What he had sown, he would reap.

That was the realization that had eluded him for longer than he cared to think about, and that grabbed tenaciously at his conscience as he watched her sleep.

Conscience. He scoffed out loud, not worried about his captive dreamer whose sleep was guarded by "medication." He had no concept of conscience, except to suppose it was conscience that drove him to start smoking all those years ago, to suppose it was conscience that gave him occasional indigestion.

Gave him cancer?

No. He shook his head at the thought. As he walked out to the back porch (to light a Morley,
of course), thinking his cancer came from a different vengeful god.

Nemesis.

He had erred, and there was no correction to be had. Cure or no cure, Nemesis would have her way, striking him down for his damnable conceit. She'd gotten the others, after all.

With fire.

He'd escaped, a crime for which they - the Ever-Popular They - would not forgive him.

Smoke rose in the night, and twisted in his lungs. On the wind, he swore there was laughter.

xxxxx

The opposite of pure goodness is pure evil, similar in their goal of consumption and total reign.

The opposite of health is sickness, the opposite of life is death.

The nemesis, if you will.

He was called the Cigarette Smoking Man, the Smoking Man, Old Smoky, and other names playing on that theme. He knew all of his aliases, however trite they may be. He didn't mind, because his real name was no business of theirs.

Funny how they call each other Mulder and Scully, never using first names. It was a familiar
pattern.

They would never know how close they'd come to becoming what they most hated. Their nemesis stood on a wooden deck, sliding towards his inevitable decline. They would never know how he had once believed in the Truth, how it could save the world. How he could save the world.

He still could, and that's why he had her in the bedroom.

xxxxx

1973 wasn't a very good year. He'd been fighting with Cassandra long before her "disappearance," and it truly had pained him to give her up like that.

Or so he told himself.

Bill had made the decision to give them Samantha instead of Fox, and when Teena called to scream and protest, he hadn't rebuked Bill for it.

Not that it mattered who got the blame. They were all at fault.

It wasn't really going to save them. The abductions were one stage in a plan that would destroy them all, and it was better to let Fox be free of all that.

No matter whose son he really was.

xxxxx

The cure for cancer was no cure. It was the first step in a different plan, a plan to exchange humans for hybrids, mark some for transformation and others for destruction. Eradicating cancer? A short-term benefit, for the calm before the storm.

For all but him.

He went back inside, hoping to find her awake so that he could inveigle her and confound her, anything to stay awake and keep from thinking these morbid thoughts.

She slept on.

He thought once again of his plan. Taunt her. Give her the bits and pieces of evidence that the nearly-converted always craved, always needed to spur them on to discovery. She would learn it all eventually and tell the world, scream it from the rooftops, her partner at her side.

There was no one left to stop them.

He dug his hands into his pockets to keep from praying that he was right.

xxxxx

What does retribution look like?

Perhaps it is a slim redhead in a black evening gown, who will touch your enemy but never come near you.

She walked toward him, her face lined with one feminine emotion or another. She reminded him of another woman, a taller and more graceful woman, whose face would crease with anger, joy, and desire all at once. He never thought of that face without smiling, and he did so now.

Which just confused the enigmatic Dr. Scully all the more.

He poured wine and made conversation, her impatience with him growing.

He took from time what it would soon mirthlessly take back.

xxxxx

The abduction on Skyland Mountain wasn't entirely his idea.

He'd wanted something more subtle, less inclined to drive Mulder's passion and fury. None of the others had agreed; they believed his mission was tied to her somehow, and that without her he would crumble.

But the mission, the Truth, was there before her in his heart, taking up space that she would never even guess at. He'd press on, and an abduction would solidify his desire to complete his mission.

Cancer Man, that was a new one. Would that Mulder knew what kind of harbinger that might be.

They gave her cancer, again not his idea, but one he didn't argue with. She wouldn't die on his watch, nor on Mulder's. The Smoking Man, so-called, recognized that which consumed.

Hubris.

xxxxx

He didn't regret bringing her out here, though in retrospect it had been a foolish move to tempt the inevitable investigation. One last look before he goes, he thought. He was still enough of a dreamer to imagine that he would never see her again.

She drifted away on the boat, not looking back, and he was glad of it. He closed his eyes as he took a final drag on a cigarette, thinking for a moment of what it might be like to have her with him always. He knew what Mulder saw in her and envied him.

Shots were fired, and with the illusion complete, he vanished to leave them all curious and wondering and slightly afraid once more.

xxxxx

The year is 1963, and it's a cold November day in Dallas, Texas.

There were many shooters, only one whose shot was true.

He had already learned to smoke, though after 1963, he perfected it as an art form.

Nemesis tempted, she wooed, she knew exactly how to bring down the self-satisfied and the proud.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

>end<

Author's notes: Special thanks to The X-Files Timeline, which I was amazed to find still online and updating!

Inspired by, of all people, Victor Davis Hanson, who invoked the Greek goddess Nemesis in a blog post and had me thinking of it all day long.

All mistakes are mine, as this was not beta'd.

CSM, or CGB Spender, or whoever, remains for me the most fascinating and frustrating XF character.