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.

"Why did you come here, Teena?"

"I needed to see you."

"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?

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."

"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."

"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.

But it wasn't Fox's name.

"Who is this?" she asked, her heart speeding up.

He paused. He didn't want to answer her.

"My son." he said.

***

Silence. He took a drag of his cigarette.

"Your 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?>

<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?"

"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."

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.

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.

<It's already difficult.>

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.

One of his hands stroked her hair, the other wrapped the blanket around her body -

which meant he must have put down his cigarette...

...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.>

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.>