Title: New: Winter's Night 1/1 Author: lancer4120@aol.com (Lancer4120) Date: 1 Aug 1997 15:44:41 GMT~ Title - Winter's Night Author - Paul Leone Rating - PG Classification - T (Story) Spoilers - Mild Anasazi spoilers. Keywords - Pre-XF Story Summary - 1973. Brian MacArthur and CSM confront each other. ************************************************************************************* Legal Mumbo-Jumbo: X-Files, Cigarette Smoking Man aka Smith, Fox Mulder, William Mulder, Samantha Mulder and any related characters are the property of Fox, Ten-Thirteen, and Chris Carter. No infringement intended. However, Brian MacArthur and Shane Currie are mine mine mine (Paul Leone a.k.a. Lancer4120@aol.com), so if you want to use them for some reason, ask me first. ************************************************************************************* "Song for a Winter's Night" by Sarah McLachlan The lamp is burning low upon my table top, Snow softly falling. The air is still in the silence of my room, I hear your voice softly calling. If I could only have you near To breath a sigh or two I would be happy just to hold the hands I love On this winter's night with you. The smoke is rising in the shadows overhead, My glass is almost empty. I read again between the lines upon each page, The words of love you sent me. If I could know with my heart That you were lonely too I would be happy just to hold the hands I love On this winter's night with you. The fire's dying, the lamp is growing dim, The shades of night are lifting. The morning light steals across my window pane Where webs of snow are drifting. If I could only have you near To breath a sigh or two I would be happy just to hold the hands I love On this winter's night with you, And to be once again with you. *************************************************************************** X-Files Winter's Night - An Old Times Story Lake Narragansee, Maine November 6, 1973 PROLOGUE It was, the locals would later say, one of the worst winters in record. Snow piled up higher and higher with each passing hour, faster than the small fleet of plows could clear the streets. Worse than the snow were the icy gusts of wind that swept off the lake and kept the entire town indoors. Out on the lake, across from town, most of the cabins had been abandoned. Only a few brave souls had decided to tough it out when the men from the Sheriff had come in their helicopter the day before. Cabin 15, tucked a few dozen yards away from the shore and surrounded by dark, thick forest, was one of the holdouts. An observer on the shore could, just barely, see a dim light flickering through the trees. The road up to the cabin was relatively clear, sheltered by huge trees on either side from the worst of the snowfall. A thin plume of smoke spilled from the chimney, quickly being scattered by the wind off the lake. Other than that, the cabin might have been empty from the looks of it. Inside, however, it was far from empty. A healthy fire burned in the brick hearth, more than enough for the single occupant of the cabin, who was at the moment busy making preparations for his guest. The solid wood table had a red and white cloth thrown on top, with two plates, cups and forks neatly set on opposite sides. On the old stove, a pot of spaghetti bubbled merrily. Two cans of beer sat on a small side table next to a loaf of Italian bread and a mostly empty box of cookies. Other, less domestic, arrangements had also been made. Each of the windows was securely locked and covered with thick blankets that made it impossible for anyone outside to look in. A small radio sat on the sofa bed, a radio which had some features that would have made most any technician shake his head in puzzlement. A large, ugly shotgun rested against a chair near the front door. Another was concealed under the bed and a third in the closet. In a half dozen convenient locations, small sha Outside, on the shore, a helicopter, silver and unmarked, landed. A single passenger stepped out, face completely hidden by a thick hood that was drawn tight to keep out the cold. He shouted something to the pilot and backed away as the helicopter took off again and began the short flight back to the town's airstrip. Safely alone (the other cabins were more than half a mile away) the visitor trudged up the road to Cabin 15, stopping at the wooden gate that marked off the lot. He stared at it for a few minutes, then smiled and climbed over the fence. Inside the cabin, a small light went off on a silver box next to the television. The man nodded to himself and, moving the pistol so that it was hidden behind his back, sat down on the chair near the front door. The shotgun, loaded and cocked, sat on his lap. Outside, the visitor had reached the front door. Again he hesitated, glancing at the porch. It was mostly empty, except for a few logs half-covered in snow and an old axe. The door itself, though, had a small, barely noticeable wire running from hinge to hinge and up to a small box hidden where the wall meet the sloping roof. A quick glance confirmed that each of the windows had a similar alarm. Probably the fence, too, the visitor realized. It didn't matter. Secrecy was never part of his pl The cold air followed him in, and the man inside shivered for a second, even with his thick flannel shirt and the blanket he had wrapped over his shoulders. He smiled bitterly...five years ago, the cold wouldn't have bothered him. He was getting too old for all this. What would she have said, seeing him here like something out of a bad spy movie? That thought triggered a memory more painful than he wanted to deal with, and he shoved it down into the dark recesses of his mind just as the inner door opened. "Shut it, please. I'm coming down with a cold," he said with a smile as the other man stood in the doorway. The visitor reached up and pulled his hood down, and Brian MacArthur felt his stomach twist itself into a knot. In one of the hardest emotional battles of his life, he resisted the urge to draw his pistol and shoot the visitor in the face until he ran out of bullets. Mr. Smith just smiled and pulled out a cigarette that he had stored in one of his pockets. "Do you have a light?" PART ONE Brian stared at Smith in disgust. "Those things will kill you," he finally managed to stammer, trying to catch his breath. Smith shrugged and put the cigarette away. "That's the point," he whispered. The two men stared at each other in silence for a few minutes until the shrill shout of an alarm clock broke the spell. Brian stood up. "The spaghetti's done." "Spaghetti...that's Mulder's favorite food." He took a deep breath. Thinking like that would only get him killed. He had to play it cool. Smith hadn't killed him yet, which probably meant he wasn't going to. Damned if I'll let that bastard ruin my dinner. Brian spread the spaghetti onto his plate and covered it with a thick layer of his homemade sauce and a mountain of Parmesan. He ate in silence, ignoring Smith. For his part, Smith just stared around the cabin, the corners of his mouths crinkling as he watched Brian try to enjoy his dinner. Finally, Brian pushed the empty plate away and turned towards Smith. "I didn't expect to see you." Smith took the words as an invitation and sat down across from Brian. "You nearly didn't, but Mulder developed a foolish confidence in one of my newer agents, a black CIA operative. Affirmative action and all that," Smith said. "I bet you promoted your little spy," Brian sneered. "Affirmative action and all that," he said, mimicking Smith's scornful tone. "Of course. After all, this isn't the old days. It's hard to find men qualified for our line of work - " "Your line of work." Smith shrugged and continued. "But my new agent isn't the issue here, is he?" "I guess not. So what's the story then? Why did you even come here?" "For old time's sake." "Old time's sake..." Brian repeated slowly. "There were never old times with us, Smith." Smith shook his head. "That's not quite true. I'm sure you haven't forgotten your time in the X-Files." No, never, not after what you did to me. "I've tried." "I never understood something. Perhaps you can enlighten me?" Brian rolled his eyes. "Spit it out." "Why you finally quit the Bureau. We blocked your every investigation, impeded you at every step, cut you off from every contact and witness, ruined any chance for promotion, and you still kept at it." "You killed my partner, too," Brian hissed. "Don't think I forgot Phil for one second." "Now you're jumping to conclusions. That really was an accident, despite what you might think. Philip McLachlan's death had nothing to do with us." "Sure." Again, the urge to put a dozen holes in that smug face reared up, and again, Brian ignored it. "You want to know why I left?" "Yes." "Because you took Shane away from me." Smith leaned back, appearing genuinely surprised. "We never did anything to Shane." "Not physically, no. If you had, I'd be pissing on your grave. But you took her from me just the same. Or don't y