Title: The Geometry of Loss (Chapter 5)
Author: Kudra (kudra_x@yahoo.com)
Rating: PG-13
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: Thanks to the generosity of Elizabeth 
Rowandale, Chapters 1-4 can also be found at 
http://rowan_d.tripod.com/kudra/geometry.html.
As for other archives, feel free, but please let me know 
where.


"The Geometry of Loss"
by Kudra

Chapter 5

In a while, one of us will go up to bed
and the other one will follow.
Then we will slip below the surface of the night
into miles of water, drifting down and down
to the dark, soundless bottom
until the weight of dreams pulls us lower still.
    ~ Billy Collins, The Art of Drowning


***The ancient Celts told of a warrior queen called Rhiannon, a 
horsewoman goddess who could not be caught nor tamed by any man.  
Rather than accept a future she did not desire, Rhiannon found her 
own path, and a man of her own choosing.

When Dana Scully came into my life all those years ago, she put me 
in mind of this story.  Another fierce, Celtic warrior woman defying 
expectations and finding her own way, I could easily imagine her 
dashing along the green hills on a grand horse, fiery hair flying 
behind her, her blue eyes flashing like a polished blade.

And when I realized that Scully had chosen my path---chosen me---I 
felt as if I had won a goddess.

But there is a tragic side to Rhiannon's story.  Her infant son 
vanished under mysterious circumstances, and Rhiannon's treacherous 
waiting women conspired to hide the truth by making it appear that 
she had killed her own son.  As punishment, she was consigned to sit 
outside the castle and tell her story to the passersby.  Like the 
birds she loved, she sang her song of loss for seven years, reliving 
its pain and injustice, a living hell for a mother.

Why would such a powerful woman accept such an unjust fate?  Did the 
loss itself engender a crushing guilt along with grief?

Now our son is lost, and his mother fears she has sentenced him to 
death.  But although no one is punishing Scully, she bears a burden 
of her own making.***

**********

It's just past dawn, and when Dana steps out of her room and into 
the hallway, the air is redolent of cinnamon, coffee, and the earthy 
scent of bacon frying.  Carefully, quietly, she creeps downstairs, 
hoping to catch a bit of early morning conversation before the 
others awaken, and perhaps a bite of her mother's freshly baked 
French toast souffle.  

From the corner of her eye, she catches the twinkle of white lights, 
switched on already, and smiles at her mother's childlike delight 
for the trappings of the holiday.  Christmas has always been 
Maggie's favorite.

Until a few years ago, Dana shared her sentiments.  Now Christmas is 
forever tinged with the melody of loss.  Each carol an elegy.  Each 
candle a prayer.

Reaching the bottom stair, she hears voices whispering near the 
tree.  She's surprised that someone besides herself and her mother 
would be up at this hour.  Even Matthew has reached an age at which 
he can sleep in on Christmas morning.  With a mixture of curiosity 
and mischief, Dana sneaks toward the tree.

As she steps closer, the lights illuminate a shock of wavy red hair, 
a woman's figure wrapped in seasonal crimson, her back to Dana, a 
smaller figure beside her.  And Dana's breath catches in her throat 
as they turn to face her.

"Good morning, Dana," says Melissa.

Emily's face is solemn, her voice low and hushed.  "Everyone's here, 
Mommy."

"No," says Melissa, raising an eyebrow.  "Not everyone."

Emily gazes at Dana with dark, searching eyes.  "Where's my brother, 
Mommy?  He should be here."

Dana raises her hand to her mouth.  "God...Emily..." she breathes.  
And she reaches for her daughter, but the little girl fades before 
her eyes, vanishing slowly with the rhythm of the blinking lights.

"Open your eyes, Dana," says Melissa.  "The truth is in front of 
you."  Her eyes are at once blank, pleading, commanding.  The stare 
of an oracle.  

"Can't you see they both need you?"

"Missy..." Dana whispers, her eyes wet, "I'm lost."

Melissa's gaze softens.  "You haven't lost your way, Dana.  You've 
only misplaced it."  She extends a pale hand and strokes her 
sister's hair.  "Open your eyes," she repeats as she vanishes, 
fading into the pinprick of a tiny bulb.

Dana focuses on the tree, its miniature lights blurring into one 
white beacon.  The room itself folds and vanishes, leaving Dana 
utterly alone against a colorless background.  She crumbles to the 
floor.  

A scream pierces the silence, and the white room vibrates, the sound 
rocking Dana with its fury and need.  "Scuuuulllyyyy!!!"

*********

"Mulder!"  Scully shouts, jerking her head from the pillow.  
Suddenly, violently awake, the blinking neon of the nearby truck 
stop the only light in the room.  She glances over her shoulder and 
anxiously pats the other side of the bed with her hand.  

"Mulder?" she calls into the darkness.

She waits.  "Mulder?"

She checks the clock beside the bed.  2:18 AM.  He was outside when 
she went to bed, and she knows he still could be awake, torturing 
himself about their earlier argument.  Yet the rawness of her dream 
has left her heart pounding with a profound sense of terror.

There's a chill in the air as she climbs out of bed and moves across 
the room.

She turns on the light to the patio, and through the glare of the 
glass, her eyes lock on Mulder, face down on the concrete slab, a 
halo of scarlet surrounding his head.

"Mulder!"

*******

He is floating.  High above the mesas and canyons and ghost towns of 
the Wild West.  There are stars scattered across the midnight 
blanket of the prairie and he could touch them if he wished.  The 
wind kisses his skin and he floats higher into the dark sky.  He 
wants to go on flying like this, forgetting the torture of pain and 
shadows.

But somewhere below, she is still there.

*********

"Mulder, can you hear me?"  She dips the cloth into warm water 
again, turning the liquid from a pale pink to a light crimson.  It's 
a scrape, an impact wound, but his unresponsiveness worries her.  
She knows he would be more comfortable on the bed, but dragging his 
limp body from the cold patio to the floor inside was the best she 
could manage.

She applies more pressure, and when the bleeding seems to lessen, 
she reaches for antibiotic cream before bandaging the area.  
"Mulder," she whispers, gently tapping his cheeks.

"Scu..." he breathes, slowly shifting his head, although his eyes 
remain closed.

She smiles with relief.  "Can you open your eyes?"

His eyes flutter in response.  "Mulder, you've fallen and lost 
consciousness.  I don't think you have a concussion, but you've 
given yourself a nasty head wound.  Do you remember what happened?"

He gazes at her through heavy lids.  His voice is muffled, eyes 
blurry.  "Saw the Gunmen... everything, nothing... him... falling... 
then I was flying..."

She gently strokes his cheek.  "You don't have to talk right now, 
Mulder.  Just lie still."

"Still flying," he says, clearly this time.  "It's all fading.  
Something's pulling me away, Scully.  Where are you?"  

He fixes her with a searching gaze that pierces her heart, a gaze 
filled with need, pain, and inexplicable desire.  Scully's breath 
catches as she meets his stare, finding that although his eyes are 
still glassy, unfocused, they shine darkly, pools of obsidian.  She 
can't see Mulder in their depths, only herself reflected, amber 
light amid his shadows.

"I need you.  I need to feel that you're real," he whispers, 
bringing his lips to hers.  She closes her eyes and inhales softly, 
believing this is the last thing he needs.  He's hurt, outside 
himself.  She wants to hold him, shelter him, try to chase his 
demons away, not avoid it all again through physicality.

But now his mouth is on her neck, flooding her with heat and a 
delicious chill.  Her eyes are wet as she realizes they share the 
same demons now.  She is too close to drive them away... but she can 
give him this.  So she runs her fingers through his soft hair and 
kisses him with a fervor that makes her head spin.  

She hasn't touched him like this in over a week, not since the news 
of their son.  

It feels like a lifetime.

The blurry softness in Mulder is gone, as if a match has been 
struck.  Suddenly he is intent, focused, a surging force that sweeps 
her under.  Her tears burn her cheeks as his mouth and hands sear 
her flesh.  The flames spread down her torso, teasing as they singe.

She lets him consume her.

******

An insistent pounding at the door arouses Scully from a fitful 
sleep.  She glances at Mulder, deeply and soundly asleep, and 
spreads the blanket to cover his shoulders.  With bleary eyes and 
fumbling hands, she reaches under the bed for her weapon.  She finds 
her robe draped haphazardly over a chair and slips it on, tucking 
the gun inside a crease.

There is no peephole on the thin door, so she draws a long breath 
before turning the doorknob with her left hand, her right poised 
above the gun concealed at her waist.  She finds Linda Van de Camp 
in mid-knock.

Her posture is rigid, her dark hair tousled, not the smooth waves 
Scully saw yesterday.  Scully notes the worry etched on Linda's brow 
and the hint of fear in her eyes.  She drops her right hand from her 
waist and relaxes slightly.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Newland," she says.  "I didn't mean to wake you.  I 
should have called, but I'm just not thinking clearly this morning."

Scully runs a hand through her hair, brushing errant strands out of 
her eyes.  "It's okay, Ms. Van de Camp.  What do you need?"

"Something's happened, Deborah," Linda replies.

"Something with William?" 

"No, not exactly.  Is there somewhere we can talk?"  Linda looks 
nervously behind her.

"David's still sleeping, so I'd rather not leave," Scully says.  "We 
had a difficult night.  There's a patio in the back, if you don't 
mind the cold."  Linda nods, and she motions for her to come inside.   
She quietly directs her to the sliding door at the back of the room.  
Grabbing a thick shirt, a pair of jeans and running shoes, Scully 
quickly enters the bathroom and throws them on.  She slips her 
weapon in the top of her jeans.

Linda sits, staring at the cracked concrete of the patio slab when 
Scully steps through the door.  She closes it as slowly and softly 
as she can, giving one last wistful peek at Mulder's motionless 
form.  She notices a brown patch of dried blood in front of the 
empty chair, and purses her lips as she sits down.

"Some men came to our ranch this morning," Linda announces.  

Scully feels a sudden chill.  "Yes?"

"They said they were from a branch of the CIA." Linda meets Scully's 
eye hesitantly.  "They gave us some information...about you.  And 
your...partner."

"And what did they tell you?"  Scully asks coolly.

"They said they knew you were in the area.  That they'd been 
tracking your movements.  They told us you were rogue FBI agents, 
fugitives from a murder conviction.  You broke your partner out of a 
federal prison after he killed a CIA agent and you've been on the 
run for over a year."

Scully closes her eyes, rubbing her temple.  "Linda..."

"They told us not to give you any information about William.  That 
we should contact them if we saw you again.  Deborah, I need to know 
how much of this is true."

"Are you sure they were CIA?  Did they give you anything to confirm 
that?  A card?  Names?  Somewhere to reach them?"

"Joe has that.  He wouldn't let me take it.  He doesn't know I came 
here.  He thinks I'm at the station, giving them my statement about 
what we heard this morning... and yesterday, from you."

"Is that where you're going next?" 

"I don't know," Linda whispers.  She stares at Scully for a moment.  
"Your name isn't Deborah Newland, is it?"

"No," Scully admits, "it's not.  But you know that already, don't 
you?"

"Dana Scully and Fox Mulder.  Former Special Agents with the FBI."  
Linda laughs bitterly.  "According to those men, Mr. Mulder was a 
problem for the FBI for years.  They said he devoted his entire 
career to chasing aliens.  That he staged his death a number of 
times, disobeyed protocol, misappropriated funds, was responsible 
for reckless losses of lives... and that he dragged you into his 
madness."  She throws her head back.  "Killers in my living room."

"We're not killers, Linda," Scully says.  "Would you be here if you 
believed that?"

"I don't know what to believe right now," Linda says, a tear falling 
down her cheek.  "Everything you said yesterday... I don't know 
which parts are true and which are lies.  But I want to believe that 
you were telling me the truth about William.  I don't want to think 
that you could manufacture that."

Scully sighs.  She's sick of lies, weary of the tangled web they 
must maintain in order to survive.  In her darkest moments, she 
fears they are becoming the very thing they have fought against all 
these years.

She reaches over and takes Linda's hand.  "They were right...about 
some things.  My name is Dana Scully.  I'm a pathologist and former 
special agent.  And the man in there is not legally my husband, but 
he is my partner, in every sense of the word.  His name *is* Fox 
Mulder, and it's true that he was a thorn in the side of the FBI, 
the federal government and just about any institution he came across 
--- but he is not a murderer.  For the last decade, we've been on a 
journey that I don't think I could explain if I tried.  What I told 
you yesterday was true.  We made powerful enemies... and they would 
use any tool necessary to silence us." 

Scully looks away.  "Why we've survived this long is a question I 
can't answer."

Scully can see that Linda is shaken, but she does not move from her 
chair, so she continues.  "You need to know that William *is* our 
son.  And I let him go for his protection.  Now that he's been taken 
from you, Mulder and I will do whatever we have to do to find him."  

Linda swallows audibly.  "What does that mean?  I love my little 
boy, but this... I've never been this scared before.  I don't know 
who to trust, what to do."

Scully feels a brittle familiarity in Linda's words, but pushes it 
away.  "I can't tell you who to trust.  You either do or you don't.  
However, my fear is that by coming here and meeting with you, we 
have jeopardized the safety of you and your husband.  I pressed to 
come here.  It was bad judgment, but I needed to see where he had 
been."

Linda softens and gives Scully a small smile.  "I never knew my 
birth mother, Ms. Scully, but I always wanted to believe that if 
something happened to me, she'd be there if she could.  I know why 
you came here."

Scully nods, but she's back to business.  "We can't be certain that 
you met with actual CIA agents this morning.  Do you and Joe have 
somewhere else you can go?  I would advise that you leave town for a 
few days until we can be certain that you are safe."

"I don't want to go anywhere, Ms. Scully," Linda argues.  "What if 
something happens with William and I'm not here to take the call?  
Joe thinks we need to wait this out and not speak with anyone unless 
they go through the local police first."

"That's something between you and your husband," Scully says.  
"Obviously, someone knows we're here, so Mulder and I will be 
leaving today.  We have leads to follow, but it's certainly in your 
best interest that we go."

******

Mulder's forehead throbs when he lifts it from the pillow.  He 
fingers the bandage on his temple and remembers the swirling nausea 
of the previous night.  He reaches for Scully beside him, but finds 
only rumpled sheets at his side.  Fragments of the evening return to 
him, and then he remembers pulling her to him insistently, thrusting 
against her, letting her draw him back into this world, and he 
remembers her tears as she gave herself to him.

Shit.

He pulls on his jeans and grabs a shirt.  Outside the glass doors, 
he sees her sitting, staring ahead at the point where the asphalt 
meets prairie.  The door squeaks loudly, too loudly, when he pushes 
it open, but she doesn't turn around.

"Scully, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Mulder."  Her hair is growing out, red streaks peeking 
through the chestnut color.  That glimpse of his old Scully 
reassures him somehow, even when she won't make eye contact.

He places a hand on her shoulder, daring her to flinch.  She doesn't 
move.

"Scully, did I hurt you... last night?"

"Mulder, I'm fine," she repeats, then she turns to glare at him.  "I 
need to know what is really going on with you.  Your visions, or 
whatever you're experiencing, aren't just random occurrences, are 
they?"

He doesn't answer.

"Hosteen was right, wasn't he?  They're getting worse.  You fell 
last night, Mulder.  I don't know how long you were unconscious... 
and when you came to... Mulder, you were out of your head."

"Scully, you didn't have to..." he cups her cheek.

She gently brushes his hand away.  "Mulder, I'm not even talking 
about that.  Being with you made me feel as if we were connecting 
again, although I'm not so sure you were ready for it."

He smiles and runs a hand through his rumpled hair.  "Didn't hear 
any complaints."

Scully narrows her eyes.  "Don't change the subject, Mulder.  Last 
night, you told Ernest Hosteen that you've been having visions of 
William.  Is that true?"

Mulder crouches beside Scully's chair and looks into her eyes.  
"They're just flashes, Scully.  I don't even know what to make of 
them."

"How long has this been going on?"

He looks away.  "For a long time.  Maybe since I left.  After 
William was born."

Scully sighs and Mulder cringes inside.

"So... what do you see... when you see our son?" she finally asks.

"Glimpses, Scully."  He touches his bandaged forehead.  "I see 
William, but only for an instant.  I see everything... and nothing.  
It's too much for me to process."

"Why haven't you told me about this?"  Her pained expression tugs at 
him.

"You wouldn't have believed me, Scully."

"You didn't give me the opportunity, Mulder," she says, looking 
away.  "This is not just about you.  It's about our son.  It's about 
us."  She places a small hand on his arm and he shivers at her 
touch.  "Your health is being affected, and you're all I have left.  
You've had abnormal brain activity in the past, and this could be a 
recurrence.  I don't know how to work it out, but we need to find 
some way for you to be examined."

Mulder interrupts.  "Scully, last night, before I blacked out, I saw 
William again.  Someone was with him."

She stops and listens.  "And what do you think this means?"

"I'm not sure.  I think I need to follow up with Hosteen and some of 
the things we addressed last night."

"Mulder, I still have my doubts about the man.  Don't you think we 
should work through more conventional channels first?" 

Mulder takes a deep breath.  He doesn't have the strength to argue 
this morning.  "Scully, we went beyond conventional channels at 
least a year ago.  I can't control this on my own.  I need help from 
someone who has experienced this."

"So you'll trust a stranger with something you've only shared with 
me in the last 24 hours."  Scully's voice is low and strained and he 
can only listen as she gathers her composure and begins to speak 
again.

"There's something you should know, Mulder," Scully says.  "Linda 
Van de Camp spoke with me this morning.  Men identifying themselves 
as CIA agents visited their ranch this morning and basically exposed 
our story, with some added details, of course."

"And?"

"Someone knows we're here, Mulder.  We can't stay in Wyoming any 
longer.  We're putting ourselves and the Van de Camps at risk."

"I told you someone was flushing us out, but it's not the CIA."  He 
pauses, a million thoughts rushing through his head.  "We shouldn't 
have gotten so close to William's home.  We know better than that."  
He flashes a glance at Scully and immediately regrets it.  Her 
defensive expression tells him not to pursue the issue.

He turns and opens the patio door, pushes his way inside and throws 
on socks and shoes, a fleece pullover.  "Scully," he calls.  "We're 
going to Cody.  Hosteen's staying in a hotel there.  I'm ready to 
try some of his techniques to focus what I'm seeing."

"Mulder, this is crazy!" Scully pushes the door closed with a loud 
creak.  "You're having blackouts, we've got people on our tail, a 
couple who could expose us to law enforcement at any moment, and you 
want to have a meeting with a cult leader in the next town over."

Mulder turns, catching Scully's shoulders with both hands.  He looks 
into her eyes.  "I don't have anything left but hunches and 
feelings.  They don't want us to find William, but I think the truth 
is somewhere in front of us.  Looking inside is the only way."

Scully doesn't say anything in reply, but Mulder feels her soften 
under his grip.  He releases her shoulders and pulls her into an 
embrace, hoping that can give her an assurance he can't express.

******

The day has warmed considerably, and they drive through the prairie 
to Cody in relative silence.  The decision is made, and although 
Scully has her misgivings, in the absence of direction she's willing 
to let Mulder follow this through.

The clerk at Hosteen's hotel is busy for early afternoon.  He 
processes several checkouts before turning to Mulder's impatient 
gaze.  "How may I help you, sir?"

"Would it be possible to obtain a room number for a guest?" he asks.

"Certainly, sir.  Name?"

"Ernest Hosteen."

The clerk taps keys rhythmically.  "I'm sorry, sir.  Mr. Hosteen 
checked out early this morning."

"Did he leave any messages, by any chance?"

He looks at the screen.  "Nothing here, but if you have a moment, 
I'll be glad to check for you in the out boxes."

Mulder nods.  Scully looks restlessly around the lobby of the hotel.  
Marble floors, dark wood railings, old brass accents.  There's an 
ancient switchboard system on the wall, a relic of the past.  
Historic landmark, probably.  It reminds her of grand old buildings 
in Virginia or Maryland, but with an Old West flavor.

The clerk returns with a small package.  "Mr. Hosteen left this for 
a David Newland.  Would that be you?"

"Yes," Mulder replies.

"He requested that your I.D. be checked.  Would you mind?"

Mulder shakes his head and pulls out David Newland's driver's 
license.  Even in her black mood, Scully knows better than to look, 
since she always grins uncontrollably when she sees the goatee 
Frohike brushed on to Mulder's photo.  She busies herself with 
travel brochures while the clerk compares Mulder's photo to the man 
in front of him.

"Sc...honey, check this out," Mulder says, walking towards her.  He 
hands a photocopied sheet to her.

"A map.  To where?"

"It's a location in the Four Corners region.  An area that's been 
known in some circles as an apex between worlds," Mulder says, with 
a hint of a smirk.

Scully raises an eyebrow.  "Do you think this is Hosteen's home, or 
compound?"

"Not sure, but I think that's where he wants us to go."  He gives 
her another paper, a solemn expression on his face.  "There's 
something else."

Scully examines the paper.  A gray rubbing, raised marks, 
unidentifiable symbols and scrawls, broken edges outlined by careful 
pencil strokes.  She slowly looks up and meets Mulder's eyes.

"We've seen this before, Scully."

*The artifact.*

And she remembers Mulder locked away, screaming her name in a small 
white room.  Plagues, portents and miracles, continents and oceans 
away.  A lifetime ago.  Hushed whispers, 'Some truths are not for 
you.'

She's never told him how she once lost William, only to find him 
amid pillars of fire, the only survivor of a burning massacre.  
Whether he was the reason for the tragedy---or its instrument---is 
something she can't bring herself to consider.  

But she knows that a fine layer of scar tissue formed around her 
heart that night.  

He was ripped away, so suddenly, despite her best efforts to protect 
him, and she realized to her horror that there would have been no 
way to prevent it.  It was then that she fears she placed her son in 
that category she always reserved for Mulder.  Hers, but not hers.  
Subject to the capriciousness of the universe, fleeting and 
ephemeral.

Was this when she began building the wall, protecting herself, as 
she'd done so often in the past?  Was this the moment when her heart 
began to harden?  The moment she began to realize that her fate was 
to let him go?

"Look on the back, Scully," Mulder says.  So she turns the page over 
and begins to read.

"'There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, 
when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they 
bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, 
men of renown.'"  She glances at him.  "A translation?  That's 
Genesis, again, Mulder."

"Yes," he answers.  "A verse used by Erich von Daniken and others to 
cite evidence of ancient extraterrestrial visitations."

"A little obvious, don't you think?" she says.

She doesn't read aloud the next line, written in Hosteen's hasty 
scrawl. 'Open your eyes.'

******

The ring echoes through the cavernous chamber.  The dreadful, 
electronic sound of a digital phone, he thinks, suddenly nostalgic 
for the rich, full tones of rotary telephones.  

Across the room a ginger-haired toddler plays with a set of plastic 
blocks.  The structure he's building appears quite advanced for a 
two-year old, he notes.  Smiling with a mixture of amusement and 
pride, he pauses to check the number displayed on the phone before 
picking it up.  

He doesn't bother to greet his caller.  "Yes," he says.  "I see.  
Quite an interesting development, although I expected as much by 
this point."

He stares at the child for a moment.  "It appears that your parents 
are on their way, my boy."

******

Something unusual, something strange
Comes from nothing at all
But I'm not a miracle
And you're not a saint
Just another soldier
On the road to nowhere

~ Damien Rice - "Amie"

Feedback welcomed at kudra_x@yahoo.com