Title: Sfumato (WIP 2/? - Sequel to "The Marionette Rebellion") Author: supernova Disclaimer: They're not mine; I'm not making any money off this story. Category: MSR, Angst-O-Rama Rating: R Feedback: Feed me at supernova818@aol.com Archive: DO NOT ARCHIVE. This story will appear on Ephemeral, and will be archived exclusively at my site (http://www.angelfire.com/ms/KtblleStorage/main.html). Author's Notes: This story is a sequel to "The Marionette Rebellion". To understand this story, or at least parts of it, you'll need to read MR first. Oh, and make sure to read the Prologue for "Sfumato" before reading Chapter 1. Ephemeral is having, or was having a nervous breakdown the other day and there was much confusion. A round of applause for Kat, because she rocks my fanfic world. Many hugs and thanks to Beach for beta. Snick - hugs and schmoopy kisses. Good luck on midterms. Sfumato - the blurring or softening of sharp outlines in painting by subtle and gradual blending of one tone into another. --------------- Sfumato ---------- Chapter 1 --------------- It had all been so perfect for a while. They'd had seven years in which to build their lives and become comfortable raising their children. They'd been so happy. It was the little things that had made him happy: the way Hope always fell asleep in his lap while listening to Scully read bedtime stories; William's unabashed adoration of his mother; the fact that William thought no one could tell a story like his father; Mulder teaching his son and daughter to play basketball; nights of laughter giving way to passion as Scully and Mulder danced their way into the bedroom, falling onto the bed, and making up for lost time. After the first few years, it had ceased to be about lost time and more about reveling in the love of a lifetime. Contentment had been found in the easy smiles of his children and in holding her hand. It wasn't always easy; there were times they'd hidden themselves in their work, but reminiscent of their previous life, they'd always found their way back to one another. Sometimes it had been in the bedroom, sometimes it had been as they watched their children play, sometimes it had been when she'd run her fingers through his hair, for no particular reason. He realizes that it doesn't matter what he gave up all those years ago, it was never an assurance of their safety. He knew it then, as surely as he knows it now; the affirmation has just been seven years in the making. He doesn't regret the last seven years; he doesn't regret the last seventeen years. He only wishes he could relive the last three months. "Who are you?" Mulder rasps. The barrel of his gun glides across her cheek like a lover's caress, so deceptively soft, playing out like some macabre love scene. The woman beneath him laughs and shakes her head, "Apparently, not the woman you assumed me to be." He can't believe it although he knows it is true and this woman this whore beneath him is laughing at him as his tears drop off his cheeks onto her bare chest a few tears darkening her already black satin bra and she is rocking her hips against his and laughing and laughing about how he's been a good fuck and how Dana Scully is going to be livid when she finds out he's been fucking another woman and then she says she thinks he likes her better than Dana Scully anyway and she'll stay if he wants her to and he's never hit a woman and she looks so much like Scully but her eyes her eyes aren't exactly Scully's eyes if he looks close enough he can't see his Scully's soul in these eyes and Oh God Oh God he should have known and now she is laughing again and she is grabbing his cock and he is shaking with such rage and he can't help it and Oh God it feels good when the butt of his gun makes contact with her face and the skin on her cheek splits open like a smile and he hears himself say you fucking bitch and God it feels so good to see her bleed because he is bleeding out and he thinks maybe just maybe if he can make her bleed enough she will disappear and this will be a nightmare and he will wake up with his Scully's gentle hands rubbing his back telling him that everything is fine but this woman keeps laughing and Mulder feels such pain he knows that he has to be awake and he doesn't know where Scully is but he's fucked and hit a woman that looks so much like her he can't really tell the difference except when he looks for his Scully's soul in her eyes and he realizes it is nowhere to be found and he feels sick and he realizes she was not afraid when he hit her and there was no fear or surprise and he knows she is only afraid that her secret has been revealed but she continues to laugh and he knows Scully would have been afraid because he would have never hit his Scully and then his mind wanders and he struggles for control and then his thoughts are a mixture of obscene and pure as he thinks about this woman going down on him last weekend and that William got an 'A' on his science project a month ago and that Hope has been having unexplained nightmares for the past three months and Scully has been robbed of it all and he is so filled with rage that his gun makes contact with her cheek again and the jagged smile on her face only spreads wider. "Don't ever fucking touch me again," Mulder whispers against her cheek. Mulder values very few things in his life; the first thing on that short list is his relationship with Scully. To know that he's been unfaithful to her, however unwittingly, makes him want to eat his own gun. For a brief moment, he considers it, because he doesn't want to see the look in his Scully's eyes when she is made aware of his betrayal. But then he closes his eyes, thinks of his Scully and their children, and he can't do it. "Where is she?" Mulder questions vehemently. "Wouldn't you like to know," the woman replies, licking at the blood that has begun to gather at the corner of her mouth. "Is she dead?" he asks, reluctantly. "No, but when you find her, death will have been kinder than what she's been forced to endure," the woman laughs. "Go to hell," Mulder says, pressing the gun hard against her bloodied cheek. He clenches the soft cotton sheets on his and Scully's bed. His knuckles are impossibly white against the too white sheets and he grapples for the control needed not to hit her again. "I'll save you a spot. Oh, wait, I suspect you're already there," the woman whispers. He resists the urge to strangle the life out of her. Raising himself up off the bed, he picks up her clothes, throws them at her, and orders her to get dressed. Suddenly, he is so tired, more tired at this moment than in all the years before. His arm, which has held his gun poised at the woman's head, falls to his side, and he breathes unevenly. "Why?" he asks. "You'll know soon enough," the woman answers, her face serious, no hint of her earlier sarcasm. "Who are you? Why did you do this to us?" Mulder asks pitifully. "We all have our little quests, Mulder. I've been studying Dana Scully so long that I almost grew to like her. Almost," she laughs. " It was easy to study her movements, she's so predictable, dependable, so damn good. She wears her love for you like a badge of honor on her chest. She's got a dozen purple hearts, and ladders of expertise; commendations decorate her like a second skin. She's spent the last seven years shining her medals every morning, pinning them to her crisp black suits, and walking through life as if she is a veteran of some long forgotten war, in which she alone found and brought home the Rosetta stone. It wasn't difficult to want what she had. Modern technology took care of the rest," she says, and then absently brushes her hand over her cheek. The phone rings causing Mulder to physically startle. He raises his arm and points the gun at the woman who looks like Scully but isn't; she raises her hands in mock surrender, and he reaches for the phone with his free hand. "Daddy, I got your message," William's voice informs him. Mulder tries to determine if there is any fear in his son's inflection, but Mulder is presently traveling at break-neck speed towards insanity, and try as he might, he is barely functioning within the realm of reality. "Is Hope there with you?" Mulder asks. The woman that isn't Scully looks bored. "Yes, she's right here, Dad. She's scared. What's going on?" William asks, and it is then that Mulder realizes his son is afraid. "I can't talk right now, William. Remember the numbers, William. Remember what we've discussed. I know you're scared, son, but everything is going to be fine," Mulder says, wishing he believed it. "Walter Skinner is here, Dad. He wants us to go with him. Is that okay? Tell me what to do, Dad," William says. "Do what he says, William. I'll be there as soon as possible." Mulder tries to be reassuring, but ultimately, the catch in his voice has revealed his own fear. Mulder is about to hang up when William asks the one question he cannot answer truthfully, the one question that undoes him, the question running ninety miles an hour through his own mind, "Is Mom okay?" He hates that his lie is so effortless, "She's fine, son." Mulder and Scully have become adept at blocking their emotions when speaking to their children, especially when interacting with William. Their son cannot help that he has an extraordinary gift to read people's emotions, bordering on reading their minds. Mulder is not sure if he's managed to keep the truth hidden behind a wall William cannot infiltrate. " I have to go now. I love you, Dad." William's voice gives nothing away. "I love you, William, and Hope. Tell Hope I love her, too." "I will; I will. I'm hanging up now, Dad. Please come and get us soon." "I'll be there soon, William," Mulder says, and then he hears the soft click that ends their connection. He turns to the woman who is not Scully, takes a deep breath, and walks the small expanse of space that separates them. With more force than necessary, he pushes her into the wall, and presses the gun to the middle of her forehead, vaguely noticing that she has not bothered to put on her clothes. "Take me to Scully right now, or I'm going to kill you." He knows if he has to kill her, the knowledge that she is not Scully won't erase the nightmares of him killing someone who looks so much like the woman he loves. She pushes him away from her, and he stumbles back, the gun still trained towards her head. She saunters forward, beginning to offer what he prays is a location. A moment later, a bullet splinters the bedroom window and shatters her skull, splattering blood and brain matter on the opposite wall. Mulder wonders if the fear he saw in her eyes earlier was, instead, resignation to her fate. The phone rings, and he steps over the woman who is not Scully to answer its call. He isn't surprised when the requisite sinister voice on the other end of the line asks him if he wants to know where he can find Scully. There is no rhyme or reason for the madness. The same man that hired the woman bleeding out on his bedroom carpet is probably responsible for her death, and there will never be a satisfactory explanation as to why all this has happened. Mulder pleads with the man to tell him where Scully is being held. The man huffs, as if offended, and says she isn't being held against her will. Mulder asks again where he can find his Scully; there is a pause that seems to last for hours, and then the man instructs Mulder to turn around. Mulder does as told, and finds Scully leaning against the frame of the door, a terrified expression masking her face. Mulder simultaneously drops the gun and phone on the floor, wondering how much of this horror she's witnessed. He notes the rope dangling from her left wrist, the skin beneath it raw and crusted with blood. Her face is a map of bruises that leads him to the pain in her eyes. "What did you see?" he asks. "Everything," she says softly. He nods and tries not to fall apart when she turns and exits the bedroom. Her footfalls are barely audible as she descends eighteen hardwood stairs; the creak of the front door opening echoes like a thousand phantom moans, the softness of it closing, absolutely deafening.