ABSALOM, My Son
by - Joyce
September 1997

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and CSM belong to 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting and I'm only borrowing them for a moment and will return them. No infringement is intended.  Jason belongs to me.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I would like to thank my patient editors, Meredith and Miki whose encouragement and tough editing skills keep me on the straight and narrow path.

FEEDBACK: mab49@earthlink.net

SUMMARY: A conspiracy within the Conspiracy is revealed and Fox Mulder is at the heart of it.

 

"Remember, he is not to be harmed. Just retrieve the evidence." The voice spoke from out of the smoke; a faint spark of passion betrayed the cold indifference of the order.

"He knows too much. Even without the evidence, he threatens the safety of the Project." The passion of a zealot tempered with a grim weariness.

"What he knows, or thinks he knows, is of no consequence. Without the documents, who will believe him?"

"Some will. Because of your orders, he is gaining allies." The bite of cold steel; a challenge.

"He serves a purpose. The danger can be controlled." A cigarette flared, a burning red eye in the dark, then the smoke returned to eddy and flow around the old man. "Unless you feel the task is beyond your capabilities?" Challenge met and returned.

"Damn you. Listen you old dragon, the day I can't handle my job..." Affection muted the rush of anger. "You can't protect him forever, you know. The Others don't give a damn for your promises." Pleading softened the cold reminder of reason.

The smoker stared at his trusted lieutenant; the commander of his far-flung army of enforcers. Two battle-weary veterans of a conspiracy that had consumed their innocence and left only the ashes of power and belief in their place. The smoker reflected that, with a single word from him, men died or vanished or were driven mad. He felt a quiet satisfaction in his efficient manipulation of the shadows which hid the conspiracy from public view. His success was due, in no small part, to the man standing rigidly in front of him arguing for a death sentence the smoker had no heart to command

"They would be wise to trust my judgement on this matter."

"If you persist in protecting him beyond all reason, they may decide your judgement is at fault." A warning; a plea for release from a restriction which threatened them all.

"That would be unwise."

"Are you willing to bet your life on the premise that those men are wise?" Sardonic amusement crackled amid the warning. A smile lit up his cold eyes for an instant, inviting a shared contempt of the men who controlled the conspiracy. The smoker's lip twitched in what only someone who knew him well would describe as a smile.

"I never bet."

"Well, you're sure as hell gambling with the devil for Bill Mulder's son." Exasperation, affection blended with a hint of fear.

"Just retrieve the documents, Jason. Neutralize the leak and Mulder will be left with nothing but his usual wild unsubstantiated claims. The Project can continue on schedule." The command was emphasized with a vicious stab of the waning cigarette into the crude clay ashtray on his desk. A child's school-craft creation treasured amid the richer ornaments of power.

"Yes sir." Resigned obedience. A quick nod hid the sudden flare of cold determination in Jason's eyes. "I'll do what has to be done." Echoes of lamentations hovered in the air between them; then the door closed behind him.

"Someone must play Joab to your David, old friend. I guess I'm the only one who cares enough. Forgive me," Jason whispered to the empty air.

The smoker watched Jason leave, confident that this latest problem was in capable hands. As he wreathed himself in smoke once more, he pondered the problem of applying the right amount of pressure to bring Fox into the Project, to be at his side at last.

**************

Alexandria, Virginia

11:00 p.m.

Jason watched his quarry running through the night, chasing and being chased by his personal demons until the steam billowed off his body and curled around him like smoke in the cold air. His lean runner's body cut through the night like a stiletto, piercing the shadows with his passion. Even at night Jason could feel the fire that fed his quarry's endless quest, consuming its host until nothing but fire was left behind like a nova burning in the growing darkness of man's decline.

Seeing him wreathed in tendrils of steam, Jason wondered again at the tenacious refusal of his old friend to deal summarily with the problem this young man posed. Pity certainly did not stay his hand nor did compassion. Entire families had perished at a single word spoken amid the smoke. No, compassion was not a fault the smoker could be accused of possessing.

There was no purpose to this young man's continued existence. He threatened everything they had spent decades building. William Mulder's son, the one rejected as prime material for the project's ongoing genetic experiments, had no value, yet he was not only permitted to live, but to continue in his simple-minded pursuit of that most elusive of questing-beasts, the Truth.

Jason chuckled harshly, swallowing the sound before it could drift across the handspan of distance and alert his quarry that he was not alone.

It was only a suspicion. A hazy supposition born of random clues harvested through the years he had spent watching his quarry grow from a paralyzed frightened boy to a tormented driven man. Suspicions that were as fragile as the smoke which hid the smoker's subterfuge and misdirection which skillfully diverted the Council's attention away from the threat Mulder presented. He had watched in wondering silence as his friend threw his shield over the boy's unheeding back, coughing out orders that would stymie Mulder's search, while preserving his life.

Jason smiled at the irony of knowing that Mulder's greatest enemy should also prove to be his greatest friend. The privilege of this knowledge was his alone and carried with it obliteration for himself and his friend if the Council even suspected the smoker had his own agenda.

"Damn you my old friend," Jason breathed into the crisp air. "The others may not have seen what I have seen, but they will not remain blind forever. They will take you down and then carve up this young Quixote of yours into ribbons of despairing flesh."

Jason continued to follow his quarry, certain of the route he would follow. For three nights he had shadowed him, drifting silently in his wake like a shark content to wait for the moment to strike. Tonight there was a hunter's moon, lighting up the dark heavens like a beacon. Tonight he would strike the blow that would free his friend from the tyranny of obligation to this infernal pest.

Tonight his quarry was alone. His partner was far away; too far to sense the danger that threatened and intervene. Jason knew from bitter experience the bond this man shared with his partner. It grieved him to be the one to rend their shared soul apart. He knew the pain, the agonizing grief the one left behind would feel every second of every hour the other remained alive, but there was no choice. He knew she would feel the biting guilt that was slowly eating his own soul away.

An eternity ago in Jason's memory, three men whose souls were bound together by a single dream stepped into hell to forge a place for themselves among the mighty. The smoker, whose name had been laid aside years ago, was the pragmatist, the master web-spinner. He, Jason, was the soldier, the facilitator. The third, Jonathan, was the visionary, who saw beyond the needs of the moment to the truth behind their dreams of power. He was the soul of their unholy trinity, the calm, clear voice that moored the rest of them to sanity.

"Jonathan, was it worth it? Was it worth all our dreams - this random act of sacrifice?" Jason whispered the question on the frosted breath of air leaving his lungs to spiral up into the night.

A part of Jason had died the night the Council executed Jonathan to remind them of their places in the scheme of things. He had watched the smoker burn as his soul ignited with the pain of loss, then grow cold as frozen fire.

They had conspired against the Council to save this damned young man from the consequences of his interfering ways. The smoker cast his web of shadows around Mulder, protecting while seeming to obstruct and blind. Jonathan nurtured the young man's quest while diverting him from truths too dangerous for him to learn. Jason smiled as he recalled his own skillful twisting of orders that allowed Mulder to survive contact with the enforcers of the Council's will. Perhaps he could even claim the rightful title of Mulder's guardian angel, he thought with an ironic smile; a dark angel then who reeked more of sulfur than of incense, he added in a wry jab at the thought that either heaven or hell could be bothered to intervene in man's affairs.

They had sinned. Confident that the shadows they had created would protect them, they moved too openly to protect Mulder from his brush with the truth. Jonathan had died for their sins of complacency. He had died for this young man running heedlessly through the night.

Too many dead lay in Mulder's wake. Soon the Council would act and he and the smoker would join Mulder in some forgotten slag heap, buried under a mound of lies and earth. Jonathan's death would be rendered meaningless. He would be a forgotten martyr to their cause. The smoker trusted in lies and obfuscation to protect his purpose. Fool, Jason thought with exasperated affection. The Council grows more suspicious as the Day approaches. Turning on each other like a rabid pack of dogs, they would soon make a leap of assumption that would toll the end of the smoker's lies.

"I promised Jonathan I would look after you. I promised him I would protect you, even - and perhaps most especially - from yourself. A martyr might not be so bad a thing, my old friend. Better now, than to wait. Despite your hopes, Bill Mulder's son would not be allowed to live. He could not be trusted. I have seen the warrant that waits until the Day arrives to be executed. Better now by the hand of a soldier than later by the hand of a hired assassin."

Jason whispered this confession to the cat who sat priest-like in a window. No absolution was forthcoming and Jason did not wait for any sign that his chosen course of action was understood by heaven.

There will be none to take his place, he thought. Let the believers have the cold comfort of a martyr to revere. Soon, the time would be past for martyrs or heroes or anyone beyond the few who clung to what power was granted to them. Let him die unblemished, in the full fury of his passion. Jason had seen hope die in the eyes of the men in the Project as they realized the extent of their betrayal. The death of the body was a kindness compared to the death of the soul. His friend would understand, eventually. Better that this man should die young, than to live too long and lose his soul to the darkness his truth hid.

**************

Fox Mulder ran with the steady pace of a long-distance runner. His over-heated lungs ached with each breath as the cold night air stung and bit his throat. Steam trailed behind him as he pushed harder against the wall of his second-wind. His mind strained with the task of sorting through the papers his latest gambit had garnered. Tantalizing flickers of the truth teased him until he had stormed off into the night to run himself and his churning mind into exhaustion.

Scully would have a fit when she came back from her conference to find his newest assortment of scars, he thought with a rueful chuckle. He remembered promising the nurse he would take it easy. Hell, he would have promised her the moon to get out of that damn hospital. It was just the usual, bruises, a battered skull and assorted scrapes and cuts. Of course the nifty stitched slice that decorated his leg would be a bit more difficult to explain. Damn that barbed wire. By now his body was almost used to the punishment. At least he had something to show for his bruises this time. This time the data was real. This time he could feel the Grail almost within reach.

**************

11:30 p.m.

"Excuse me?"

Mulder pulled up short, startled by the interruption of a human voice into his thoughts. Automatically he reached for his gun before recalling that he had left it sitting on the coffee table. Leaning back, breathing harsh puffs of steam into the night, he flexed as if stretching out the muscles in his back. In another fluid stretching motion Mulder swung down and forward, reaching casually for the gun that nestled reassuringly against his leg in the ankle holster.

"That really won't be necessary," Jason said quietly. The boy had the spirit, if not the luck of a warrior. His quarry was still dangerous and, like a good hunter, he was careful not to give him any quarter.

Mulder rose up with the gun into the bright shining blade of a knife that reflected the moonlight. He started, jerking his head back as the light stabbed his dark-accustomed eyes. The blade cut into his throat, leaving behind a searing cold streak of lightning swallowed up by a rush of warm hot fire that bubbled up and cascaded down his chest. The shock of the blade froze him in mid-stride, the gun clenched in a fist that spasmed once, then again then opened in a graceful surrender. The gun spiraled to the ground to land with an apologetic splat in the icy slush of the gutter.

Jason grabbed his quarry's collapsing form and gently eased it to the ground. He cradled him in his arms as he watched the eyes darken with understanding. A sudden shout and rushing feet forced him to abandon his intent to stay with his quarry until death arrived to take him by the hand. It was not right that he should die alone in the dirty slush of the street, but Jason was too old a soldier to risk being caught. With a swift motion he lowered Mulder to the ground and, catching his eyes one last time, gave him a solemn salute before vanishing into the darkness.

**************

Mulder lay in the cold slush unable to breathe, feeling the warm blood freezing as it poured out of the gaping wound in his throat. Images of a fish more bold than wise which had somehow leaped out of his tank to soar into the bright unknown world of air only to land on the floor, its mouth opening and closing in a desperate attempt to breathe the unknown substance its lungs would not recognize. Mulder had managed to fight the fish's panicked attempts to escape and fling it back into the tank where it settled on the bottom as if to remove itself as far as possible from the surface and the terror that lurked beyond its borders.

Mulder felt his mouth working to breathe in the cold air his desperate lungs demanded. The ragged whistling at his throat spoke of that battle for air now fighting to breathe through a severed trachea drowning in blood. His mind was surprisingly clear, he felt the damp icy chill of the slush that surrounded him, noted the complete absence of pain and smelled the dark, sweet odor of his own blood.

I'm dying, his mind helpfully supplied, as if his body wasn't already aware of that fact.

Scully, he screamed silently, trying to reach her across the miles. Help me, his soul screamed as he felt the darkness close in. His eyes fluttered and closed, refusing to focus on the dark winged shadow that stood before him, silently, patiently waiting.

"It's OK, mister. Just lie still. I've called 911."

A voice, out of the darkness. He tried to open his eyes, but saw only the dark wings of his uninvited guest. The voice held the shadow at bay, forcing it to retreat. Mulder clung to the voice, desperate to escape the inexorable grasp of the shadow.

He felt the heavy pressure of cloth against his throat and his body surged in protest as the cloth sealed off the little air his lungs were managing to draw in through the gash in his throat.

"Don't try to move. You're hurt bad."

Silence, then Mulder felt the cloth move slightly and felt the delicious agony of air tearing across the wound and spilling into his lungs.

"Sorry, mister. They never told me what to do for something like this. Just hold on. Please?"

The voice sounded scared while offering comfort. A young voice, too young to meet death on an isolated street corner and fight it for the life of a stranger.

Mulder's hand flailed as he tried to touch his savior. A child's hand, easily swallowed up by his larger one, tucked itself within his grasp. Mulder clung to the fragile promise of that tiny fist with all the strength he had poured into his quest for over twenty years.

A sharp hiss of pain, the fist shifted slightly within his grasp nearly sending Mulder into a thrashing panic fearing that his lifeline was abandoning him.

"I'm not going anywhere, mister. Listen to me, please."

Mulder tried to fight for calm and air at the same time, succeeding at least in the first. His lungs were screaming that the tiny bit of air being drawn into his open trachea was not enough.

"You're bleeding bad, mister, but you're not gushing. I think that's a good sign. Just hang on."

In the distance, like the wail of banshees, Mulder heard the sirens. Reinforcements in this battle were coming, but too late. He felt his life dwindle down to a candle sputtering in the wind stirred up by the great dark wings reaching down to enfold him. The angel of death reached out for him and he felt the icy rake of its talons caress his chest. His heart, laboring and frantic, skipped a beat, then another. Frantic, Mulder fought back, clinging to life, refusing the peace death so kindly offered him.

His fist crushed the small hand that anchored his body to life. Surrendering himself to faith in the simple grasp of a child's hand in his, he threw himself outward to find the other half of himself. Reaching out with his soul, Mulder plunged along the sliver of silken steel of his bond with Scully in a last desperate appeal for strength.

A surge of startled amazement and fear settled down into a flood of strength that poured over Mulder's tired spirit like a shield. He felt himself relax into the strong arms of her spirit. She cradled him against her heart, laying her arms across his chest barring death from taking him. Her hands rested above his heart sheltering it, soothing his fear. No longer alone, Mulder rested in her embrace, his spirit content to trust that she would not relax her vigilance.

Tucked within the shelter of Scully's spirit, Mulder defied the angel of death whose hands were closing around his heart. Death drew back, startled, then amused before bowing in acknowledgement of a temporary defeat. The last thing Mulder saw before he felt the strong hands of the medics at his throat was death slipping back into the shadows.

Mulder barely registered the medic's gruff voice as it boomed over his head. It seemed to be assuring someone, himself perhaps, that help was here. Mulder wished he could tell them that help had arrived long before they did in the form of a small hand that appeared out of the darkness. How could he explain that a child's faith and Scully's indomitable spirit had joined to cheat death of his soul? His lips moved in a silent mantra, making a prayer of her name.

Air, blessed air began pumping into his lungs. Mulder relaxed into the pleasant euphoria of survival, again.

**************

From across the street Jason watched his theater of death transform into survival. He didn't bother cursing. Mulder had the luck of the angels on his side. Perhaps his survival all this time was not entirely due to the machinations of his smoking friend.

Apparently it was not his fate to be Joab this night. A pity, but he took the sudden appearance of a boy on a deserted street as a sign, whether from heaven or hell he did not presume to ask. His quarry would live for now. The hunt was not over. Perhaps enough damage was done to eliminate the threat. His friend might appreciate the irony of killing the quest without killing the questor.

Enough philosophy, he chastised himself as he left Mulder in the hands of the medics. He had an apartment to trash and data to retrieve. Another partial victory for the side of the angels, but no conclusive proof. That was victory enough for his side of this battle fought in darkness and shadows. His friend would not lose whatever it was he felt he shared with Mulder. In turn, Jason felt a weary gratitude that he would not lose more of his own soul to balance the smoker's pain.

**************

Atlanta, Georgia

12:02 p.m.

Special Agent Dana Scully woke up from the nightmare gasping for breath and covered with sweat. Fear still raced through her veins, freezing her blood. Her soul cried out in pain, as she reached blindly for Mulder.

"It was only a dream," she whispered to reassure her thrashing heart.

"It was only a dream," she pleaded with the intuition that tried to tell her how close she had come to losing the other half of her soul.

Feeling immensely foolish, yet desperate to prove to her jangled nerves that it had been just a dream, she dialed a familiar number and waited, heart pounding in renewed fear as she heard his recorded voice suggesting that she leave a name and a number.

"It was only a dream," she told herself as she dialed the airport and booked a seat on the next available flight back to Washington.

"It was only a dream," she whispered to the night breeze as she hastened homeward, drawn by fear and a need beyond reason.

**************

"Did you retrieve the data?" A calm, even tone, barely sheathing the steel threat behind the words.

"Yes."

"He is alive?" The smoker let the smoke leave his lungs in a slow spiraling tendril. His eyes burned through haze. He knew the answer as he had known what his friend intended when last they spoke.

"You knew?" Jason sounded surprised, then gave his friend a wary smile. He shouldn't have been surprised. The smoker knew him better than he knew himself.

"Of course. You worry too much my friend." The smoker paused to inhale and slowly exhale languid smoky rings. "Joab was a fool. You are not a fool. Fox is still useful to us, as Absalom could have been useful to David. I believe that was the analogy you were using?"

Jason quelled an urge to lower his gaze as he stood before the unblinking stare of his friend. His soul trembled as he saw the truth, or at least the truth as his friend saw it, in those eyes for once not veiled by smoke. Jason fought down a sudden surge of apprehension. Knowledge in this game of theirs could be a fatal victory.

"We have no secrets you and I. Believe what and how you will. Fox Mulder must survive. Jonathan knew that and paid for that knowledge with his life. He did not tell me why, only that Fox is vital to the end game."

"How?" Jason managed to find his voice, stunned into silence by the sudden revelation that shifted his perception of the game.

"Jonathan liked his secrets," the smoker sighed in vexed resignation. "Too many spy novels, perhaps." This time a sad smile flickered across his eyes, softening them into a mirror image of the eyes Jason had watched dim on a slushy sidewalk seven hours ago.

"I only know that Jonathan was willing to die to keep the boy alive. We have to trust in his vision, though I have no intentions of repeating his mistake," the smoker paused for a moment staring at the dancing flame of his lighter with distant eyes darkened by painful memory. Touching flame to cigarette he once again began wreathe himself in shadows of smoke.

"This rebellion of Fox's has gone on long enough. It is past time Absalom listened to reason. We must bring him into our kingdom to rule by our side." The smoker's voice turned stern and Jason flinched.

"That is your task, my friend. I trust no other with this burden. Remove his options, until he has no choice, can see no other choice, but to join us. Do not fail me. I have no use for martyrs. Fox Mulder is more useful to me alive. If the Council cannot understand this then they are bigger fools than I ever imagined."

"You think it can be done?"

"All things are possible. Every man has a price. Find Fox's. Bring him to me, Jason. Bring me Absalom and together we will make him the heir to our kingdom." The smoker smiled as the devil must have smiled upon lost souls stumbling into Hell.

Jason shuddered slightly then returned the smile. The Mulders had been part of the Project for decades. Fox Mulder belonged by rights to the Project and it was time the Project exerted its right to him.

Jason poured out three fingers of whiskey each into two glasses and, after handing one to his friend, raised the glass to the grainy picture on the mantel. Three young faces shining with ambition and an unlimited future stared back at him.

"A toast then, to the new heir?"

The smoker downed the whiskey then inclined his head and smiled his ghost of a smile before returning to obscurity behind his writhing cloud of smoke. Jason placed his empty glass beside the picture and left the room. There was much to be done. There was a soul to inveigle.

THE END

**************

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Absalom was the son of King David. When he rebelled against his father, Joab, David's military commander, was sent to crush the rebellion. Acting against David's express order to spare his son, Joab killed Absalom to protect David against further rebellion. David went into mourning for his son and would not be comforted.
 

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