Title: Curtain Up
Author: Gina Rain (ginarain@aol.com)
Rating: R (sex, language)
Category: MSR, X
Spoilers: set post-allthings
Archive: Sure.  
Summary: The mysteries of life, love and a string of Hollywood suicides 
would be a lot easier to solve--if Mulder and Scully only had a script.
Disclaimer: Fox. 1013. Chris Carter. They own them. I just have fun 
with them.
Missing Parts: http://www.geocities.com/ginarainfic


Curtain Up

January 27, 1953
Barrymore Theater
New York City, 8 PM

Hank once again had difficulty catching his breath. She was standing 
there, front and center, as they lifted the curtain separating reality 
from fantasy. The strong white lights accentuated a creamy complexion 
offset only by crimson hair and ruby lips. The living embodiment of the 
painting he had found years ago; the subject of many a teenaged wet 
dream. A nude redhead lying against a rock. Unblemished white skin; 
lips parted and waiting. . .  Of course, he had never seen Charlotte 
nude. Not yet. But he still hoped she would fill the role his phantom 
lover had so very long ago.

He had seen her in rehearsal dozens of times, although his presence was 
never required. She was good. But in actual performance--there was a 
difference. The audience. They set off a light in her. A light that 
made every single individual--male or female--adore her. Almost as much 
as he did.

Later tonight, he would be her audience of one. 

He prayed she'd seduce him with the same enthusiasm she used on the 
crowd.

Same evening
11 PM

Hank pulled Charlotte into an alleyway and pushed her against the wall.  
She lifted one perfectly groomed eyebrow.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

She could feel his erection through all the layers between them. Tuxedo 
and overcoat for him; heavily beaded gown and full-length mink coat for 
her. He pushed his pelvis even closer.

"Only you can help me, baby."

She didn't have to push him away. She didn't have to lecture him. Her 
clear green eyes looked deeply into his and he knew. He moved back and 
gave her ample space.

"I would die for you," he whined. "You do know that, don't you?"

"Of course I do. All in due time. All I ask for now is that you treat 
me like a lady until I give you permission to do otherwise. 
Understood?"

He swallowed hard. She was a difficult woman but unlike any other. He 
wanted her. The wait, no matter how tortuous, would be worth it. 

"Yes. Anything for you, Charlotte."

She stepped up to him and put her hand on the crook of his elbow. 

"Let's go. My feet are beginning to get cold and I need more 
champagne."

The elegant couple left the alley and headed toward the Plaza Hotel to 
celebrate her triumphant opening night performance.

January 27, 2000
New York City

Hank woke with a start.

"Charlotte," he whispered in the darkness.
 
He sat up in bed and brushed his pajama-clad arm across his face. His 
eyes felt gritty. 

He went into the bathroom and put in his teeth. Then he pulled out an 
eye-lining pencil and accented his lower lids.  He stepped back and 
looked at his features.  His tired eyes no longer saw wrinkles and a 
hairline that had lost the battle and retreated long ago. He saw a 
damned fine looking young man. 

"Like Montgomery Clift," he thought.

He walked into the bedroom to gather the clothes he wanted to wear for 
this occasion. He looked toward the bed and could almost see her again. 
Her back leaning against the pillows; long red hair splayed out as if a 
set decorator had arranged every strand. He came to her in worship that 
night. Anything she would have wanted, he would have given. Even his 
life.

He dressed in his tuxedo and left the overcoat in the closet. It was 
cold but he wouldn't notice. He was on a mission. He needed to prove 
his love.

Once and for all. He needed to show Charlotte that his devotion was 
total and complete.

The old man walked out of the residential hotel and down several dark 
city streets until he found the one he was looking for.

The alley was still there--untouched by years of city improvements and 
the elevation of new buildings. 

He was not alone. A homeless man was huddled by the dumpster, sleeping 
as soundly as possible. Hank walked to the wall and pressed himself 
against the brick. He could almost feel the beaded dress against his 
chest. Smell her perfume. Sense her disdain.

He stood back. She wanted respect. She wanted adoration. She wanted a 
level of devotion that was total and complete and, until he proved 
himself, she wanted nothing to do with him.

Fine.

He would give her a demonstration. It was time.

He pulled out a container from the inside of his tuxedo jacket. He 
opened it and poured the lighter fluid all over himself. 

"I would die for you, Charlotte," he said, and struck a match.


March 20, 2000
6:15 AM
Mulder's Apartment

He heard the alarm clock go off and let it ring for a moment. He didn't 
want to open his eyes, pretty much knowing what he would find.

He mentally braced himself for the worst. Maybe he'd be surprised. Life 
doesn't always have to suck, does it?

"Show time," he thought as he opened his eyes and turned directly to 
the nightstand to switch off the blaring alarm. He took a quick, deep 
breath before turning to his right, his mouth poised for a smile, in 
case he needed it.

He didn't.

"Fuck," he said out loud. To himself. To his empty apartment.

He got out of bed and opened the shade to the outside world. A cold, 
rainy, gray day.

Welcome to the real world.


Hoover Building
8:45 AM

Mulder's mood had not improved.

Being summoned to Skinner's office five minutes after he entered the 
basement didn't help matters. Being told Scully was already with 
Skinner--before 9 AM--clinched it.
 
After being waved through to the inner sanctum by Kimberly, Mulder 
opened the door to find Skinner and Scully in their usual places. 

"Hail, hail. . .the gang's all here," Mulder said briefly, taking his 
seat, lacing his fingers and cupping both hands over one knee. Scully 
looked up with a half smile and Skinner nodded a greeting. 

"Agent Mulder, let me bring you up to speed." Was that a dig? Because 
if it was, Mulder refused to show remorse for not arriving as early as 
Scully had. It was a normal, working day as far as he was concerned. No 
one ever threw him a party for all the times he started working before 
dawn. 

"You are leaving for Los Angeles this afternoon," Skinner informed him.

"Oh? Are we doing another movie, sir?" Mulder asked, dryly. 

A small grimace passed over Skinner's face before he continued.

"Four deaths over the last three and a half months. All--rather 
unusual."

Skinner slowed down a bit--his attention momentarily diverted by 
Scully. She didn't notice. She seemed to be too busy staring at her 
hands. Why shouldn't she? She didn't have to pay attention. According 
to Skinner, she had been "brought up to speed" eons ago. 

When he saw that Mulder had taken note of his obvious distraction, 
Skinner dropped his eyes back to the paperwork before him.

"The first one occurred in January. The apparent suicide of Hank 
Costas. Rather well known Broadway producer in the 50s and 60s. Doused 
himself with lighter fluid and set himself on fire in an alley on 53rd 
street in New York City.  Second one--Jim Downey. Retired career 
military. Drank rat poison with his warm milk before bed. Third and 
fourth--well, you probably heard about this one. Two old time actors--
getting together for a publicity shoot for an old friend--stabbed each 
other during a mock duel."

"And the X-file is. . ." Mulder prompted, catching Skinner in a sneak 
peek again.  Skinner looked down at his notes, seemingly searching for 
a bit of information held within. Mulder cast a sidelong glance at the 
object of Skinner's furtive glances.  Scully had shifted position since 
he had first entered the office. Her leg was crossed--in the opposite 
direction from where he was sitting--and her rather tight white blouse 
had pulled down just enough to show a very clear bruise on the rise of 
her left breast. 

Great. 

"The two apparent suicides left notes," Skinner continued. "Mr. Costas 
left one saying, 'I would die for you, Charlotte.' Mr. Downey left a 
note reading, 'Charlotte--I always keep my promises.' And Gary Lawrence 
and Mark Burns were both caught on video tape before the dueling scene 
was supposed to be filmed, openly arguing about Charlotte."

"Charlotte?"

"Charlotte Colby."

"The old movie star?"

"The one and only," Skinner said with the air of a man who had a former 
crush on said actress.

"So? It's odd but there are fans and there are fanatics. I still don't 
get the X-file." 

"The X-file is that these men were all involved with Miss Colby at one 
time or another but hadn't seen her in years. No contact whatsoever. 
They were all old men. All, in some ways, killing themselves or each 
other for her.  They had gone on to lead normal lives after their 
breakups, Mulder. They weren't carrying torches for years."

"So, let me get this straight. I have to turn somersaults to get you to 
approve travel on some very clearly defined, genuine X-files and now, 
we're traveling across the country on a potentially high profile case 
that more than likely has nothing whatsoever to do with them. On whose 
whim?"

Skinner did not flinch.

"Charlotte Colby was once involved--had connections--with someone here. 
A retired someone--rather high up in the ranks. A nervous retired 
someone who feels he might be possessed by whatever spirit is moving 
these men to do themselves in. <He's> convinced it's an X-file. He 
requested your assignment. Does that answer all your questions to your 
satisfaction, Agent?"

Mulder smirked.

"Absolutely. I don't suppose the Bureau is going to be putting us up at 
the Beverly Hills Hotel for our troubles?"

"No."

"Damn. Liked the bathtubs and the champagne there. Well, that's that, 
then." Mulder stood up and walked toward the door. He briefly looked 
back to see Scully rising from her seat. He realized she hadn't said 
one word during the entire meeting and barely glanced in his direction. 
He caught Skinner in one last, quick look at Scully's blouse. Busted. 
He looked at Mulder with a question in his eyes. Mulder simply scowled 
and Skinner gave up; his silent question unanswered or answered in 
whatever direction his own imagination decided to take him.

"I expect to be given daily progress reports, Agents. That will be 
all."

"Thank you, Sir," Scully said.

<She speaks, > Mulder thought. <To anyone but me. >

In the hallway, she surprised him.

"Look, Mulder. I'm going home to pack. I'll meet you at the airport, 
okay?"

"Sure. You might want to change your blouse."

She looked at him, a question and a challenge in her eyes.

"When you sit a certain way, you can see. . ." He wanted to run a 
finger over her cleavage to point out the exact spot but settled on 
training his eyes there. She looked down and buttoned another button. 
Other than that, her expression didn't change.

"I'll wear a sweater. Thank you for telling me."

"It's the least I could do."

She looked up at him sharply. God. He wanted to wring her neck. Or pull 
her into a kiss. Instead, he fell back to a long-established pattern. 
Attack first; think later.

"For having the gall to leave a mark that no water or silence can 
erase. The least I can do is have the decency to give you the 
opportunity to find other methods to cover up your mistake."

He turned and quickly went into the elevator. He watched Scully sigh 
and head toward the door to the stairwell as the elevator doors closed.

End of Chapter One