Welcome To The Harem
The Best Ones by Malograntum Vitiorum
Summary: Women are like cigarettes. They cost so much, and you pay it, just to make yourself sick. And in the end, you have no one to blame but yourself. CSM and others.
Title: The Best Ones Author: Malograntum Vitiorum Email: malograntum@morosophy.com Disclaimer: I own as many X-Files characters as I do cigarettes. Archive: Harem (and most anywhere else, just ask first) Rating: PG-13ish for language Summary: Women are like cigarettes. They cost so much, and you pay it, just to make yourself sick. And in the end, you have no one to blame but yourself. Notes: All section headings are cigarette advertising taglines from various decades; the brands referenced are L&M, Chesterfield, Senior Service, Pall Mall, and Strand, in that order. The title is from the classic 1960s Silva-Thin Cigarettes slogan: "Cigarettes are like girls. The best ones are thin and rich." Spoilers: Er, everything, especially One Breath, the cancer arc, Talitha Cumi, Two Fathers/One Son, X-Files: Fight the Future, Sixth Extinction/Amor Fati, Requiem, and the questionably-titled The Truth. Acknowledgements: I'm so glad Eo's a beta. -------------------------------------------------- The Best Ones By Malograntum Vitiorum "There's a little Eve in every woman." --1960s ad for Eve Cigarettes -------------------------------------------------- I. Just what the doctor ordered While Bill Mulder was still alive, the family was collateral. With Bill gone, there is no reason to keep her around, this volatile woman who has come so close so many times to blowing the cover off of their work. Nature has done them all a great favor, done what he could never bring himself to do. Now the shell that once held her fiery personality lies here breathing through a tube, barely alive. She is no longer really in there, he knows. Left alone, her vital signs will soon cease, worn out by a desperate life and cut off from the passionate will that kept her going when a lesser spirit would have given up. This was not brought about by any action of his. He did nothing, and to take care of this problem for good, he needs do nothing more. The alien looks at him expectantly, insofar as its manufactured face can have such an expression. It thinks it is here to finish her off, but she could finish as well without their help. Carefully, as if it might crumble, he takes her hand. It has the heaviness of strength, muscle beneath the skin that he can feel even though she doesn't respond to his touch. He looks the man-shaped monster in its false eyes. "Mend her." -------------------------------------------------- II. --somehow I just like to give you a light ("I must die or they all die. No! No...") They speed away from the base as he tries to still the echoes in his head. Fowley drives, staring steadily at the gravelly road ahead. If he wanted, he could turn to watch the scene that flickers with deceptive distance in the side mirror. He closes his eyes. Not thinking about what's behind him. Fire and death. It's all going to hell. No--it isn't going. It's gone. And he can still hear Cassandra in his head, see her wide bright eyes, as big as the first day he met her. Looking through his weak equivocations. Begging him to kill her. Everything he's worked for is ash now. Everybody is dead. Burnt alive in that hangar, a few miles behind them now. (It was to save you.) They're on the freeway--he doesn't remember how they got there. They're doing ninety. He doesn't know where they're going. Fowley is silent now. Crying, he realizes. What right does Fowley have to cry? She can't conceive of the scale of what just happened. She's put a little time into this project, ten, maybe fifteen years. This is his life. This is everything. (I saved you.) The scene is before him as vividly as if he were still at the hangar. Charred bodies. Nearly everyone he's known in the past fifty years. The...children. Their hope. Her skin burned off the bone. Golden hair curled, brittle, black. Her eyes.... He sees it with strange clarity. She would have looked unblinking at her doom, faced it with calm. Sorry for those who died with her, but welcoming her own end. Knowing. (I came in hopes that we might speak of the future...not the past.) Fowley has stopped crying now. One of them has to be collected when the next thing happens. There will be a next thing. Now that she is gone, he wishes that he believed in a better place for her to go. -------------------------------------------------- III. A product of the master mind "You're dead." She blinks, not yet fully conscious. Her hair falls across her face as she pushes herself up weakly to a sitting position. "What?" "Don't overexert yourself, you've been heavily sedated." She rubs her eyes. Doesn't look too surprised. "Am I here so you can play with me before you kill me?" "Don't misunderstand me. I'm not threatening you. You're already dead. A body that will be positively identified as your own was found shot through the head in your apartment this morning. Mulder will mourn your passing, Scully will grant you a grudging posthumous respect, and neither of them will doubt that you were indeed killed in retribution for helping to save Mulder's life." He allows himself a moment of self-satisfaction. He holds all the cards again, after all. She looks down at herself groggily, slowly processing the information. Examines the sweatshirt and jeans that she was given in exchange for the suit now worn by a substitute corpse. (For a brief flash he remembers her in happier times, standing in the doorway in a black negligee.) (Funny--when did she own a black negligee?) "And why wasn't I?" He tosses the memory aside and smiles. "Sure you want to tempt fate like that, Diana?" Takes a drag from his cigarette, exhales slowly. "You've disobeyed me. Caused me a good deal of trouble in the long term. But after so many years of service, it would be foolish of me to...take you off the payroll for a single infraction." She pushes her hair out of her face and gives him a skeptical look. "What's going to happen?" "I'm reassigning you to a less glamorous, but no less vital, branch of the project. An assignment that will provide you with less--temptation. You'll get to see an old friend again, in fact." "If I'm working with Alex Krycek, tell me now so I can shoot myself." Already joking with him, she has no idea how close she came to death last night. (But he learned his lesson last winter about shooting in anger, didn't he?) When he discovered her betrayal, he punched the wall almost hard enough to break his hand. Paced back and forth, furious, in the sterile, empty room. He was finally through with Mulder, after all these years, and it hadn't been a vulgar shot to the back of the head, this was a good and noble death that he had given Mulder, a martyr's death in the best cause. Perfect. It was finally over. And she'd denied him this, this closure. He smoked one cigarette, then a second, before allowing himself to pick up the phone. The solution came halfway through the second cigarette. He always did do his best thinking under pressure. She's still waiting for an answer, he realizes. He feels...funny all of a sudden. His head feels-- //bastardjustwantsmetorememberheownsmyassnevershouldhavefuckedhimbetteroffdead// His head jerks up. Where did that come from? It feels as if she spoke, but all the words seemed to come at once... He keeps his expression still. "I'll give you the details later." He stands up slowly, puts out his cigarette on the nightstand. (Fox stretched out like Christ on the cross, needing her help) What...? The image flickers across his consciousness like a subliminal frame in a movie reel. Then he sees others, going faster now, different angles or other scenes: (a house in the suburbs with Diana and the kids, Deep Throat and Samantha next door) (one last look back at her ex-husband before leaving him to die) //is he all right? looks like hell// "I'm fine," he snaps, pressing his hand to his temple. He only realizes that she didn't say anything out loud when he sees her expression--and hears the next thing that she doesn't say. //oh, shit, it worked// He gives her what he hopes is a terrifyingly nonchalant smile. "Now. I don't suppose you'll be trying to pull any more fast ones anytime soon." -------------------------------------------------- IV. Wherever particular people congregate The phone rings four times before she picks it up. He wonders if she's screening her calls, then remembers that this is supposed to be her cell phone number. Those can't be screened, can they? The technology moves so damn fast these days. So damn fast. "Hello?" Even in that single word, she sounds stronger and clearer than he's heard her in years. "Marita." He leaves the word hanging there. The silence lasts several seconds. "What do you want?" She keeps her voice even, but he can hear the effort and preparation that it takes for her to do so. "I'm dying. Come to Washington." There is another long silence. He can see her in his mind's eye, keeping her expression as still as a photograph. He wonders what a natural reaction looks like on her--when she's lucid and standing on her own feet, that is. "How did you get this number?" "Marita, you know me well enough not to ask that question." He doesn't actually remember the answer. Did Fowley track her down? It was only this morning that he got the number. He ought to remember. "Why are you calling me now?" "Haven't we been over this? I want you to come to Washington. And to bring a friend on your way. Well, to be honest, it's a little out of your way, but I think you'll find it well worth the detour." Her reply is a sullen silence. Waiting for him to get down to brass tacks. He absent-mindedly brings his cigarette to his lips, as he still does sometimes, before remembering the tracheotomy. He holds it in his mouth for a moment anyway. Old habits. "You're going to Tunisia to get Alex Krycek. Then you're coming out here to help me. We're going to recover what we've lost." "You can't be serious. If Krycek sees me again, he'll probably kill me." "Oh, I don't know about that. You two were almost inseparable for a time, weren't you?" A surprised, derisive laugh. "Listen, if you want my help, Krycek's out of the picture. It's a deal-breaker." "Marita. Do you know how many times over you ought to be dead?" No response. He wants her here in front of him so he can look her in her icy eyes. "Considering my past experiences with--both of you--I think I've been more than fair." "I don't owe you anything." Her voice seems to snap closed. "Is it really a question of debt, Marita?" What answer is he looking for? He listens to her silence, trying not to think of the horrible moment last week when an especially long pause on the phone made him forget, just for a second, whom he was talking to. He wishes he could still fucking *read minds.* -------------------------------------------------- V. You're never alone with a Strand He has begun to have visions. Perhaps it's a natural consequence of living like a wise old mountain man. After a while, one begins to forget one's true self. One...ventures into mystical territory. Or perhaps it's because his mind is slowly crackling and folding in on itself from the damage he did to his brain two, three, fifty years ago. Whenever it was. He knows he's outlasted his welcome here in the anonymous desert, but he's no longer sure by how long. In his decaying mind, she lies in one of the many hospital beds that have held her over the years. He can see the tumor beneath her skin (between the superior conchea and the sinoidal sinus--the terms appear to him like labels in a medical diagram); she's pale and weak and beginning to cry. He is seized with an almost painful sense of awe. Carefully, reverently, he holds out the microchip. She prays silently, taking no notice of him. The cancer fades away as if erased. She floats on the other side of a thick sheet of ice, immersed in cold organic gel. The thing is living, growing in her belly. When it matures, it will destroy her, clawing through her flesh to make its way into the world. The purpose of her suffering has nothing to do with her and everything to do with Mulder; she is his only anchor to sanity. Her eyes open and light upon him. He feels naked, though he is in a warm suit and she wears only a cross. He stands on the shore, holding a rope. On the other end is a small boat in which she sits calmly. He knows he should let go. He thinks she should be afraid of him letting go. Neither of them makes a move. A century passes in this silence. (If he does let go, which of them will float away?) Something pushes through the vision and brings reality to him. Someone holds out food--hot soup in a wooden bowl. A solemn woman with dark, leathered skin and long black braids is offering him food. Is it Greta? No, she's...dead, isn't she? Well, it isn't Greta. She was a blonde. She feeds him the soup, this woman he does not know. Can he no longer hold a spoon himself? Perhaps he can't. The spoon is metal and very old. The soup is lukewarm. He tries to thank her, but it takes a few tries to get his voice working. He keeps forgetting the tracheotomy. He hasn't been able to talk the old way for years. He thanks her and calls her Greta, even though he just figured out that she was someone else. He's about to apologize for calling her Greta, but he has some soup instead and forgets. When he's done, she dabs at his chin and takes the empty bowl away. He's afraid that she won't come back, but she does. She adjusts the shawl around his shoulders and kisses him on the forehead. He finds he can lift his arms after all, and he reaches up to hold her gently around the waist, and he knows her at last. He is ashamed to have mistaken her, even with his failing memory. When he was younger--just a few years ago--he thought her long dead. Thought he'd seen her die. But here she is, of course, to take care of him in his weakened age. Returned to him, as he always knew she would, and looking so young--almost younger than he--so much stronger than he remembers her from his childhood. "I've been having dreams." She says nothing in return, just holds him and listens as she did when he was a boy. "Terrible dreams." She rocks him gently, speaking comfort to him so softly he can't make out the words. He should never have left her. "Mom," he whispers, and for the first time in a great many years, he starts to cry. -end- -- Malograntum Vitiorum Quem deus vult perdere prius dementat.
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