerned, but beginning to relax into his embrace, "was someone here again?" "No," he says, kissing her, "no one at all." ******** I have kissed honey lips Felt the healing in her fingertips It burned like fire This burning desire I have spoke with the tongue of angels I have held the hand of a devil It was warm in the night I was cold as a stone -- U2 ****** end part 2 ****** Feedback welcomed at kudra_x@yahoo.com