Smokeout
By Anna Otto
Email: annaotto1@aol.com

Category: SH

Rating: PG

Archive: sure, but do let me know

Spoilers: Every ep with Spender - mostly The Beginning

Summary: When a son cares for a father... what could be sweeter? 
Implied character death.

Feedback: send all lighted Morleys to annaotto1@aol.com - please! 

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, 
and FOX - no copyright infringement is intended, no monetary profit 
is made. The situation described herein though will hopefully not 
visit their heads.

Just a warning: if you are looking for something serious and 
thoughtful... it ain't this.

Smokeout


	Special Agent Jeffrey Spender looked at the pharmacy shelf 
and blinked. For him, that was quite an emotional response. This 
time, it signified so many things: confusion, bewilderment, and, if 
he were honest with himself, which was difficult for him because he 
was rarely honest, also fear.

	Yes, Jeffrey was afraid. Of taking the wrong step, of assuming 
too much, of choosing the wrong color. What if his choice was 
distasteful? What if his good intentions were interpreted incorrectly? 
His jaw clenched as he reflected on the consequences of his actions, 
which could be painful. Finally, with a sigh of resolve, he reached 
out for the first available choice, carefully read the instructions 
on the back of the package, and made his way to the cashier.

	The young woman smiled at him sympathetically, and Jeffrey 
felt his back stiffen. That was nearly impossible, because he was 
already stiff and dull as hardwood, but then he always strove to push 
the limits. 

	"Wish you good luck with that," she scanned the lone purchase. 
"Will that be cash or charge?"

	Jeffrey wordlessly handed her the exact amount. He liked to 
be exact, took pride in it, felt that it added shine to his persona.

	At home, he reread the instructions, because he wanted to 
know precisely what the rules were and how to follow them. Then he 
went to sleep and he dreamt the dreamless sleep of very innocent or 
very tired or very... well, bland and blank.

	Whichever was your pick.

	* * *

	Jeffrey stood up to greet the imposing tall man, nervously 
fingering a package in his pocket. "I was expecting you."

	The smoker nodded indulgently. At such times, he thought that 
it was so nice to have a family. The boy was a marvel: he gave no 
trouble, he fulfilled all of his requests without protests or 
questions, and he was easy enough on the eyes to give him a feeling 
of pride for his genes at work. 

	"Dad," Jeffrey tried the word shyly. "I was thinking... we've 
been getting so close and..."

	"What is it, son?" the Smoking Man squinted at his dear child 
through clouds of cigarette smoke. Sometimes he exhaled so much 
nicotine that he was certain it might be enough to kill a horse; as 
it stood, people were probably more resilient. 

	Or maybe they were just used to it.

	The dear child coughed a little in the haze. "Dad, I am 
worried about you. You work so hard - granted I have no idea what 
your job is or how you manage to walk the halls of FBI without any 
visible identification - and you're not young anymore..."

	At that moment, the Smoking Man felt tenderness toward the 
boy. He was actually worried about his father! Such emotion wasn't 
very good for future conspirator, but it was... sweet. He checked his 
teeth for damage from sugar and smiled a little. "What's on your mind, 
my boy?"

	"Dad, it's time for you to quit smoking."

	The next few drags on the cigarette were akin to breaths of a 
dragon lying in wait. "Think hard before repeating what you just said, 
Jeffrey."

	Spender closed his eyes but the puppy-dog expression was 
difficult to conjure, and what came out instead looked more like a 
horse dying from nicotine. "Look, Daddy," he rolled out a large 
poster with a couple of black shriveled blurbs. "What do you think 
this is?"

	"Your brains splattered on the wall behind you unless you 
change the topic of conversation?" Daddy was suddenly interested.

	"No, these are your lungs, after you've smoked for thirty or 
more years. Sometimes I wonder how you breathe," Jeffrey sighed, 
long-suffering.

	"I don't breathe. I smoke," Daddy corrected him. "By now, 
nicotine is a daily nutrient and I will die without it."

	"You are running a great risk of dying from cancer already."

	The Smoking Man smiled enigmatically, pulled out a little 
vial from his breast pocket. "When I am diagnosed, I will use this."

	Spender was horrified. "Cyanide?"

	The Smoking Man was disgusted. "Implant, you idiot."

	Spender blinked. "You really think this piece of..." he 
looked at it closer, his nose twitching in mistrust. "This piece of 
metal will help?"

	"You have so much to learn yet, my boy," his father hid the 
vial. "So much to learn."

	"Daddy," Jeffrey Spender whined. "I want you to live forever. 
I want to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas with you. I want you 
to read to me before I go to sleep. I want you to take me to the zoo 
and buy me a turtle. I want to collect butterflies and pin them in a 
little box and I want to show them to you. I want to learn how to be 
a conspirator and I want you to be proud of me."

	"Enough!" the smoker barked. That butterfly thing was really 
disturbing. So was Thanksgiving. "So I missed your childhood! At least 
I am trying to make up for it now."

	"And that's why I bought you a smoking kit," Jeffrey sniffed, 
extended a box to his father. "See, it has a very easy-to-follow 
program. Just chew a piece every hour or so for six weeks, then chew a 
piece every four hours for three weeks, then..."

	"Twelve weeks?" his father was outraged. "I am supposed to 
chew gum for twelve weeks?"

	"Please, Daddy," Jeffrey pushed the box into his father's 
heaving chest. "For me?"

	The Smoking Man stared at the boy, wondering how he would 
look with black oil poring out of every orifice. Reminded himself 
that this was family and he was supposed to be more benevolent and 
atone for his sins. 

	"All right," he took the last regretful drag on a cigarette 
and popped out a piece of gum. "Only for you, my darling son."

	* * *

	The Smoking Man looked in the mirror, his forehead wrinkling. 
This was very inconvenient. Not to mention downright embarrassing. But 
he forgot his own name. The one that his mother used to call him by 
when he was a little boy, the one that would have been written in his 
driver license had it been real. He practiced assumed names since he 
was seven, but after switching twenty-six identities, he decided that 
having no name was really more comfortable.

	Besides, everyone else felt that they had to invent awesome 
nicknames for him. And while Black-Lunged-Son-of-a-Bitch was clearly 
the least attractive, and Cancerman running a close second, he had to 
admit that his favorite was -

	The Cigarette Smoking Man.

	It defined him. It conveyed the truth yet covered it in 
multiple layers of lies and smog. It was all the more precious because 
his enemy gave it to him. 

	It was a gift - and now it was ruined and in tatters. He 
wasn't a Cigarette Smoking Man any longer.

	He was a Gum Chewing Man. 

	His lifespan was increasing by the minute, but the meaning of 
it was gone. 

	He popped another piece of Nicorette in his mouth and chewed 
it in thoughtful distaste. 

	* * *
 
	"Are all present?" the First Elder asked without lifting his 
head. After all, it wouldn't do to show he cared. 

	"Yes, let's proceed," someone replied.

	"Wait," the Second Elder lifted his wrinkled fingers. "Someone 
is missing."

	"You're right," another voice corroborated. "Something doesn't 
feel right."

	The members looked around the clean room, the air for once so 
clear and unpolluted that one could see the rainbow - and some of them 
flinched in surprise. For the first time, they really saw each other - 
the wrinkles, the sagging skin, the glint of old watery eyes. 

	"Where is our cover? Where is the smoke?" the First Elder 
raised his voice, which happened very rarely. "We need the smoke!" he 
whined. "It is a requirement!"

	"The conspiracy doesn't work without smoke," someone hissed in 
desperation. In the crystal clean air, the words reverberated forever.

	"Where is our friend who smokes? Did someone put out a hit on 
him again?" the First Elder was outraged. Not that he minded disposing 
with the guy, but... he had to be informed. At least five minutes 
before assumed death.

	"I'm here," the Gum Chewing Man replied wearily. "I quit 
smoking."

	"What?" there were several shouts from the members. One of 
them had a heart attack, another one was reaching in the pocket for 
Pepcid AC.

	"My dear son made me quit. He wants me to live a long and 
healthy life," the Gum Chewing Man explained with pride. "I am 
following the easy-to-quit program," he pulled the Nicorette from his 
pocket and showed it to everyone. "I am on week five now."

	The First Elder stared at the Gum Chewing Man in disgust - 
then picked up the phone.

	"I need one special-effects expert, stat," he barked. "No, I 
don't care... what, you mean we employ world-class killers-for-hire 
and special-order butcher surgeons but we don't have a special-effects 
expert? If you don't bring me one..."

	The members exchanged dark looks. 

	"I need someone to create fog! From dry ice! And sprinkle it 
around the room so it looks like there is smoke and I can't see 
anyone! I mean it!" the First Elder cried. "Do it now! We've been 
here for an hour and we still haven't talked about the Project!"

	Everyone in the room exhaled a collective sigh. 

	They clearly weren't going anywhere for a while.

	* * *

	"You," Mulder breathed out, his voice cracking. "You..."

	The Gum Chewing Man stared at his nemesis, waiting for a 
brighter response. Really, for someone who had an IQ of a thousand or 
so, the man was unintelligible sometimes.

	"You look different," Mulder finally stumbled. "You look... 
rested."

	"Yeah, the work on the Project has been put on hold," the Gum 
Chewing Man explained. "Until we can get a special-effects guy to 
create fog."

	Mulder squinted. "Is that a code word? Operation 'FOG' which 
signifies another step closer to the end of the world?"

	"No," the Gum Chewing Man popped a piece of Nicorette in his 
mouth. "We just need someone who can make a smoke and fog effect. Do 
you know how to do that?"

	"I am not working for you, you Black-Lunged-Son-of-a-Bitch!" 
Mulder exclaimed in stale passion. "No deal."

	"Yeah, whatever," the Gum Chewing Man waved his hand. "And 
the latest x-ray of my lungs shows much improvement."

	"Wait a second. You quit smoking?" Mulder staggered under the 
weight of the realization.

	"Yes, my dear child made me," the Gum Chewing Man replied. "I 
feel good. I am on the sixth week already."

	"Hmm..." Mulder looked uncharacteristically sympathetic. "I 
quit smoking once. It's suffering unlike any other. Getting shot is 
better. Being infected by retrovirus is better. Hell, being infected 
by black oil is a vacation in Hawaii in comparison."

	The old man's chewing intensified, his fingers flexing 
instinctively. 

	"The longing to put a cigarette in my mouth - the intense, 
burning desire to inhale the sweet smoke - the roll of a precious 
tobacco in my fingers..."

	"Stop it," the Gum Chewing Man moaned. "Stop it!"

	"The lungs constricting in purifying pain..."

	"You're torturing me!" the Gum Chewing Man covered his ears. 
"Oh, what did I ever do to deserve this fate!"

	"Except for destroying my life and almost killing me a few 
times - oh, nothing," Mulder was clearly enjoying himself. "You know, 
since I quit - I always carry a pack with me. To show that I can 
avoid the temptation."

	The older man's breathing stopped. "You... I... smoke..."

	Mulder pulled the packet from his breast pocket, flaunted it 
with flare. "Ohhh... they smell delicious."

	"Give me this," the Gum Chewing Man lunged for the cigarettes, 
ripped the box open, pulled one out with shaking fingers. 

	"Light?" the young man offered helpfully. "Enjoy."

	The Cigarette Smoking Man inhaled sweet smoke, spit out the 
gum. "Thank you," he peered at his enemy. "You only gave me these so 
that I would get lung cancer and die, didn't you?"

	Mulder smiled, embarrassed. 

	"You know me so well."

	* * *

	"Daddy," Jeffrey Spender beamed at his father. "I have a 
surprise for you."

	"What is it, son?" the Cigarette Smoking Man seemed 
distracted. 

	Spender was too excited too notice. "My mom is back! And she 
wants to meet with you."

	"What?" he couldn't believe the audacity of his offspring.

	"This is your chance to make things right, Dad," the dear 
child asserted. "And for us to all be a happy family once again."

	The smoker pulled out a cigarette, a murderous glint in his 
eyes. "I don't think so. Son."

	Spender stepped back a bit - stumbled over a chair. "Dad - you 
were doing so well! Why did you start smoking again?"

	"Because the Project must go on," the Smoking Man mused 
fatalistically. "And the conspiracy cannot exist without a nice, 
healthy dose of Morleys every day."

	The natural sinister look back in his eyes, he picked up a 
phone. "Hello. Call a meeting. We don't need a special effects person 
anymore," he listened for a moment, smiled slightly. "No - I will 
bring a box of cigarettes and create atmosphere... yes... yes... see 
you then." He glanced over at his speechless son, and cringed. "Oh 
wait - do we still have these killers-for-hire? Yes, I will need one."

	The receiver back in the cradle, the Cigarette Smoking Man 
smiled at Jeffrey Spender. What one created, one could destroy. 

	"I would have loved to take you to the zoo, son." He took a 
delicious, long drag on the cigarette.

	"But the future of mankind is more important."

The End

Thanks to Rachel for inadvertently putting an idea for an ending in 
my head. Also huge thanks to the inane Nicorette commercials. For 
someone who despises smoking, I sure seem to be rooting for it in 
fanfic - go figure.

Take Me to Your Leader:
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Labyrinth/1495/

annaotto1@aol.com