From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Wed, 23 Jul 2008 11:53:17 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: Taken by Madness by Maidenjedi
Source: direct

Reply To: maidenjedi@gmail.com


TITLE: Taken By Madness
AUTHOR: Maidenjedi
RATING: PG-13
KEYWORDS: pre-XF, Teena, CSM, implied T
eena/CSM
ARCHIVE: List archives, otherwise please ask.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, thank you very much.
SUMMARY: Teena Mulder gets a visit from a 
not-so-dear old friend.

***

Author's Notes at the end.

*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*


She stood in wet, muddy grass, letting her feet 
grow numb from cold. She almost couldn't tell, 
except for the pins and needles that crept up 
her legs as a warning.

No one watching her would know why she came. 
They would assume she was a widow, grieving 
mother, any number of characters in the usual 
tragedy. She looked like any of them, in her 
black coat, with her black umbrella, with her 
graying hair.

Was she there to mock him, then? To gloat? 
She was living and breathing and free of Bill, 
Fox was successful and thriving, the world was 
still turning.  *He* was under the cold mud and 
she would get to wash it off.

Perhaps there were widows who came to this 
place and thought these things. She doubted 
it, but she considered it possible.

Widow. A word that implied "wife."

She was neither.

Her fingers were cold, and she knew if she bent 
her fingers they might not cooperate. 

He was in the ground. She had that comfort, 
knowing he would not walk up behind her and 
whisper about the things they had done. Years 
ago. Decades ago.

A lifetime ago.

He had an actual widow, somewhere. She wondered 
what had happened to her. Cassandra. Always a 
little manic around the edges. Hadn't she finally 
slipped away, hadn't she been taken by madness?

Perhaps by *the* madness.

But Teena had repressed it all. She repeated it 
under her breath.

Repressed it all.

It was funny, the way images would come to mind 
when she said it, the way they would mock her 
and remind her, darling you'll never forget, it 
did happen, and Samantha is dead, and it was your 
fault, and....

I repressed it all.

Teena turned away at last. She had been there 
long enough, the ghosts were coming out to play.

That smell, for instance. But she was alone.

"I heard your son joined the F.B.I."

Not him. Can't be him. There hadn't been any 
footsteps, any warning. 


"A bright boy, Fox. I always knew he would do 
well."

She was imagining the cigarette smoke.

"You didn't think I was really gone, did you?"

No, I thought you were really dead.

"Teena, you should look at me."

She turned around. And there he was, standing in 
front of the headstone she should have known was 
fake. Everything in their world had always been 
fake, or imagined, or a set-up.

"I wasn't there that day, Teena. Like Bill, I 
was at home."  He took a drag and squinted, 
looking at her like she was something odd and
new.  "They blew up the building and I'm sure
I was a target.  But I was at home."

Home? Not the house in Greenwich. Not the one at 
Martha's Vineyard. She knew.

"No home you've ever seen, of course. Did you 
think, after all you'd seen, that everything 
was just as it appeared?"

She had, actually. She wanted to believe.

"You should call your son, Teena. He and his 
wife are having trouble. He could use a boost 
from his mother."

That did it.

"Fox can take care of himself."

He lit another cigarette over a quiet chuckle.

"Of course he can."

He walked away then, but Teena didn't see him. 
She was looking at the ground, her fists 
clenched in tight, cold balls in her pockets. 
Even absent, he was an attack on her senses; 
the awful smell burning her throat, his grating 
voice piercing her very core, the way her 
traitorous body tingled in spite of all he 
had done to her family.

He had too much power over her.

That was why she repressed it all.

All of it. Every phone call, every whispered 
conversation, every argument.

Every kiss, every loving plea, every tender moment.

Was that Samantha laughing? 

Teena's frozen feet were sticking in the mud 
and she found she couldn't run. Cursing her 
age and the winter winds, she made it home 
and found herself locking doors and 
shutting blinds as though she had been followed.

She did call Fox that night, though. Just to 
see. Just to check.

"Mom, Diana has asked for a divorce."

I've repressed it all.


============================

The End.

A/N: I wrote this in 2006, as kind of a return 
to XF fanfiction.  I'm only just now
posting it to Ephemeral and Gossamer, heh.

This was inspired by a nostalgic trip to 
Gossamer, a lot of season three episodes, 
and some old fits and starts I found on a 
floppy disk (remember those???)

Dedicated to the XF Harem of Other 
Women. I miss you, Wives.

Feedback always appreciated 
at maidenjedi@gmail.com