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Snows and Sins
by JiM
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten.
-- Swinburne
The snow began falling as he drove out of the city and headed south along the river. Because it was still early in the afternoon, traffic had not yet become snarled, as he knew it would. The evening commute would be awful in any case, this close to Christmas. Snow always threw the District into complete chaos; as little as two inches could paralyze the city. He wondered if he could blame the sudden chaos in his own life on the snow as well. No, he decided, the first step of the ruin had been taken long before the first flakes had fallen today.
Parking his car in the nearly empty lot of the marina, Walter Skinner shrugged into his overcoat and stepped out into the snow. He strode toward the dock, his steps making no sound on the snow that already blanketed the ground. His goal was the houseboat in the last slip, the only one on which there was any sign of life on this muffled afternoon.
Curiously reluctant to end his journey, Skinner stopped at the very end of the float, staring across the water. Here, the river banks were empty -- the far shore was hard to see now, obscured by the whispering fall of thick flakes. The water was the color of iron, the banks a lighter shade of ash, the sky made of pewter. All around him things were merely varying shades of grey -- the very fact that had brought him to this moment. An echo of the queer desperation that had driven him earlier today made him turn and search for something of color and light in the toneless afternoon. Golden light beckoned from the houseboat, promising warmth and some kind of certainty.
Shivering a little at the feathery, relentless touch of snow on his bare head, Skinner turned and walked quickly toward the houseboat. It rocked a little as he came on board and the door opened before he even had a chance to knock.
"Skinner. What are you doing here?" Mulder asked, even as he gestured for his former boss to enter. The use of the semi-respectful 'sir' had been one of the first casualties; they had never granted each other the intimacy of first names.
Skinner didn't answer; instead he stood awkwardly dripping melting snow until Mulder relieved him of his overcoat, hanging it on a hook beside the door. There was soft music playing, a rippling piano that offered a peculiarly fitting soundtrack for the falling snow beyond the windows. There was a fire in the wood stove against the center wall of the room and the spicy smell of burning cedar was a comforting counterpart to the fire's warmth.
Mulder's face was turned toward him expectantly but his eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. Scully had insisted on the ultra stylish Oakleys and had bought Mulder a selection of them. The pair he wore today were the side-wrapping style favored by skiers, mirrored to cut the merciless glare of sunlit snow.
Skinner found Mulder's expression hard to read and wished that he could see his eyes, even though they would tell him nothing more. The one time he had looked into Mulder's eyes since, they had reminded of fractured glass, colorless, unseeing and unreflecting.
"So... is there a new case? What was so important that you couldn't just send it?"
"Can I sit down?"
Mulder nodded in his general direction and gestured toward one of the mission oak easy chairs flanking the wood stove. Once seated, Skinner looked around, trying to see anything of his former agent's personality in the painfully neat, softly lit environment in which he found himself.
The wall opposite the door was dominated by a long worktable, covered in computer equipment; a huge monitor, special keyboards and braille readouts, a scanner and other electronics that looked so state of the art he wondered if they were even for sale yet. Amber and green lights glowed softly. A jeweler's magnifier stood beside the the monitor, next to stacks of neatly labeled files. Skinner smiled wryly -- Mulder's work area had never looked that neat while he worked at the Bureau.
"I see the Lone Gunmen have done you proud."
A slight smile touched Mulder's mouth. "They like to bring me new toys to test for them. You should see the security system they set up for this place. I knew you were coming when you turned into the parking lot." There was an involved-looking keypad beside the door, its readout lights blinking softly.
His smile faded. "So -- why are you here?"
Skinner sighed. So there was to be no thawing in his manner, no memory of warmth between them. He should have realized it earlier, but he had headed here automatically, unquestioning, a needle turning North. Just one more mistake to repent at leisure.
"I have no idea why I came. I'm sorry. I'll go." He rose and was stopped by Mulder's soft voice and by the strong hand that gripped his wrist.
"No. You came here for a reason." Mulder's head was cocked, as if listening to distant rhythms. "Something's happened. What?"
Skinner subsided back into his chair, Mulder's firm grip on his wrist refusing any compromise until the larger man was seated again. The afternoon's snowgray light flickered dully on the sunglasses as Mulder turned his face toward Skinner.
"I resigned from the FBI today."
Mulder's fingers slid away from Skinner's wrist as he slowly sat back in his chair, accepting this new fact with the same intellectual detachment that he employed as he studied the case files he consulted on. There was no expression on Mulder's face at all -- no, so much of his expression had always been in his eyes, Skinner reminded himself. Or perhaps it was that he simply didn't care.
"Why? What happened?" There was that investigator's tone, so damnably neutral.
"Nothing out of the ordinary. I went in to work as usual, met with my staff, had a couple of case meetings, reviewed some files, dropped in at the Support Staff's Christmas party, then walked into the Director's office and quit."
"And came here."
"Yes." Skinner tried to match Mulder's flat tone and sounded only tired.
Mulder's mouth quirked a little. "Have you checked your water supply lately, Skinner?"
Skinner had to smile back. "I wish I could blame it on drugs. But at least I didn't take a swing at the Director," he reminded Mulder of that ugly scene between them, so long ago that it could make them both smile now.
"Good thing -- she could probably take you, two falls out of three."
They were silent for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts. Then Mulder stirred, with an echo of his old restlessness, and said, "What will you do now?"
"I haven't got a clue, Mulder. I didn't plan on this."
"What did you plan on?"
The question surprised him. More, it shocked him to discover that there was an echoing cavern where the answer ought to have been. Walter Skinner realized suddenly that he had had no plans, had had no expectations from the future beyond getting up and going to work each morning. Not since the ShadowWar had ended, not since he and Mulder....
Oddly enough, Mulder seemed to have no expectation of an answer. He let Skinner sit there, wordless, while he rose and went into the galley. Skinner could hear mugs click against each other, then something being poured into them. Mulder reappeared, carrying two mugs of coffee. He moved slowly, without hesitation, but with a graceful awareness of his surroundings that Skinner had never seen. The last time the A.D. had come to see Mulder, almost two years ago, the younger man had been clumsy and belligerent, refusing all help and angry at any offer of assistance.
He held one cup out to Skinner, only a few inches off-center. Skinner took it, then watched with fascination as Mulder brushed his fingers along the cool top-rail of the stove, guiding himself back to his own chair by orienting on the stove, then reaching for the arm of the chair with certainty. That explained the mathematical neatness of the room; Mulder could no longer afford himself the luxury of clutter. His throat ached suddenly and Skinner took a burning gulp of his coffee to distract himself.
Mulder heard him choke and laughed. "Slowly, Skinner, show some appreciation. That's Jamaican Blue Mountain and is meant to be savored, not swilled."
Skinner took a second, more respectful sip and noted the richness of the flavor, the elegant trace of its aroma left in his mouth after each swallow. "Since when did you become a coffee aficionado?" Skinner remembered countless abandoned fast food styrofoam cups of dubious brown liquid left to grow mold around Mulder's office and car.
Mulder shrugged. "Since I took the time to care about how things tasted."
Since the time was thrust upon him, Skinner rephrased in his own head, a surge of impotent rage dimming his vision for a moment. It was so unfair, what had happened to Mulder. In the very moment of triumph, blood-soaked and bitter though it had been, to have seen the truth, then to have sight blotted out forever. Skinner blinked rapidly, remembering the flash that had stolen Mulder's eyesight and had dazzled him and Scully for days afterward. Typically, Mulder had been facing toward the site, straining to see what he could and Scully and Skinner had been turned away, shouting at Mulder, trying to drag him away from the danger. And so Mulder, braver, more reckless, more willing to risk all to have the truth he craved, Mulder had paid the higher price.
There was a quiet droning in his ears. It took a few moments for Skinner to register it as Mulder's voice. For one happy moment, he could almost believe that the younger man was concerned.
"Skinner? Are you all right?"
"No," he answered honestly. "I haven't been all right in years. Not since you left."
Then his own mental editor caught up with events and Skinner was horrified to have revealed so much. Damn -- why did his memories have to choose now to flare up at him? He was usually far more adept at suppressing them, ignoring their bitter gnawing until he was once again coolly in control.
Mulder sounded as if he were speaking through clenched teeth. "I didn't leave, Skinner. You threw me out. Remember?"
He remembered. He remembered it all. That one night when they had finally burst through every binding, every barrier, every suspicion, to come together. One night in which everything was right and good and whole. Afterward, he had lain awake through the night, Fox Mulder asleep on his chest, and he had prayed that he could make this last.
Then morning had come, and with the morning, a package by special messenger. He remembered the winter air biting at his bare legs, slinking through his thin robe as he had stood at the door and signed for it. Remembered the flash of fierce joy when he thought that, in just a moment, he could go back and wrap himself around a warm and sleeping Mulder. Then he had opened the package and known that he could never do that again.
Photographs. And a note. Two words written on a cigarette wrapper. "End it."
And he had. Clumsily, perhaps even brutally. But he had.
And Mulder remained alive, chasing the truth, stalking it down, demanding the answers to everything he wanted and getting most of them. And Skinner remained alive, supporting Mulder, sometimes openly, sometimes covertly, always there. But never welcomed. Never again for him, the quickflash grin, the veering humor, the camaraderie of laughter. Scully had wondered but never asked.
Then, when it was all over, he had had one more chance and he had bungled it. Too clumsy in his grief, he had tried to arrange Mulder's life, to protect him from ugly realities, to cushion and soften the blows, forgetting how that most independent of men reacted to any interference. Then, scared, blinded, in constant pain, Mulder had struck out at everyone around him, cutting them to shreds with his well-trained psychologist's mind.
Scully had borne it best of all of them, but then, she had loved Mulder best of all of them. She had refused to give up on him, through the long months of fury, long after everyone else, including Skinner, had retreated as if from a maddened animal. Eventually, Mulder had pulled himself out of his cave of self-pity and allowed her to help him. She had arranged for him to learn Braille, she had gotten him into therapy, met regularly with his medical team, pushed the Lone Gunmen into borrowing, purchasing, stealing and designing the best electronics and computerware. She had also arranged for Mulder's consultant status at the Bureau and had found him this houseboat, a quiet place to learn how to live again.
Skinner had been able to do nothing but watch and mourn.
Mourning had been iced over with indifference when Mulder's attitude toward him did not change. Gradually, he resumed his friendships with everyone left, everyone except for Skinner. And Skinner understood instinctively why it should be so; he had betrayed Mulder. All the rest of his betrayers were dead or gone, but Walter Skinner remained, a near-mute reminder, a single stumbling block before the blind.
He had come to the houseboat only once; he had not been invited inside. He thought wryly that he had chosen his weather better this time. Then, it had been a sunny spring afternoon, not conducive to the enforced hospitality he was enduring now. Suddenly, it was unbearable.
He rose, placing his cup on the stove beside him. "I've got to go."
Mulder's face tipped up as if he were looking at him. "No, you don't."
"Mulder...."
Unexpectedly, Mulder laughed. "I'll bet your teeth are gritted together and you're looking down and to the left, right? I can just see it," he crowed. "You always do that when you don't know what to do."
Skinner, who was doing just that, didn't know what to say. He turned away, only to be stopped by Mulder's iron grip on his wrist again.
Mulder stood and turned Skinner back to face him.
"Let me see what you look like now," he said.
The taller man stood still, but he nearly trembled in his driving need to get away from the pain that was threatening to tear loose in a debacle of icy shards that would leave him nothing at all. Then Mulder touched his face gently and he couldn't have moved to save his life.
Mulder's long fingers skimmed over Skinner's face with the gentleness of a lover and the impersonal care of a physician. They coolly traced his brow, noted his glasses, then shaped his cheekbones, slipping in to track down the blade of his nose. The sensitive tips of Mulder's fingers drifted over his lips; he smiled distractedly when one finger dipped into the deep cleft in Skinner's chin. Skinner had to close his eyes. He could feel Mulder's breath against his face and it was too much.
Then those knowledgeable hands slid lightly over the top of Skinner's head, brushed through his hair, then pressed against the muscles at the back of his neck, testing and cataloging. Spread wide, those fingers drifted back over his jaw, noted the rapid swallowing and the thumping pulse before Mulder dropped his hands, barely brushing Skinner's shirt front.
When Skinner trusted himself to open his eyes, Mulder was still standing there, a slight smile on his face. That smile. The one that said he saw right through your bullshit. Damn.
"You are doing that TMJ thing you always did."
"And you're doing that smartass grin thing you always did."
"Isn't it nice to know that some things haven't changed?"
"That's not the only thing...." Skinner bit his words off. It was too late for this; he had been seduced by that one moment of warmth. Pathetic, that's what it was.
Forcing himself to look at Mulder, standing so close to him, he was caught by his own reflection in Mulder's sunglasses. Stretched out of shape, too long, too short, twisted -- great, now I'm thinking in metaphors. What the hell was in the coffee?
"I've got to go," he repeated desperately.
"No. You're going to stay." Mulder spoke with the careless confidence that Skinner remembered from a hundred cases. He already had his theory and was prepared to fight until everyone else saw it the same way. "I'm going to make you something to eat. We're going to talk." He gestured vaguely toward the windows. "Besides, it's still snowing, isn't it? The roads will be awful. You'd better stay the night."
Dazed, offered everything he'd ever wanted, Skinner could only say, "Mulder -- it's only three in the afternoon."
"Then we'd better talk a lot." Mulder said and smiled gently as he wandered into the galley.
The snow was still falling twelve hours later and Skinner lay awake and watched it. It blanketed the city and all traffic had stopped long ago. Now, rather than obscuring as it had earlier, it made the night lighter, brighter, less threatening. The thick snow brought with it a sense of peace, falling and building up and smothering all else in its gentle insistence. Like Mulder, who slept beside him, face pressed against Skinner's shoulder.
Mulder, demanding that he stay, forcing him to listen until he had to talk. Skinner, watching him move, surefooted and graceful as he cooked, as he courteously refused any offer of help from his guest. Finally, over soup and beer and sandwiches and after hours of talk, Skinner had told him about the Smoking Man's pictures.
Mulder had merely said, "Ah. I'd wondered."
"Wondered what?"
"Where the blackmail threat was going to come from. After you... threw me out that morning, I figured it would be from you. That you were back with them. A way to keep me in line." The very blandness of the words undid Skinner and the room roared about him.
Gentle fingers grazed lightly against his jaw. "You're doing it again," Mulder smiled slightly. Skinner's hand fumbled, then he clasped Mulder's hand, an anchor as the debris of the past rose up and spun around him.
Hours more, of talk and silences, as the shards of their lives refitted themselves into new patterns. Skinner found that not all of the memories were bad or painful or shameful; he heard himself laughing and wondered at the sound.
"I wouldn't know my own motivations if they walked up and bit me on the ass."
"True," Mulder agreed with humiliating swiftness. "But that's always been my department anyway." He softened the truth with a smile. "You handle the big stuff and I'll let you know why you do what you do. You're going to keep trying to protect me and I'm going to keep fighting with you about it. Eventually, you'll see that I can take care of myself, more or less, and I'll realize that I can accept your help and it doesn't mean that you see me as any less of a man. I figure it'll take us about six weeks to get all that out of the way."
"And then?" Skinner had asked, trying to believe that Mulder meant what he said.
"You'll eventually decide that you don't need your apartment any more and move in here. At some point, you'll realize why you left the FBI and the next step will be logical -- or not. You'll choose some field in which you have to make few compromises but get visible results. And beauty. I think you'll make a great woodworker, Walt."
Amused and appalled at how easily Mulder read him, Skinner could only snort, then ask, "And what about you?"
"Me?" Mulder's lips pursed as he considered. "I'll get a little more patient; I'll have to learn to share my space and my toys. And get used to reading Skinner Silences again. But the great sex ought to counterbalance any rough times we might have." Mulder's grin was positively calculated to be the most annoyingly self-confident expression Skinner had ever seen. He loved it.
"Just promise me; if you get any packets of photos," -- that irritating shit-eating grin again -- "you'll show me. I always wanted to know which buttock was my best side."
Forgiveness, like the feather touch of the snow, settling lightly about him.
Long moments, taking off Mulder's dark glasses, looking into his eyes again. Discovering that Mulder could see him, in gentle light and from very near. Realizing that, of the two of them, Mulder was still the one who could see more clearly. Somewhere in the night, swearing that he would never leave Mulder's sight again.
end