Work Text:
Thursdays I Don't Care About You
by JiM
Hell.
He'd been expecting it for a while, really, ever since his performance over the faux Mulder's body. His control had slipped badly that time and his shattering had been plain to all. He had kept his balance so long on the knife-edge that he had forgotten that it couldn't last. He had resigned himself to the whispered conversations that stop abruptly when he passes, the speculative glances, the curled lips in his wake. He hadn't been prepared for the sympathetic smiles, the hungry looks or the frank envy that are also his lot.
But this morning, it is clear that the fall has come. Another gray meeting in another gray room. This is an "informal" meeting with the other AD's. They are trying very hard not to ask him if he is sleeping with one of his agents, one of his male agents. They are nervous about that sort of thing in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. They are trying very hard not to know about this at all, but it is obvious that something must be done.
There are caressing compliments about his Bureau career, omitting the whole episode with the prostitute, the murder charges, the times he was censured for supporting the man who is now the pearl of the FBI again. That's Mulder, an irritant whom time, circumstances and sheer endurance have rendered priceless. He smiles gently and the assembled ranks shift nervously at this unexpected reaction. Skinner is enjoying their skittishness and so he smiles again, showing his teeth.
Half of them don't want to be here at all. They don't want a scene. The rest want to drink his blood and leave his flayed carcass to dry in the sun. He wonders what he wants.
He is tired. They have won but the costs were high. There is still a rear-guard action to be fought, pockets of resistance to be overcome, conspiracy and horrors to be brought to light. Mulder is tireless in this, tracking his enemies, exposing their lies. In between the bodies and the secrets, Mulder comes home. To him. He smiles again and shifts in his seat, remembering Mulder sliding home in him.
The sun is shining outside, he can see it sharp-edging the drawn curtains. Why are they sitting in this dim gray room with the curtains drawn? He has never questioned this before. More words, more compliments, a reference to the good of the Bureau. Ah -- there it was, the veiled threat he'd been waiting for. He is vaguely disappointed, he had hoped for better from them. He forgets that others have not seen what he has seen and that pettiness is only rooted out when something larger takes its place. In spite of all that Mulder and Scully have shown them, the horrors and wonders proved beyond doubt, they are unable to see anything larger than these paperclip politics.
The voices drone on, his defenders, his enemies. He is annoyed now. The sun is shining outside and they are insisting on this sham. He counts on his fingers; so many years an agent, so many spent as ASAC, SAC, department head, AD. He is shocked by the total and taps his finger on the desk. All eyes turn toward him. He smiles pleasantly and, before he is aware of making a decision, he hears his own voice stepping off the cliff.
I quit.
In the choked silence, he rises and smiles again at his friends, less pleasantly at his enemies, and leaves. The shocked babble rising behind him is a rushing in his ears. He wonders how long this light-headed feeling will last. He is weightless still when he reaches his office and begins gathering the few personal items he keeps there.
Free fall. Now he sees its appeal. There is nothing more to be done, no decisions to make, nothing to carry or hold onto. He is still standing, staring out the window and smiling, when Mulder comes skidding into his office.
Like his colleagues, Mulder is shocked when Skinner smiles at him. But unlike them, Mulder understands suddenly and smiles back, dazzling and sweet. Then he is wrapped around Skinner and they are in free fall together and it is warm and the sun is shining.
end