Title: Black Wings III: Lipstick on my Cigarette

Author: Ashlea Ensro

Feedback: to theconsortium6@hotmail.com

Archive: Yup

Rating: PG

Spoilers: "The Red and the Black", "The End"

Keywords: CSM/MulderMom

Disclaimer: Ever feel this is getting a bit repetitive? They don't
belong to me, they belong to CC, "Nine While Nine" is by the Sisters of
Mercy.

Summary: Teena and CSM in the Laurentians.

Thanks Anna!

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"

"And it's passing slowly

Killing time but it's better than living in what will come

And I've still got some of your letters with me

And I thought sometimes that I read too much

And I think you know let's drink to the dead lying under the water

And the crust of the blood on the driven snow

And lipstick on my cigarette

Frost upon the windowpane

Nine while nine and I'm waiting

For the train..."

- The Sisters of Mercy

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 cheques 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...>