Title: A Thoroughly Modern Kitchen
Author: Ashlea Ensro
Feedback: to morleyphile@yahoo.com. Flames will be used for 
unmentionable purposes. <g>
Rating: R
Archive: Anywhere, just let me know.
Category: SRA
Spoilers: "Demons", "Talitha Cumi", little "FTF" reference.
Keywords: AU, MulderMom/The Consortium
Disclaimer: It's probably a good thing that they don't belong to me.
Summary: A lonely woman contemplates three lives.

Musings of a Non-Smoking Author: So, I was wondering about "The 
Choice"...yeah, that one...what *was* it exactly, who made it, really, and 
what would have happened if he or she made a different choice.  I was 
wondering...what would happen if Fox was abducted instead of Samantha 
(okay, our favourite TV show wouldn't have happened, but *besides* 
that...)? I was wondering...what if Teena Mulder ended up married to 
Strughold and living on a bee plantation in Tunisia? And I was 
wondering...was I actually capable of writing a happy ending? With 
schmoop involved? And hope and redemption and all that?

Well, let's see, shall we?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"They had a thoroughly modern kitchen
Self-cleaning oven (the whole bit) 
Frank drove a little sedan
They were so happy..." -- Tom Waits _Frank's Wild Years_


Part One: Joan of Arc

"I met a lady
She was playing with her soldiers in the dark
One by one she had to tell them
That her name was Joan of Arc..." -- Leonard Cohen _Last Year's Man_

I

The Mulders' Summer House
Quonochontaug
Present Day

And she was crying because the furniture was draped in plastic.

The old woman trailed her hand over what had once been the kitchen table, 
what was now just an amorphous ghost of translucent white. She was a 
translucent white ghost herself, silvery, shimmering faintly in the early 
morning light.

She had been beautiful once. Men loved her, loved her fatally, tragically.

But now she was alone.

Now she was crying.

And the furniture was draped in plastic.

***

The house looked almost the same as it had right after the divorce. She had 
wanted to sell it then, but she had never gotten around to it. The lamps in 
the living room were shattered, one door was half-open - the house would 
be cold now, forever. Sea sand covered the floor, blown in by years of 
wind.

She could smell the sea - and it had changed.

Even the sea, despite what *he* had said.

Teena Mulder sat at the kitchen table, burying her face in her hands. Light 
transformed the room, slowly, subtly, around her.

He had once told her - pleaded with her - to lead a life without regrets. That 
had been a long time ago.

Even then, they had known how impossible it was. There were choices - 
there had always been choices - and one would have to live with the 
burdens.

Regret, regret was-

<Inevitable...>

- regret, and she would live with it.

The taste of her own tears was the taste of the sea as it streamed from her 
hazel eyes, running down the creases in her face.

She stopped crying before the doorbell rang.


II

Martha's Vineyard
Present Day

And she was crying because everything was so bright, so perfect.

She had just polished the floor, leaning the phone against her shoulder as 
she mopped and scrubbed. The white tiles seemed to glow, the entire 
kitchen was blinding white.

She had been beautiful, once.

But she had sacrificed that beauty to practicality - she was a widow now, 
not some young girl. Bill had passed away a few years ago - bless his soul - 
and she had no reason to look attractive. She had the house to mind, and her 
grandchildren to fuss over - her hair was cut short and her dresses were 
long and matronly.

Her daughter's voice, laughing, rang in her ears. She had just put Billy 
down for his nap, Christine was making noise in the family room. How 
was the husband? Steve was just, just-

Fine.

Everything was fine.

So lucky, to have such fine grandchildren, such a good daughter to call 
every Sunday, married to such a nice young man.

Such a kitchen, sparkling white.

***

She had painted the whole house, after Bill had died. Catharsis, Samantha 
had called it. Teena wasn't so sure, but she had nodded. Sometimes 
Samantha's logic was hard to follow. She was like her father, that way.

She missed Bill, even now, missed the sound of his voice in the morning, 
missed the warmth and security of his body at night. With Samantha's 
encouragement, she had gotten on with her life - yes, life continued, life had 
to continue.

Always.

She rarely cried for Bill, and never with Samantha or the children around. 
Instead she painted, tidied things, cleaned the floor. She could still lead a 
happy, productive life.

She could.

Yes.

The taste of the tears running down the hollow of her cheeks was as sweet 
as a summer breeze.

She brushed them away at the sound of the doorbell.


III

Tunisia
Present Day

She had to open all of the windows in the kitchen to let the slightest breeze 
in, and it was still too hot. Sighing, she pushed up the sleeves of her white 
cotton blouse and sat in front of the old-fashioned fan, letting it blow her 
hair and dry the sweat from her forehead.

Outside, she could see the servants working in the field, their hair wrapped 
in turbans, shirtless, their loose pants made of hemp, muscles glistening in 
the afternoon sun as they carried water back from the river.

A faint buzzing, then a cry. One of the men had been stung. His 
companions rushed over to help him.

It happened all the time.

She never thought of it, usually.

***

There was a verandah out back, a parasol under which she sometimes sat, 
relishing even the small circle of shade. Her skin was still pale, even after 
all these years - she was a child of cooler climates. Conrad had laughed, in 
the beginning, at her inability to tan. Snow White, he called her. His ice 
princess.

Teena Strughold lit a cigarette and watched the servants work. A part of her 
wondered whether the stung man would live or die - another part of her told 
her not to worry. They had their jobs to do, and they knew the risks.

When Conrad was here, he forbid her to smoke, and she relished the taste 
of nicotine when he was away. He was away now - London, was it? He 
never took her with him anymore.

Too dangerous, he had said.

Dangerous, she wondered, dangerous for who?

*He* had died on this same verandah, wheezing out his last breath in her 
arms. He had been the last to go - after Bill and Ronald, after the others - 
Teena and her husband were the only ones left alive. He had waited until 
Conrad had left, approached her quietly, and placed his larger hands around 
hers.

Don't try to save me, he had told her. He had taken the pills, and he was 
ready to go. His work was over - he would leave his legacy to younger, 
stronger men, men with fewer passions, fewer ideals.

Her hand had lingered over the metal coolness of the gun as she stared into 
his eyes.

I'm so tired, he had whispered.

Then sleep. Her reply, as she pulled the trigger.

A year passed, and she hadn't forgotten the look on his face. He had been 
so calm.

She clung to life with a certain viciousness, desperation, with the certainty 
that she would be the last one standing.

And at night - at least on the nights when Conrad didn't come home - she 
quietly wept for him.

The taste of her tears was bitter, a peculiar mix of desert sweat and sickly 
sweet honey.

She sat there, lost in thought, until she heard the knock at the door.


Part Two: Just a Lifetime

"A Technicolor thrill
It costs a fortune so it must be real
For just a little sip
We'll be waiting just a lifetime..." -- The Legendary Pink Dots _Just A 
Lifetime_


II

Martha's Vineyard
October 13, 1960

"It's beautiful." A quiet intake of breath, from a girl who had once only 
known broken floors and crowded houses.

Bill Mulder laughed, sweeping his wife's tiny body off the ground and 
whirling her around.

"Do you like it?"

"Can we afford it?"

"Of course we can."

"Then I love it." Her mouth still half open, she trailed her hands over the 
plastic-draped kitchen table, the new stove, everything so...new.

A whole new life.

Teena tried to match her husband's laugh, and fell short. He didn't notice. 
He grabbed her hand to lead her through the house.

"...And we'll put the TV in here, and the baby's room can be here..."

Yes, a baby. There would be a baby, wouldn't there?

There would have to be.

A baby. She had never considered it, really, other than the abstract idea that 
she might desire children, at some point. A child. Maybe two.

Yes, two children filling the new kitchen with laughter, scattering dirty little 
footprints across the polished white floor.

There would be two children. One to keep the other company, when Bill 
was away, and she-

She was twenty-three, and so very tired.

After Bill left for work, she sat for a long time, her head a dead weight in 
her hands, motionless in her thoroughly modern kitchen.

***

The cry from her throat was halfway between a laugh and a scream, her 
wrists falling helplessly against the kitchen counter, the taste of ash and salt 
on her tongue. She slipped down to the floor, a limp doll, held up only by 
his hands pinning her against the cupboard.

"You don't want this," he breathed.

"Of course I do."

She could only be strong with him. With Bill she was passive, weak, 
accepted his conquest with a sort of weariness that was incompatible with 
her youth.

She bit at his lip, teasing. Cold blue eyes regarded her warily - she could 
kill him with a single word.

"I'm dangerous." A feeble protest, made out of loyalty to an old friend. She 
laughed.

"Dangerous?"

"Love," His fingers entwined with hers - she had the advantage now. "Love 
is dangerous, Teena."

"You don't love me."

"No?" A wry smile as she pushed him onto the floor. She hated him - but 
only for a moment.

"What if Bill were to find out...?"

Another kiss. "He won't."

"It's all a game to you, isn't it?"

"Is that what you think?"

"My little spy..." That was what he called her, for leading a double life. 
"The consequences could be...devastating."

Teena grinned. "I can't wait." She turned serious within the same instant. 
"We all make choices, don't we?"

He moaned softly, lost in her. "Do we?"

"I love you," Teena Mulder murmured to her husband's best friend.

"I know," he replied.


II

Quonochontaug
August, 1973

Bill's breath smelled of alcohol as he slipped into bed beside her.

"We need to talk."

His voice was slurred - drunk, again. Teena sighed, turning to face away 
from him.

"Not tonight, Bill."

"He's not mine, is he?"

"Bill - what are you talking about?"

His hand on her shoulder, roughly pulling her towards him. "It's important. 
Don't you see...they're going to make us choose."

"I don't...I don't understand."

"One of the children. The boy or the girl. They're leaving it up to us...and-" 
His mouth was so close to her ear that his words tickled, reverberated in her 
skull. "There isn't going to be a choice, is there?"

"Go to sleep, Bill."

"Fox...he's not...Teena..."

"Go to sleep."

***

"Not Samantha! Not my baby!"

Bill grabbed her roughly by her wrists - she pulled away, feeling his 
fingernails scrape across her skin, little beads of blood blossoming along 
the scratches.

"Teena, will you just-"

"No!" She spun away from him to face the tall, silent man in the shadows. 
"No no no!"

He watched her calmly, lifting the cigarette to his lips.

"How can you do this to our family!"

The blue eyes showed no emotion. "Why don't you tell her, Bill?"

"You son-of-a-bitch."

"I've been called worse."

She ran at him, pounding her small fists against his chest. "Not my baby..."

"Tell her, Bill. Tell her how this...situation arose."

"You can't..." She collapsed sobbing, and Bill bristled - it wasn't her 
husband she collapsed against. "No, you...can't..." A remote part of her 
mind noticed the patter of little footsteps.

Fox.

No...no Fox, not now...

"Tell your wife who's to blame."

"Don't...don't let them..."

"You're a little spy..."

"My baby!"

Screams - the sound of a glass being shattered. Fox running - back to his 
sister, back to sleep, and they would all later sleep, praying that this night 
had been a dream.

"Do something," Teena Mulder pleaded with the man in the shadows.

He brought his hand up to touch her shoulder.

"Teena..." he whispered, "Don't you know there is always a choice?"


Part Three: Ophelia Wants to Know

"And the lies that you tell
I believed them so well
Take them back, take them back
To your red house
For that fearful leap into the dark
Oh, I did my time
In the jail of your arms
Now Ophelia wants to know
Where she should turn..." -- Tom Waits _Who Are You_


I

Martha's Vineyard
November 26, 1973

"It will happen tomorrow."

She couldn't believe the coldness with which he spoke...this man who had 
sworn to save her, to protect her at all costs.

"No."

"Tomorrow night. You and Bill will be invited to a neighbor's house, 
leaving both of the children alone."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"This is your last chance."

"To choose between my children?"

"Yes."

"To hell with your choices."

He turned away slightly. "So be it."

"Goddamn you!"

"Save it for Bill."

"You've already made your choice."

"It's your decision, Teena."

"And what if I told you they were both yours?"

A stunned silence. "You're a liar."

"Am I?"

His shock vanished - the calm veneer returned, a slight smile. "I'm proud of 
you, Teena. You play the game as well as any of my colleagues."

She slapped him, hard. He didn't fight back. He stood there for awhile, 
then reached into the pocket of his jacket for the pack of Morleys.

"You bastard," Teena whispered.

Smoke masked the air between them. "Just remember," he said, "If you 
don't choose tonight - they will choose for you."

***

The next night, Teena and Bill went for dinner at the Galbreds.

When they came home, Samantha was gone.


II

Martha's Vineyard
November 26, 1973

"It will happen tomorrow."

Teena's head lifted slightly from where she sat, slumped over the kitchen 
table.

"No."

His voice wavered - already strangely afraid. Already old.

"Tomorrow night. You and Bill will be invited to a neighbor's house, 
leaving both of the children alone."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"This is your last chance."

"To choose between my children?"

"Yes." He swallowed hard, reaching for the pack of Morleys. It was empty. 
"To choose."

"Between your child, and his."

He walked to the window, pressed his forehead against the glass. His 
knuckles were white, fists clenched. She was glad that she could no longer 
see his eyes.

"Does Bill know?"

Teena nodded. "He...he drinks too much. He's under so much 
pressure...he...he takes everything out on Fox."

"Because he knows."

"Yes." She walked over to him, tentative, placed a hand on his arm. "The 
child - my child...will die?"

"They have told me that no harm will come to the child. I have every reason 
to believe they can be held to their word."

She tried to detect any trace of irony in his voice - she found nothing but 
toneless resignation.

"Then...if I send Fox...he'll be safe from Bill."

Silence was an affirmation. He pulled away from her, his head bowed. He 
had never been an emotional man, but his face was twisted with grief.

"I'm sorry." It sounded hollow, even in her own ears. She wanted 
desperately to hold him, to let him cry for once in his life - but she did not.

He recovered quickly. The brief flash of agony departed almost before it 
had begun.

"I will inform the group," he said stiffly. He made his way towards the 
door.

She called his name as his fingers brushed the doorknob. He paused, the 
only acknowledgment that she had spoken.

"Goodbye," she whispered.

She never saw him again. He erased himself from her life without another 
word - leaving her a faithful wife with a loving daughter.

They took Fox the next evening.


III

Martha's Vineyard
November 26, 1973

"It will happen tomorrow."

Teena Mulder leaned against the polished stove in her thoroughly modern 
kitchen.

"I know," she said.

The man standing in the shadows lit a Morley. "Gimmie one of those," 
Teena said. He hesitated a moment, held out the box to her. A flicker of 
emotion crossed his face at the brief physical contact; then it disappeared.

"You're asking me to choose," she continued, "And I'll tell you now, I 
can't choose. I *won't* choose."

"Teena..."

"Don't 'Teena' me," she snapped, "If they wanted someone to rationalize all 
this to me, they wouldn't have sent *you*. You're here because you want 
to save your son. I can't blame you. Bill wants to save his daughter. And I 
don't want either of my kids to be taken." She drew in a long stream of 
smoke, blowing it back out in his face. "You just don't understand, do you? 
I've put up with your games long enough."

"I have no say in the matter..."

"I know what's going on here." She laughed bitterly. "Do you think you 
can keep me in the dark? Do you think I don't *know*...?" She stepped up 
to him, her hazel eyes flashing. "I know enough. There were three choices - 
and you and Bill neglected to inform me of one of them."

"Teena, I..." He took a drag of his cigarette. It was easier than talking. "I 
don't know what you're talking about."

She grabbed his wrist, rough, her nails digging into his flesh so deeply as 
to draw blood. "Bullshit." Her other hand dropped her cigarette and almost 
with the same motion, knocked his cigarette out of his mouth. He looked 
startled only long enough for her to place her lips where the smoke had 
been.

For a moment she felt him surrender, his fingers smooth back her hair, 
holding her tightly - and then she pulled away violently, sending him 
sprawling against the wall.

"There were three choices," Teena repeated.

"Fox, Samantha..."

He cringed involuntarily.

"...Or me."

***

After she had gone, he and Bill Mulder wept in each other's arms.

There was nothing they could do.

She had made her choice.


Part Four: Open Wide

"Here is, here is my love and anger
You see now
These are my gods
These are my scars
Here is, here is my love and anger
Oh, these arms are burning
But they're open wide..." -- Indigo Girls _Keeper of My Heart_


I

Tunisia
Present Day

It was strange, when she thought about it.

It was strange, how much had happened.

She had been thinking of lives lost, of loves lost...listening to the 
commotion outside as some of Conrad's people struggled to keep the stung 
man alive.

He died, despite their efforts.

When the knock on the door came, it startled her. Such an everyday ritual, 
so commonplace, and yet...

And yet it never seemed to happen anymore.

She recognized immediately the man who stood in the doorway.

He was still young, though almost imperceptible lines creased his face, and 
his short hair grayed at the temples. Young, and handsome - nearly the 
spitting image of his father.  His hazel eyes were Teena's, though, darkened 
and haunted with years of pain. He was successful in the organization, she 
had been told, although they had taken efforts to ensure that he never 
learned of her whereabouts. It would have complicated his work - and he 
was one of the best men they had.

She swallowed back the words that formed in her throat. Let him speak 
first, she decided.

"Teena?" Fox Mulder spoke cautiously, testing the words out. The words 
of a twelve-year-old boy, who had never known the sacrifice his mother 
had made for her children.

She swayed against the wall. He tried again.

"Mom?"

She could take it no more. She tossed her cigarette to the ground and took 
him into her arms.

"Oh, Fox..."

He drew in a quick breath. "Samantha wanted to come - she booked the 
flight and everything, and at the last minute they decided she had to go to a 
conference, and she had to cancel but she'll be here in a few days..." The 
words spilled out all at once. Teena understood - there was so much she 
wanted to tell him.

"How did you find me?" she asked instead.

"Dad told me..." Teena repressed a smile. Dad. Fox's father had raised both 
of the children after Bill had put a gun in his mouth on the first anniversary 
of Teena's abduction. "He said..." Fox's voice was ragged at the edges, 
torn. "He wanted to come clean, before he died." The wide, doe eyes of the 
Consortium's best assassin turned towards her. "He is dead, isn't he?"

She glanced out towards the back of the house. She had cleaned her lover's 
blood off the verandah herself.

Silence. Affirmations.

"It took me almost a year to decide to come," Fox continued, "I know why 
you kept it from me, but I..."

"Had to know." Teena smiled at her son. So much like his father, she 
thought.

So much like her.

"Anyway, Samantha will be up in a few days. She's been busy lately. So 
have-" He stopped. They stared at each other.

"I know what you did," Fox Mulder said, "Thank you."


II

Martha's Vineyard
Present Day

A quick powder concealed the fact that she had been crying - she was 
running for the door in a few seconds. "Coming!" Teena Mulder called. A 
four-year-old's giggle rose towards her as she turned the knob.

"Gramma!" Christine flung her arms around the old woman, scattering 
kisses over her cheek, as Billy waved his chubby hand from Samantha's 
protective embrace. Steve, smiling bountifully, put a protective hand on his 
wife's shoulder.

"Hi Mom," Samantha said as Teena motioned the family inside. Christine 
instantly went running towards the kitchen.

"Cookies!" the little girl was shouting, "Gramma, d'you make cookies?"

"Coo-kee," her baby brother echoed.

"I know I should have called," Samantha said, "But-" She faltered, 
prompted only by Teena's encouraging smile. "I had to tell you in person."

"Tell me what?" Teena knew - she had been through this twice already - but 
she wanted to hear it from Samantha's lips. She had lived an ordinary life, 
but even the most natural and ordinary of events could bring revelations, 
could bring transformations.

She looked so much like her father.

Teena had loved Bill, despite his flaws - they had made a happy life 
together. Every family faced tragedies, they told each other. Life continued, 
despite everything. The drinking stopped when he retired. They had lost 
one child, yes - a miracle simply not meant to be - but Samantha had grown 
into a fine young woman, and they were proud of her.

A wonderful woman, if not exceptional, with a wonderful husband and 
wonderful kids.

They filled the gap in her life that Bill had left.

Steve's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Well, um..."

"You see..." Samantha continued.

"Samantha and I..."

"...Or at least I am..."

"Pregnant." They spoke at the same time, exploding into giggles.

"We just came back from the doctor's," Samantha gushed, "It's going to be 
another boy."

Teena closed her eyes - three times a grandmother now - a wide smile 
spreading across her face. It was time to think of a response now, an 
acceptable and ordinary reaction.

"Have you thought of names yet?" she asked.

"We've talked about it," Steve said. In the kitchen, Christine had found the 
cookie jar, and informed them loudly of her discovery.

"We thought...if it's okay with you..." Samantha took a deep breath. "His 
name will be Fox."

A crystal tear formed in the corner of Teena Mulder's eye, but her daughter 
didn't see it.


III

Quonochontaug
Present Day

She didn't answer the door, instead calling out in a faint voice, "Come in."

A series of steps, then a shadow appeared across the kitchen floor, its edges 
blurred by the sand. She lifted her head at the clicking sound of the cigarette 
lighter.

"Are you sure?" His voice was half-mocking, though not cruel. He stepped 
into the light as she rose to meet him.

"What are you doing here?"

His lips curled upwards around the cigarette. "It's been a long time, Teena."

"Not long enough."

"You don't mean that." His eyes were steely - the blue had drained from 
them, leaving them pale icy grey. "I came to talk to you about your son, 
actually. He has been causing problems for me, as of late. Very serious 
problems. I thought that perhaps you might be able to talk to him, prevent 
the situation from...getting out of hand."

Teena smiled faintly. "You don't mean that." The wind, streaming in from 
the shattered window, lifted her hair slightly, and she felt as light as air. 
"Come on. Have a seat. You've come a long way."

They sat down at the table. She noticed he didn't remove his overcoat. It 
was getting to be late in the year, but still not that cold.

"You shouldn't smoke so much," Teena said in her best practical voice, 
"You're not as young as you used to be."

"A cigarette is the perfect type of pleasure," he replied, "It is exquisite, and 
it leaves one unsatisfied. What more could one want?"

She laughed softly. "Did you write that?"

"No." He leaned back in the chair, his gaze drifting out towards the sea. 
"Oscar Wilde did. But it seems appropriate, don't you think?"

"If you came up here to tell me that you're dying, I'll never forgive you."

"I'm not dying, Teena. Not that I know of, at any rate."

"Then why?"

His eyes were on her in an instant. "Maybe..." He shrugged, suddenly 
ambivalent again. "Maybe I just wanted to talk to you."

Silence. Somewhere a gull was crying.

"I've often thought," he said, "That the mark of a successful life - not a 
good life, mind you, but a successful one - was the ability to look back, on 
all of one's triumphs and regrets...to look back and say that one could not 
have forseeably done it any other way."

"I know Oscar Wilde didn't say that," Teena said, "It's too convoluted, and 
not nearly witty enough." She leaned across the table, placed her small 
hands over his. "So, have you led a successful life?"

He smiled. "I believe so, yes." He removed one hand from under hers to 
extinguish the cigarette. "And you, Teena Mulder?"

She closed her eyes, listening to the wind, the gulls, the sea.

"I don't know," she said, "It isn't over yet."

She felt him clutch her hand tightly, as the daylight drained away in the 
distance, over the crashing waves.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

What was THAT?
A happy ending?
No more MomSlaps?
Did CSM finally get the girl? (No, not Ashlea!)
And she LIVED?

Write me and tell me how disgusted you 
are...morleyphile@yahoo.com