Subject: NEW: "Third Time's the Charm" by LAG From: suricata@juno.com Date: Tue, 12 Aug 1997 05:53:13 GMT Disclaimer: No. I won't. I refuse to... okay, fine. I'm furthering the longstanding tradition of pushing created characters into a larger cultural mythos and therefore should be covered by some kind of academic indemnity. The original characters and storyline leading up to the actions herein are not mine. The idea for this story isn't original either -- there are only seven basic plots, after all. The placement of words in this particular order is mine. If anyone's making money off of any of this, it sure isn't me. This one's for Dianora, who thinks I never finish anything. I give permission for this to be posted to the a.t.x.c, and the Gossamer Archives, with sincere appreciation for all Archivists past, present, and future. As always, comments appreciated at Lgilman1@ix.netcom.com. Send 'em early, send 'em often. I find I write more when people encourage me... : ) ===================================================================== SPOILER: Fourth Season. "Third Time's The Charm" by suricata@juno.com The room was dark, heavy with shadows; a thick coat of cigarette smoke hung like mold in the air, seeped into her pores. A suspicion lingered, that no matter how she scrubbed, it would forever be in her skin. In her nostrils. Woven into the molecules of her sinus passages. That seemed fitting, somehow -- the stench of smoke, and the copper tickle of blood that kept her company almost every day now. Two smells to keep her company the rest of her life. For however long that would be. She stood, as one with the shadows, and her hands trembled. Not with fear, or rage, but anticipation. The door of the apartment opened; a sliver of light came in, and he came with it. She smothered an involuntary laugh. Him in light, she wreathed in shadows. God is an iron. He came in, dropped his keys in a small dish by the door, hung his coat in the closet, aligning the hanger perfectly and closing the closet door. He then puttered around, going into the kitchen. She heard the refrigerator door open, the clink of glass, the pouring of liquid. Her throat suddenly tight, she swallowed reflexively, and had to go to the bathroom. He came back, settled down in a particularly ugly chair, newspaper in one hand and drink in the other. The drink went onto the table next to his chair, the newspaper unfolded over his lap. He looked tired. She supposed it was wearying, day after day after day, pulling strings and watching the puppets dance. And what happens to the puppets when they're done, she asked silently. What happens when you cut the strings and ashes ashes all fall down. Her grip tightened on the gun, and she raised it, slowly, to ready position. "Care for a drink, Agent Scully?" The voice was calm, caring, like a father disappointed, but not angry. She wasn't surprised that he knew she was there. He must have, in fact, expected it. She could tell he wasn't reading, that he was nervous, despite all attempts not to show it. She wondered if he had been nervous before, when Mulder had threatened him. If he had been nervous before, when Skinner confronted him. Oh, she knew. She'd known, what lengths they went to in order to protect her. To avenge her. And never once did they think to ask what she wanted, or what she wanted to do. Typical males. She had loved them for that. Finally, he folded the newspaper, looked up. "Please, Agent Scully. You're making me... uncomfortable. I so prefer to see the faces of those I'm talking to." A pause. "Or not talking to, as the case may be. I'm assuming that you didn't come here merely to admire my apartment." She stepped forward, hands loose at her side, face calm. She could feel the slight tickle at the back of her throat and her nose, and disciplined herself not to notice. Raising the gun once again, she aimed it at his head, sighting along the crease of his forehead. He laughed. The bastard laughed at her. "Come now, Agent Scully. Certainly we can... discuss this matter. She smiled back at him, "Of course. Would you care to bargain?" He looked at the gun, then at her face, and she knew, inevitably, that the slow trickle of blood was flowing from her nostril. "I admire a straightforward woman," he said. "I've always been fond of you. What is it, exactly, that you want?" She smiled again at that, a little tighter, a little grimmer. "What do you think I want? What do you think I've always wanted?" "Certainly not the truth, Agent Scully. You and I know, even if Agent Mulder could not, that the truth is highly overrated. And once you had this.. Truth... what would you do with it, anyway? It is merely something to be bartered with, like all other information." She smiled a third time, showed teeth this time. "Agent Mulder's methods was never mine. The same destination, perhaps, but differing... intents." "Then you are willing to play the game," he said. Not a question. "Oh yes. I'm a very good player. Quite the team player, in fact. Or so I was always told." There was no sarcasm in her voice, no hidden meaning, and he frowned, as though suddenly aware that not all was as it seemed, that he was not in control of this particular act. "What is it that you want, Agent Scully?" he said again, noting that the hand holding the gun had never wavered. "If it's a cure, we can talk. There will be a price, of course. My life alone is not equal to the cost of that." "My immortal soul?" she asked, and this time the sarcasm was evident. He laughed. "If we had wanted that, Agent Scully, we could have had it a while ago." He paused, shook a cigarette out of a softpack and lit it. "You're an intelligent woman. We could... find uses for you." "The way you found uses for Assistant Director Skinner?" "Walter Skinner. He could have been a player. Should have been a player. But he had this terrible handicap, you see." "And that was?" she asked calmly. The old man took a deeep hit on his cigarette. "This incapacitating sense of...obligation." "Loyalty," Scully suggested. "Perhaps," he acknowledged. "Whatever. It...limited his usefulness." "And you think I lack these obligations?" "Do you, Agent Scully?" He shook his head, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs. "You're a practical woman. Tell me what it is that you want, and we can match your price. Let's play make a deal." Scully frowned. He was drawing this out too long. Was he expecting reinforcements? If so, he would be disappointed. Perhaps fatally so. "What do I want?" she asked, taking a step closer, lowering the gun slightly. "What do I want?" Another step closer. "What do I want?" She exhaled softly. "I want my sister back. I want my father back. I want my health again. I want a normal life." She stood by him now, and he relaxed, thinking that the game was won. Once she made her demands, he would have her. Lock, stock, and obligations. In that moment, she swooped like a cobra, hand wrapped around his neck, gun pointing not at his face but at his temple, barrel pushing coldly agains this skin. The same pose, they both knew, that had been enacted only a week before in an apartment elsewhere. "What do I want?" she whispered right in his ear. "I want my partner back, you bastard!" And she pulled the trigger. a.k.a. meerkat (www.sff.net/people/LauraAnne.Gilman) +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes... if we couldn't laugh we'd all go insane." -- Jimmy Buffett (sing it, Jimmy!)