Title: The Geometry of Loss (Chapter 7)
Author: Kudra (kudra_x@yahoo.com)
Rating: R
Disclaimer:  These characters aren't mine.  They belong 
to Chris Carter, 1013 & Fox, but they sure are fun to 
play with.
Timeline: 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: Chapters 1-6 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.
Author's Note: Many thanks to Elizabeth for extremely 
helpful beta during a very busy time! 


"The Geometry of Loss"
by Kudra

Chapter 7

***For twenty long years, Ulysses and his wife Penelope 
were separated by war and the whims of the gods.  
Through it all, she never stopped waiting and watching 
for his ship to appear on the horizon, even as she 
outwardly moved on with her life.  Strings of suitors 
were kept at bay as her cleverness kept her husband's 
kingdom intact for him and for their son.

When Ulysses made his way home at last, they rejoiced at 
the reunion.  But Ulysses soon realized that the quest 
would never be over for him, not as long as adventure 
remained.  He was made for the fight, the struggle, the 
search, not to rest in a castle enjoying the spoils of 
war.

And so he left Penelope again, believing that she could 
not share his wanderlust and his drive to discover.  But 
I wonder if Ulysses misjudged his wife.  Did she dream 
of a different life?  Was she waiting for him to say the 
words and sweep her away with him?  Did her heart break 
just a little more when she realized that he had chosen 
the quest over her?

Yet, was it pure selfishness on Ulysses' part, or did he 
hope to shield his wife from an uncertain life?  War and 
its horrors can change a man in ways not always visible 
at the surface.  Was it actually love and protection at 
work?  

For years I've dragged Scully along on endless, 
fruitless quests, but now... the more I live this 
strange life of shadow and dream, the more I believe 
that some paths are not meant for both of us.***

******

The landscape is barren, a vast expanse of dusty chalk 
as far as he can see.  The white casts a hazy glow on 
the horizon before bleeding into a stark blue sky.  

Crystal blue persuasion, he thinks absurdly.  The color 
of her eyes.  

At first glance, Mulder thinks snow, but upon closer 
inspection, he sees the crystals of bone white, salty 
sand, cracked earth and the stench of decay.  Gnarled 
branches of parched wood litter the ground.  Dry bones.  
Things don't rot here so much as they dehydrate.  The 
desiccated corpses of birds lie baking, drying like 
mummies in the sand.

Nothing lives here.  

At least not for long.

Krycek appears, wrapped in leather and shadow, a dark 
blot on the pale landscape.  Mulder finds that he is not 
surprised to see him.

"Do you know where you are, Mulder?" Krycek asks.

"It's Utah, isn't it?" he answers.  "The Salt Flats.  
There's an interstate running through it."

"Only a slice of it," Krycek says, "but not where we're 
going.  You could say we'll be taking a back door."

Mulder's vision shifts, zooming in on a tiny dark spot 
in the distance.  Closer, closer, to something like a 
manhole cover, rusty and flecked with salt, surrounded 
completely by this otherworldy desert.  He reaches for 
its handle and his fingers pass through the metal before 
he remembers he is immaterial, merely a spectator in 
this plane.

His realization breaks the illusion, sending him reeling 
with a mass of images swirling through his mind.  Salt, 
death, sky, metal, planes, flashes of red hair.  
William?

Scully.  

She's beside him, her hands at the wheel, eyes forward.  
One clear image of her before his vision is swept under 
by an all too familiar pain.  An unbidden moan escapes 
his lips as the nightmare rush hits him. 

"Mulder?" 

"Utah... we've got to go to Utah, Scully," he says, 
wincing and clutching his forehead.  

"We're not going to Utah, Mulder," she says, easing the 
car to a stop in a graveled parking lot.  Darkness 
swirls around him, but through the patches of shadow he 
can see the dusky twilight and prairie grass.

"Where are we?"

"We're at a motel outside Colby, Kansas," she says, 
searching through her purse.  "I've been driving for 11 
hours.  It's nearly dark and I need to stop for the 
night."

"The last thing I remember is Colorado," Mulder says 
weakly, rubbing his temple.  "You're going east.  We 
need to go west---"

"You've slept for most of the day," she says, cutting 
him off with a worried glance, "but you still look like 
you could use some more rest."  She sighs.  "At least 
you'll be comfortable tonight."  

She steps out of the car and he watches her walk to the 
office, the drumming in his head building, accelerating.  
When she returns, his breathing is shallow and his eyes 
are tight with pain.  

"Mulder, are you okay?" Scully asks, startled.

"I don't know," he answers honestly.

She draws a deep breath.  "Let's get to our room and 
I'll check you out."

She drives to the end of the building, parks beside a 
tall cottonwood tree, and steps out of the car to open 
the trunk.  Mulder listens to her rummaging through 
their bags and boxes amid the constant hum in his head.  
Bags over her shoulders, she helps him out of the car.  

Mulder settles himself on one of the room's double beds.  
Scully grasps his wrist and places her index finger at 
the base of his hand.  "Your pulse is racing," she says 
softly, reaching for her medical bag.  "I should 
probably take your blood pressure.  Is your head 
bothering you again?"

"I had another...dream...vision...visitation?  I don't 
know what they are, Scully," he says, "but it was Krycek 
this time...and he says he knows where William is."

The crease between Scully's eyes deepens, and she purses 
her lips before speaking.  "Utah, I assume?"

Mulder coughs and takes a few shallow breaths. "He 
showed me an...entrance, somewhere in the Salt Flats, I 
think.  No directions, just a picture."  He runs a hand 
through his hair.  "I don't know, I just think it's 
worth checking out."

"Checking out what, Mulder?" Scully asks, grasping his 
shoulders.  "You had a dream, and as vivid as it might 
have been, it was only a dream."

He tenses under her grip and looks away, as much in 
frustration as pain.

"Mulder, we don't know what is causing your visions," 
she whispers.  "I'm not discounting them, but we don't 
know their source.  We can't go all the way to Utah on a 
hunch when we don't know who or what is out there right 
now tailing us."

"Right now it's the only lead we have to find William," 
he says.  "What else do we have?  And why are you taking 
us east when everything points to looking west?"

"I'm regrouping, Mulder!" she says, her voice raising 
slightly before she catches it and resumes a normal 
tone.  "I want to head closer to D.C., maybe find a way 
to make contact with Reyes and Doggett, get you examined 
somehow, pick up some new aliases and information from 
Jimmy and Yves since our current identities are shot, 
and..."

"See your mother," he says, as if he's plucked the 
thought out of the air.

She stares at him for a moment, relaxing, crumpling 
slightly.  "No," she says.  "No, I'm not ready.  Not for 
that.  Not while this is happening with William."

"But you want to," Mulder says, gently touching her 
face.

She places her hand over his and rests it against her 
cheek for a moment.  Mulder feels her pulse, her warmth 
against his skin, and his breath slows, the pain 
creeping away for now.  

She lets go, abruptly standing.  "What I want is to take 
a shower and get some sleep." 

****

Their room is blanketed in utter darkness, but an odd 
clicking sound wakes Mulder.  A fiery orange glow 
ignites beside him, and he can make out the tip of a 
cigarette.  There's a sick feeling in Mulder's stomach 
as a familiar stench of smoke hits his nostrils.

"Such an elusive thing, fatherhood," says a low, hoarse 
voice, laced with an arrogance that makes Mulder clench 
his fists.  The cigarette rises, making contact with a 
pair of withered lips.  Amber light illuminates a gray 
and weathered face that Mulder knows instantly.  

C.G.B. Spender breathes in deeply and exhales a long 
trail of smoke.  "To make that kind of monumental 
contribution---the creation of a child---and yet have no 
control whatsoever over who he is or what he becomes."

"You..." Mulder says, his voice a low growl.

"Disheartening, isn't it, Mulder?" He smiles, taking a 
long drag.  "I always found it to be."

"You're not my father, you bastard.  DNA doesn't make a 
damn difference."

A sinister smile twists Spender's features, and he 
inhales deeply, the smoke a macabre halo.  "The son 
cleaves to his mother.  It's biology, Mulder.  Any 
attachment to the father is one of familiarity... or 
more often, fear. In the best case, we're all merely 
sperm donors."

Mulder flinches in spite of himself.  "That's a blessing 
when the father is a coldhearted, black-lunged son of a 
bitch."

"Too true, Mulder.  After all, aren't we all really the 
sum of our environments?"  

Spender touches a withered finger to the center of 
Mulder's forehead, and he flashes to the vision he 
glimpsed at Hosteen's ranch.  Layers of dirt, steel, and 
the unmistakable presence of his son.  He shudders, his 
temper rising sharply.

"William!  You know where he is!"

But Spender only smiles and lights another cigarette.  
"The Indian," he sneers, "I see he told you nothing of 
value."

"You bastard!" Mulder reaches forward and attempts 
fruitlessly to shove Spender, who begins to laugh, a low 
and mocking sound.

"Tell me where to find my son!" Mulder shouts above the 
laughter, his anger building. 

Spender's voice is suddenly cool.  "You've seen it for 
yourself.  Now figure it out."

A fierce, lupine rage clenches Mulder, and he lunges for 
Spender, somehow making contact this time. He seizes 
Spender by the throat and grips tighter, tighter.  
Spender struggles, choking, but Mulder only increases 
the pressure.  He ignores the muffled sounds of protest, 
but unexpectedly, his victim's gray features begin to 
fade into porcelain skin, auburn streaked tresses...a 
tiny woman gasping for breath.

Scully, he realizes with horror.  

He releases her instantly, roughly, and she crumples to 
the floor.  "Scully!"  Rushing to her, covering his body 
with hers.  "Oh my God, Scully, are you all right?"

"Mulder..." she croaks, gasping, "what just happened?"

He caresses her hair, covers her cheek with desperate, 
fluttering kisses.  "God, Scully, I'm so sorry."  He 
buries his face in her hair, his voice muffled.  "I'm so 
sorry."

"Was it...another hallucination?" she asks, still short 
of breath.

"Spender. The Cancer Man.  He was here," Mulder answers.  
"I...I thought you were him," he winces, feeling wild, 
foolish.

"Mulder, you know he wasn't here," Scully says, rubbing 
her neck.

"He knows where William is," he mutters.  "I tried to 
make him tell me, but..."

Mulder's voice breaks as a rush of pain centers, 
circling beneath his forehead.  It is different this 
time.  Instead of the swirl of color, image and motion 
that usually assaults him, he is enveloped in a 
maelstrom of darkness.  This is shadow.  This is pain.  
This is fury.

He screams.

The icy blue of Scully's terrified eyes is the last 
thing he sees before the darkness overtakes him.

****

He dreams of making long and luxurious love to her, 
feeling the curve of her body beneath his, drowning in 
the taste and scent of her.  He laps at the bruised 
flesh of her neck, each kiss fading the marks from 
purple to porcelain.  His touch restores her, and she 
rewards him with pleasure, as they meld into one, the 
distance between them melting, dissolving into a 
communion of body and soul.

But even in the depths of this glorious release, he's 
acutely aware that unlike his nightmare visions, this is 
only a beautiful dream.

****

Mulder awakens with a soft pillow behind his head and 
Scully beside him, engrossed in a medical journal.  
She's pulled the collar of her shirt up, but he can see 
a harsh ring of bruises around her neck, and he wants to 
sink beneath the blankets rather than meet her eyes.

"Scully, where are we?" he asks, not knowing where to 
begin.

"You're awake," she says, looking up.  Mulder can hear 
the relief in her voice, but feels the distance, the old 
wall.  He senses she's somewhere just beyond his reach 
again.  Protection.  He can't blame her, but he feels 
weary, spent and broken, as if he's climbed a mountain 
only to fall from the pinnacle. 

"We're in Colby Memorial Hospital," she continues.  "You 
lost consciousness again after an intense hallucination.  
You may not remember much of your episode---"

"No, I remember what happened," he says, and his words 
hang in the air for a moment, neither of them daring to 
speak.

"Scully, I---"

"I wanted to get you closer to home, where there were 
people we trusted to handle this quietly," she says, 
continuing despite his interjection.  "But tonight made 
me realize that you might not survive the trip back 
east.  Your hallucinations have increased to the point 
that you're becoming a danger to yourself---"

"And others, obviously," he says.  "God, I'm sorry, 
Scully.  You know I would never..."

"Mulder, I'm fine," she says, her mouth a thin line.  "I 
know this didn't happen...intentionally... but we can't 
gamble with your health any longer.  You could be 
experiencing a recurrence of your brain disease.  It 
could be anything---but you need tests, CAT scans, 
examinations I can't do on my own."

"What about the risk of exposure, here in a public 
hospital?"

"We don't really have a choice right now," she sighs.  
"I called Jimmy.  They think we have a day or two before 
our current aliases become a problem.  Meanwhile, 
they're working on new ones using Frohike's old setup."  
She gives him a tight smile.  "So enjoy your last days 
as David Newland.  God knows who you'll be next."

Mulder looks out the window toward the darkened parking 
lot.  "Scully, I know you don't believe me, but I don't 
think we can afford to waste time here in the hospital 
when we could be looking for William."  He pauses, 
noticing the pained expression on her face.  "He's in 
Utah, Scully...and we could find him..."

"Mulder, what I can't afford right now is to lose you," 
she says, taking his hand.  "You know I want to find our 
son...but I can't do it without you.  Your health is in 
question, and...you...you're all I have left."

Their eyes meet, and Mulder sees a world of pain, 
confusion and loss in Scully's blue gaze.  With effort, 
he looks away.  "Okay, Scully," he says softly, "we'll 
stay.  I'll do whatever you want."      

****

The fluorescent lights vibrate with a steady hum, the 
most persistent noise in the quiet hospital.  Mulder 
listens as the sound swells and ebbs, measuring its 
rhythm.  After sleeping all day, he's finally reached 
his limit in the wee hours of the morning.  The silence, 
marred only by the occasional beep and voice on an 
intercom, is oppressive, reminding him of too many 
sleepless nights in his old apartment.  

Beside him, Scully sleeps peacefully, her small body 
folded into an orange chair.  She vowed to stay awake to 
guard against any of his visions, and he knows in the 
morning she'll be furious at her weakness, but he's 
relieved to see her resting at last.  He wants to touch 
her, embrace her, bask in the peace that radiates from 
her in sleep.

But in the corner of the room, a shadow grows and Mulder 
shivers as it moves toward him.  

"She won't let you go," Krycek whispers, cool breath in 
his ear, "so you'll have to leave now, while she's 
occupied."

"Occupied?" argues Mulder.  "She's sleeping."  He 
glances at her, slumped in the chair.  "I can't leave 
Scully."

"You're a danger to her now.  You know that, don't you?  
Besides, you really don't have a choice," says Krycek.  
"Not if you want to get to William in time.  And she 
won't let you leave when she wakes up.  You can count on 
that."  He points to the duffel bag tossed in the chair 
across from the bed.  "Your clothes and the keys are in 
there.  Get dressed and I'll help you get to the car."  
He sneers, "Promise I won't look."

Mulder's head is pounding.  He can't think, can't make 
sense of what Krycek is saying.  Krycek steps closer to 
the bed and fixes Mulder with a black glare.  When 
Mulder meets his eyes, the drumming in his head 
immediately stops, and he's paralyzed in the face of 
Krycek's darkness.  

"You have to leave, Mulder."

"I have to leave."

"She won't let you go."

"She won't let me go."

"It's the only way to find your son."

"It's the only way to find my son."

"You want to find your son, don't you?"

"Yes, I want to find my son," says Mulder, a strange 
sense of calm acceptance settling over him.  He steps 
out of the bed slowly, the ground unsteady beneath him.  
Shaking, he somehow changes out of the hospital gown 
into jeans, a gray shirt and a light jacket, the first 
clothes he finds.

From somewhere inside his jacket, Krycek pulls out a 
long, black coat and wraps it around himself and Mulder, 
pulling him close.  Mulder feels an unsettling sense of 
being pulled into another plane, another dimension, one 
of intense cold and boundless loneliness.  It feels 
oddly familiar to him.

"I'm going to get you out of here," Krycek says, "but I 
won't be able to maintain this for long.  You're going 
to have to listen to me."

Mulder takes one final look at Scully before letting 
Krycek lead him out the door.

****

He drives through the night, forward motion, head 
throbbing amid brief periods of clarity.  Krycek's 
phantom figure rides beside him, image flickering and 
sputtering, as if generated by an old movie projector. 

At times, the pain, fatigue, and images fill his head 
and he starts to slip over the edge.  Mulder can't 
explain it, but somehow Krycek senses it, and touches a 
phantom hand to Mulder's steering wheel death grip, 
jolting him awake and alert like a shot of adrenaline.  

He wonders what would happen if he let go.  The car 
would crash; what is left of his conscious mind knows 
this for certain, but what of himself?  Would he merge 
into this kinetic oblivion, becoming one more image, one 
more piece of this ever shifting puzzle?

And would there be peace there?

******

Scully jolts awake, her neck stiff and sore from 
sleeping in an upright position.  She blinks, willing 
her eyes to adjust to the way the room's shadows are 
pierced with unnatural fluorescent light.  

Too long since her intern rotation.  She used to be able 
to navigate a patient's room in the wee hours with 
feline precision, measuring their breaths, checking the 
levels in their I.V.s without ever turning on a light.  
Too long, even, since their days of piercing shadowy 
rooms with flashlights.  She's become far too accustomed 
to the stark sunlight of the Southwest. 

When her vision clears, her eyes dart to the bed beside 
her.  

Empty.

Mulder?

She checks her watch.  3:48 AM.  Shit.  She's been 
asleep for two hours.  And he was asleep for much 
longer.  She watched his breath rise and fall for three 
hours before giving in herself.

What would a doctor be doing with him at 3:48 AM?  What 
the hell could have happened to him at 3:48 AM without 
her awakening?  Her mind races through at least twenty 
different scenarios before she takes a deep breath, and 
then another.  

*Freaking out never helped anyone, Dana.* 

And she swears she hears her sister's voice in her head.

Brushing it aside, she moves toward the room's small 
bathroom.  Not really expecting to find him there, she 
splashes cold water on her face, examining the ring of 
bruises around her neck.  She glances at the small gold 
ring on her finger.  It's not a real wedding ring, just 
part of their cover.  They've kept up the charade as 
much for survival as in Frohike's honor.  

But she knows it's not a promise.

She opens the door of the room, looking both ways down 
the hallway.  Catching sight of a lone figure at the 
nurses' station, she walks briskly down the hall.  A 
young nurse on duty, dirty blond curls and a round, 
sweet face.  Scully doesn't remember her from earlier.  

"Nurse," she asks, forcing a calm she does not feel, 
"has the patient in room 317 been moved for any reason?"

The nurse looks at her, confused, and checks her chart.  
"317?  Mr. Newland?  You're his wife, right?" she asks, 
as Scully nods.  "I got here about an hour and a half 
ago, and when I went in to check his readings you were 
both asleep."  She looks at Scully with concerned brown 
eyes.  "Is he...out of his room?"

"Have you seen anyone leave this wing in the last hour?" 
Scully asks.

"No," says the nurse.  "Do you think I should I call 
security?"

Scully turns and rushes out of the wing, pushing open 
the door of the nearest stairwell, scanning up and down 
from bottom floor to ceiling.  She runs down to the 
first floor exit, to the covered parking garage.  
Looking over the lot, she sprints to where their car was 
parked hours before, finding only an empty space.  Her 
heart skips a beat before it starts pounding madly in 
her chest.  

She pulls her cell phone from her jacket pocket.  No 
reception in this structure of concrete and steel, so 
she rushes outside into the early morning darkness.  A 
few stars remain and she counts them absently as she 
taps in a number.  

A weary voice answers on the other end.

"I'm sorry.  I know it's early, but I need some 
information," Scully says, crisp and businesslike.  "I 
need his number, as soon as you can get it for me."

******

Walter Skinner stares out his office window.  He's still 
not used to the view here.  No neoclassical architecture 
or homogeneous federal buildings.  The spires of the 
Mormon Tabernacle dominate the cityscape like a macabre 
Disneyland.  There's a sterile strangeness to this city, 
he thinks, something unsettled just below its tranquil 
surface.  

He's taken up hiking here.  Hadn't done it in years, but 
here the mountains beckon him, call him out of the city, 
out of the suffocating valley to climb their heights, 
breathe the thin air and gaze for miles until he finds 
the point at which the city meets salty desert.

These days he catches himself staring into the distance 
all too often, in a way he hasn't since returning from 
the war.  It's similar, this feeling: battle weary, 
hardened by surprise attacks and losses, unsure of his 
place outside the fight.

This is not the place he envisioned for himself at this 
point in his career, certainly not the path he had 
planned.  The director's chair is desperately far away 
from Salt Lake City, and although he heads this field 
office, that's all it is---a field office.  Years of 
service and playing by the rules of the Bureau, wiped 
away by one dark night when he blatantly tossed those 
regulations away.  He sighs.

He'd do it all over again.

"Sir," his secretary's voice breaks him from his 
thoughts, "you have a call on line one, a referral from 
someone at Headquarters."

"I'll take it," he says, picking up the receiver.  
"Walter Skinner."

"Sir," says a soft voice, barely audible, "I'm taking a 
risk by calling you... but I'm running out of options."

*Dana.*  He somehow stops himself before saying her name 
aloud.  He feels a sharp sense of relief at hearing her 
voice, knowing that she's still there somewhere.  A 
thousand questions rush through his mind, but he knows 
this is not the time or place to ask. 

"What can I do for you?" he asks instead.

"Sir, I need your help."

He pauses, swallowing hard.  "You've got it."

(Continued in Chapter 8)

*****

"Wish I knew what you were looking for,
Might have known what you would find."

- The Church, "Under the Milky Way"


Feedback welcomed at kudra_x@yahoo.com