Theater of the Absurd II: Home By Anna Otto and Ashlea Ensro Email: annaotto1@aol.com & morleyphile@yahoo.com It would really be helpful if you read Theater of the Absurd I first. It's located at or Without it, this sequel will probably not make much sense. For those who don't have time, we provided a brief summary of the first part. Rating: R Classification: XA Spoilers: The Blessing Way, Redux I, the rest are untraceable, as usual Archive: Yes, but please ask us first Feedback: How could we live without it? Our pretty white box still has lots of space inside. Disclaimer: Paul and Kathy were but figments of our imagination - right? So, Mulder, Scully, and everyone who belongs to Chris, FOX, and 1013 Productions still belong to them. But Martin, Kenmore, and I am sure we missed a few, are ours. Timeline: We should have made a note before Theater 1, but it comes now instead: we are ignoring the story line of The End, FTF, and The Beginning. Theater of the Absurd 1 and 2 are set two years after the events of the fifth season, but before The End. Summary: Will Paul and Kathy transform into Mulder and Scully? Will Margaret Scully be happy to have her daughter back? Will Skinner be relieved that the X-Files department is back in full swing? Well, let's find out, shall we? Author's notes at the end. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Brief summary of Theater of the Absurd I. Skip if you know what happened there. Come on, we know you want to. Paul and Kathy, employees of the Consortium, lead happy and normal lives in San Diego. They are working on the Project that they believe will save humanity - a vaccine against the alien virus that could wipe away the population of this planet. On the side, they plot a few intrigues and destroy a few lives. All is well until their smoking friend invites them to Washington D.C. to take care of the 'inconvenience' of AD of the FBI, Walter Skinner, who still searches for Mulder and Scully - the two agents who disappeared without a trace two years ago. Paul and Kathy orchestrate a game of cat and mouse that brings Skinner to the edge of nervous breakdown - a fate that already befell Margaret Scully. Little do Paul and Kathy realize that the clues they provide to Skinner in his search for Mulder and Scully are the clues to their own identities. Meanwhile, two other lives are imperiled in the process - those of Marsel and Holmes, young agents whose brush with truth is too costly. And an unseen player in the game - Skinner's 'informant,' Martin Ng, will make sure that dangerous truths are revealed - thus destroying whatever happiness Mulder and Scully could have ever possessed. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Theater of the Absurd II: Home "And I thank you For bringing me here For showing me home For singing these tears Finally I've found That I belong here." - Depeche Mode, ~Home~ "But it's no use now," thought poor Alice, "to pretend to be two people! Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make *one* respectable person." - Lewis Carroll, ~Alice in Wonderland~ Act I: Welcome Back, Ye Weary Travelers! "Come inside." He took a long drag of his cigarette as the door slid open. His free hand brushed over the gun lying on the table by his chair. The widening rectangle of light split the darkness of the motel room apart as two figures, half-silhouetted, stood in the doorway. He motioned them inside, his hand trailing smoke. Neither of them looked like they had slept in days. He had almost become accustomed to their laughter, their smiles, the carefree glitter of their eyes. Almost. "I trust you've heard." Kathy Mott's voice was cold, obliquely accusatory. When had she begun to sound like him? "There have been... rumors." The smoker kept his own tone deliberately even. No use in letting them know more than they had to. How much *did* they know? "You lied to us. You kept things from us." Paul Bartlett spoke with more of a tremor - the Smoking Man tried to resist his mouth from curling into a smile. He wasn't supposed to smile. Not now - not with... Not with them. "You were told what we deemed necessary," the smoker replied. Before he knew what was happening, he felt Paul's fingers tighten around his throat, pushing him back into the chair. "We trusted you... you bastard..." "Paul." The command was soft but firm. As she had always been. Paul let go. "You goddamned liar," he hissed. "Did you expect differently?" "Just tell me..." Kathy swayed, clutching her partner's arm for support. "Tell *us* that he's the liar. Tell us it isn't true." "Is that what you would like to hear?" Paul lunged for him again, but Kathy held him back. "Wait." "We've met like this before," the Smoking Man said. "Or do you not remember?" A strange light came over Paul's hazel eyes; a shadow of pain twisted his handsome face. Remembering... as he had again and again, since... Since when? "I... remember..." Paul looked half-ready to kill the smoker and half-ready to put the gun to his own head. He did neither. A tear trickled out of the corner of his eye. He made no attempt to brush it away. "Hello, Fox," the Smoking Man said. He said it with a mixture of resignation and...relief. *** Kathy Mott did not want to admit she did not remember half of what her partner could recall. she told herself. Paul - Mulder - had told her these things. She remembered brief flashes - a dream here, a face there - but... Nothing important. It had been Paul's decision to confront the Smoking Man, and she had only agreed to it reluctantly. She did not want to believe that he was responsible. Maybe he was like them - his memory destroyed, forced into the Project. Forced? Kathy believed in the Project. Didn't she? She couldn't think about that now. Kathy looked at the faces of the two men, grim in their determination. She looked at the Smoking Man's gun, sitting on the table, close enough for any of them to grab it. Of course, she and Paul had come armed. Of course. "Why... I...*we* need to know." Paul looked desperate. She wondered exactly how much he remembered... if he had told her everything. What role had this man - their friend - what role had he played? "You can't know. I could never tell you our reasons." The smoker was still unbelievably calm. It couldn't have been *that* bad then... for him to show no guilt. Paul swallowed hard. "What are you going to do to us?" A pause. The older man dragged on his cigarette. "Nothing." Kathy felt it high time she spoke. "Aren't we... a liability?" She said it with a dark chuckle. Silence. "What will you do now?" He asked instead of answering. Paul reached for Kathy's hand. "We're going back." The Smoking Man laughed. "Are you?" "You won't let us?" "The organization needs you... *I* need you. It has never been more crucial." Kathy pinned him with her eyes. "We are leaving," she said. "Are you going to stop us?" "No." He sighed heavily - his gray gaze weary. For a moment she felt the absurd urge to hug him. She fought it back. He had lied to them. He was not their friend. "Do you think they will want you back?" the smoker asked. Recalling the night on the bridge, Kathy shuddered. Paul nudged her to walk towards the door. "I must tell you..." the Smoking Man spoke again. He no longer looked old, exhausted. He had banished all emotion from his voice, from the sharp, craggy angles of his face. "If you go... if you choose to become Mulder and Scully again, I can no longer protect you. You have to understand..." Kathy nodded. A virtual death threat. They would be enemies again... Again. She could not remember ever being his enemy. "That's a risk we're willing to take," Paul replied. And still holding hands, children lost in a deep, dark, fairy-tale forest - they walked out the door. *** Skinner drew out the key to the basement office, placing one arm on the door to steady himself. He felt tired and useless. A man used up by his enemies, abandoned by his friends. A bad party gag for the Consortium. A microscopic cosmic joke. A failure. The key wasn't necessary, the door gave easily, presenting him with the most incongruous site of the day: a man, dressed entirely in black, tracing the outlines of the inscription on that ridiculous poster of Mulder's, touching the paper with nothing less than reverence. "I don't want to play your goddamn games anymore," Skinner said, reaching for the light switch. "Whoever you are - I don't want any part of this." "Leave the light off." The voice sounded vaguely familiar - he stared at the dark form, analyzing the build, the stooped shoulders, the broad, strong fingers tracing the letters of the damned poster. "Who are you?" Another voice spoke - and this one was achingly recognizable. He caught a flash of red as the second figure rose from within the shadows to walk towards him. "We were hoping," the woman said, "We were hoping perhaps you could answer that." "Mr. Skinner." The man slowly turned, a pale shaft of light illuminating the haunted features. Skinner took a step back, his hand curling around the doorknob, seeking escape, release. He felt as though he had seen a ghost. When in fact... he had seen two. "Mr. Skinner," Fox Mulder repeated, "I was told to tell you that the game is not over." * * * Skinner lowered his head and took off his glasses, rubbing the eyes tiredly with a thumb and a forefinger. The monthly conversations with his counselor were usually exhausting - but none proved to be as wrenching as this one. For the duration of the last hour, he talked nonstop about Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and the X-Files. He felt as if he were trading supernatural stories with friends during Halloween, the darkness of the basement office reinforcing the impression. From time to time, a hollow smile or an expression of recognition crossed the faces of his listeners - but more often than not his stories were met with silent, sullen disappointment. With grimaces of frustration. Skinner was afraid to ask how much they remembered. How much they didn't remember. Though he realized with chagrin which percentage carried more weight. "Do you remember the night when you..." he couldn't choose the proper word, settled for the one he always used during the last two years. "The night when you disappeared?" Skinner watched as Scully hid her eyes, concentrated intently on the patterns on the floor. Mulder's fingers clenched and unclenched reflexively, and his forehead wrinkled as if he were trying to reconstruct a whole from the desperately torn parts, only to come up empty. He finally shook his head and turned away. So the answer was no. "I suppose it's one part of the story I cannot tell you," Skinner massaged his temples, smiled at them suddenly. "I'd often wondered during these two years... if you were together, wherever you were. And I am glad to find that..." he stopped but not before the spike of pain rippled through him. But there was no reason for it now, he reminded himself. Was there? A hand brushed his fleetingly, and he found himself looking in Mulder's eyes - eyes full of empathy and... something else. A distance he didn't want to dwell on. "You blamed yourself," Mulder spoke with understanding. "We played with your guilt." Scully scooted closer to her partner as if for protection, glancing at Skinner nervously, a contrite expression on her face. "We must ask your forgiveness," her voice was soft. "From what I understand..." Skinner paused uncertainly, trying once again to assimilate the situation, then spoke resolutely. "You were different people then." Mulder laughed darkly, then fell silent. Scully smiled vacantly. "You should go see your mother," Skinner suggested to her. "I'm sure she would like to see Mulder as well." An expression of sheer panic crossed over her face, only to be replaced by resignation. "Tomorrow," she promised herself. "Tomorrow." After a second of hesitation, she spoke again, her voice small. "Um... could you give me her address?" Skinner would have laughed if it weren't so damn tragic. Refraining from comments, he pulled out an address book, scribbled down the numbers and letters on a pad of paper, handed it to her. "Thank you," Scully murmured gratefully and pocketed the note. "Why aren't you... you didn't mention his mother." His. She didn't even know how to call her partner now. He wondered if she wanted to call him Paul. "She is dead, isn't she?" Mulder stared at him hard, as if daring him to avoid the truth. Skinner nodded, bracing himself against the onslaught of grief, and was surprised to see acceptance and... relief. Not what he would have expected. It chilled him even as he felt himself relax. Perhaps there was some value to losing one's memories. "You said that you wanted to come back to work." The partners looked at each other, then back at him. "Yes," they said simultaneously. Skinner nodded, deciding that he would be satisfied with their response. That he would ask no questions and push for no answers. That it had to be enough - and that perhaps, eventually, everything would drift back to the way it used to be. It had to. "Agents," he stood up, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. This - this was right. "It's good to have you back." * * * Holmes walked through the revolving doors of the hospital, automatically shaking snowflakes out of her dark hair, maneuvering quickly in the crowd of patients and visitors. Walk to the end of the hallway. Turn left. Take the elevator to the third floor. Pass an obligatory greeting to the nurse on duty and walk a few steps to the right. Open the door to room fifty-three. When did it become routine? She listened to her own heartbeat and willed it to calm down. Put a smile on her face that she hoped looked genuine. She would much rather scream and break the heavy glass panes of the large windows in her partner's room. The hospital assured them that the room was one of the best. That he would be comfortable until he felt strong enough to go home. That he would receive the best care possible. But not that he would ever walk again. "Hey, partner," Marsel heard her approach and turned his wheelchair in her direction with effort. He was still awkward with it. "Hey." A swift assessment. His light hair was longer than normal, the shadows under his gray eyes were deeper than yesterday. A few quick steps, and Holmes sat down beside him, trying to cut down on the physical differences between them - if only in appearance. "How is it going?" "They're torturing me here," he grimaced. "Tests, and physical therapy, and did you know that they forced me to eat rice pudding?" "Oh no," Holmes laughed despite herself, feeling the tension drain away. "I'll speak to them on your behalf. Tell them to bring you green and slimy but incredibly delicious and nutritious Jell-O." "You're with them," Marsel pouted, chagrined. "This is a conspiracy." "You found me out," she answered, immensely grateful for his carefree attitude that she knew couldn't have come easily. Often, she asked herself how he, a natural-born athlete, could cope with the paralysis. How an FBI field agent could face the termination of his career before it even started. How a young, healthy, twenty-six-year-old man could deal with the reality of this life. Marsel's stoicism awed and exasperated her simultaneously. Her own anger and grief always churned close to the surface, and she made no attempt to hide them. "Skinner made me go to therapy too," she said suddenly and regretted it immediately, reading the concern in his face. "It's not quite as painful." Marsel nodded, understanding the irony. "I want to go home," he said after a minute. "I don't want you to come here every day." "You will go home soon," she promised. "But I am sorry, partner, until then - and after that, you're stuck with me." "Holmes," he chided gently, but she could read the distress in his eyes. "You *are* still a field agent, aren't you? Eventually, you will have to travel, and work irregular hours, and just... lead a normal life." "I'm leading a normal life," Holmes replied, irritated. "And you will, too." "Yeah, I hear that if I eat more rice pudding, my chances increase greatly." She smiled, patted his shoulder. "Marsel..." "What?" "I am looking for these bastards," her voice sounded metallic, devoid of emotion. He swallowed apprehensively and grabbed her hand before it escaped back to her lap. "Don't." "Why not?" "This entire case..." Marsel shook his head, trying to find an argument that would appease her without mentioning his concern for her safety. "It was sinister - sometimes I wondered if I didn't hallucinate everything I'd seen. It felt wrong even when I kept telling myself that we were on the right trail. And I don't want to see you digging around it by yourself." "I'm careful," Holmes snapped. "And I want to see them pay." He sighed heavily, allowed her hand to fall. He wanted to get on with his life, try to get through with the useless therapy, try to forget about the entire incident. She wanted to see them pay. And therein lay the gist of their problem. * * * She had cooked the whole day. The turkey was still in the oven, filling her kitchen with an alluring, comforting scent. Familiar. She needed familiarity now. Margaret Scully sighed, a weak smile crossing her face. She looked at the clock. They would be here any minute. She checked herself out of the rest home on the day Skinner had told her that they were alive. He had told her little else. They were alive, but...changed somehow. Alive, but they were never coming back. Except they were coming back. Tonight. And she had worked all day to be ready for them. "Please...don't fuss over us..." Dana's voice had sounded small, tentative through the hiss of static. Of course, Margaret hadn't listened to her - it had been two years since she had last seen her daughter. It was a mother's duty to fuss, was it not? She was chopping carrots when the doorbell rang. Startled, she dropped the knife with a clatter. "Just a second!" Her voice sounded shrill as she stooped to pick it up. As she bent down she knocked the bowl of carrots into the sink. Tears sprung to her eyes - she forced them back. She would not cry, not tonight. Not with her only daughter waiting outside the door. Margaret ignored the carrots and ran to the front door. She muttered a quick prayer under her breath, and then she looked up through the window. "Someone going to let us in?" Mulder called through the glass. Margaret laughed, and unlocked the door. They were standing together, snow frosting their hair. Mulder held a bouquet of flowers, stiff and cold now. The gesture was oddly touching - but Margaret's attention went immediately to Dana. "Oh...my..." Her daughter blinked up at her. "Mom?" Margaret threw her arms around Dana, clutching her close, and buried her face against her shoulder. "Dana...oh...Dana..." She swallowed - the tears came then, unrestrainable. "My baby...I missed you so much..." "I missed you too," Dana said. Margaret reluctantly released her daughter, holding her at arm's length. She was lying. One glance in Dana's blue eyes confirmed it. She did not remember Margaret. "I...know you." At the sound of his voice, Margaret looked up at Mulder. "You were-" He cut himself off. "We saw you," he finished lamely. "It's all right," Margaret said, "You weren't yourselves. Mr. Skinner told me." she told herself. "Please - it's cold. Come inside." She took their coats, hung them up in the closet with trembling hands. "May I look around?" Dana asked. "Of course." Margaret found herself alarmed at her daughter's politeness. Dana slipped her shoes off and wandered the hallway, staring at the family pictures on the wall. She traced her fingers over the stilled faces - William, Bill Jr., Charlie...Melissa. Margaret swallowed another lump in her throat. There was not even a flicker of recognition on Dana's face. She smiled up at Mulder. "Dana says that the two of you will be returning to work." He nodded. "Monday. Of course, we can't return to active field status until the investigation is finished, but Skinner wants us to get back into the office as soon as possible." Mulder's voice was aggressively cheerful, but distant. He might have been telling a stranger the weather. A burning smell hit her nose. Something...there was something she had forgotten. "The turkey!" Margaret brushed past Dana in her rush to get into the kitchen. Smoke drifted lazily from the stove - she put on her oven mitts and opened the door, only to have a blast of heat assail her face. She tried to wave the smoke aside, freeing the charred remains of the turkey from the inferno. She was dimly aware of Dana and Mulder standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She felt like crying again. "It's okay, Mrs. Scully," Mulder said. "We'll just call for a pizza or something." Margaret was silent for awhile, then she dumped the turkey into the garbage can. She would not cry. Dana was here, and she had to be strong. It was only a turkey. She would not cry. "Let me help you with that," Dana said. "I'm...I'm fine." Margaret shivered at the distance in her daughter's voice. The Dana she had once known - *her* Dana - would not have asked. She would have been kneeling in front of the stove by now, scraping away the burnt bits of dead bird from the oven. This Dana was a guest; she stood by, watching, politely offering her help. This was not *her* Dana. Margaret picked up the phone to order a pizza. They made small talk for the rest of the evening.