Skinner spared a glance out of the gutter he was cleaning and groaned
silently. Then he looked back at his friend. "Put your tongue back in your
head, Hamilton. He's one of my agents."
Hamilton grinned, raised his eyebrow and reached for another shingle.
"Pity," he commented speculatively, just as Mulder came to a halt at the
foot of the ladder that Skinner was working on.
"Good afternoon, sir."
"Mulder." Skinner wiped an arm across his brow and put down the trowel he
was using. Autumn or not, it was a hot noon on that roof and he felt
unpleasantly grubby, slick with sweat. He could feel it running down his
neck and chest, soaking the tank top he wore. He knew he looked nothing
like the starched AD Mulder was used to seeing and he figured that accounted
for the odd look on the agent's face.
"There's been a break in the Vitelli case, sir. Actually, we made the
arrests this morning. Vitelli's brother, Vito, confessed to the killings."
"Just like you said he would." Skinner didn't begrudge Mulder being right
this time. Or any other time, for that matter. He and Scully still had a
phenomenal solve rate and that still made Skinner look damned good, even
when he had spent the entire previous afternoon 'discussing' the case with
Mulder—at a volume that half the floor could hear.
Mulder shrugged, no spiteful victory dances for him. Skinner nearly smiled
at the diffident frown on Mulder's face. He leaned on the top of his
ladder. "So what can I do for you?" A polite version of 'why are you here?'
"I need you to sign the go-ahead on the search of Vitelli's house, sir."
Skinner sighed and heard a stifled snicker from Hamilton. Backwards. With
Mulder, it was always backwards. "Mulder, is it my imagination, or does the
Bureau usually requires that an AD sign a go-ahead before the search?"
Mulder had the grace to look abashed. In fact, he looked charmingly boyish
and apologetic, actually scuffing his toe in the grass. "Sorry, sir. I
tried to contact you last night, here and on your cellphone, but you were
out of range. And we had to get him with the evidence still fresh. Before
he went after the nephew."
Skinner could feel himself flushing. He and Hamilton had gone clubbing in
Baltimore last night. There would have been no way for Mulder to contact
him. It had been foolishly shortsighted to put himself out of touch when
this case was still so hot, but he had been so sure that Mulder was on the
wrong track.
"It was my fault, Mulder. Give me the papers." He started down the ladder,
only to realize that Mulder was starting up it. He heard another one of
Hamilton's low chuckles when they met in the middle. "Ya'll look like a
pair of chorus boys gettin' ready for the big finale."
Mulder grinned upwards. "I assume this would be an off-Broadway
production?"
Skinner sighed and made the introductions. "Colonel Sam Hamilton, Special
Agent Fox Mulder." Hamilton waved a hammer cheerfully and Mulder raised a
hand to screen his eyes as he nodded pleasantly at Hamilton. Skinner
clambered down the ladder and waited until Mulder had jumped down before
asking, "So when did the Flash hit this time?"
The Flash. It was Skinner's name for that moment went everything in a case
suddenly imploded in Mulder's brain and the fragments of evidence became a
mural of events and motives that painted the murderer's portrait. Mulder
had no other way to explain it and Skinner had grown used to waiting for it,
for the insane lightning strike that brought justice or closure, or
sometimes just an answer.
Mulder grimaced. "1:43 a.m. Scully was not pleased."
"I can imagine." Skinner watched Mulder patting down his pockets and groping
in his rumpled suit jacket for a pen. Then he squinted up for a moment to
where Hamilton was still looking over the edge of the roof, a wolfish grin
on his face, watching them. "I don't hear any hammering," he said
pointedly.
"They freed the slaves, Walt. Isn't it time for a beer? Or lunch?"
Hamilton said hopefully, eyes fixed on Mulder's profile. Skinner sighed and
shook his head, but he knew he'd already lost this one. "Come on down, Ham.
Mulder, come inside and I'll sign those forms. You want some lunch?"
Mulder's gaze seemed caught by the sweat stain on Skinner's chest and he
said nothing. The sound of a thump and a body hitting the grass just beside
him made him start like a high-strung racehorse.
"Jesus, Hamilton! What the hell d'you think you're doing?" Skinner growled.
Hamilton had simply jumped off the roof, dropping fifteen feet to land
easily beside them. That sharp grin looked so white in his travel-tanned
face and seemed to startle Mulder even more. "Used to make jumps like that
all the time, Walt. The secret is all in the legs."
Skinner shook his head, realizing that Hamilton was feeling his oats again
and there was nothing Skinner could do to hold him down. Never had been, not
since they were 18 and alone in the wilds of Saigon nights. Hell, you'd
think a man nearly fifty would be ready to drop after partying until 4 a.m.,
but not Hamilton. He'd been up again at 8 and ready to help Skinner fix
storm damage.
"Come on, Agent Mulder. Come have a beer and a sandwich and tell us about
this bust."
Mulder blinked a little at the stranger's friendly tone, but a tired smile
worked its way onto his face finally. "OK. Some solid food is probably a
good idea. I haven't slept in 36 hours and breakfast was one of those 7
grain bars that Scully favors."
Skinner couldn't help the grimace of commiseration that crossed his face.
Hamilton said, "C'mon Walt, let's take this boy inside and feed him up
right." He brushed some gravel and asphalt shingle crumbs from his bare
chest, grin growing wider when Mulder's tired eyes tracked his fingers
across the tanned muscles of his abdomen. "Just needs some care and
feeding," Hamilton murmured, looking from Skinner to Mulder. Skinner wanted
to throttle him suddenly, but instead he turned and led the way inside.
Lunch was surprisingly pleasant, once Skinner had washed up and gotten a
cold beer and a thick roast beef sandwich in him. He felt like he was
nearing 50 and the club circuit had worn him out, although he wouldn't have
put the brakes on Ham's evening for anything. His old buddy hadn't had a
night of uncomplicated loud dancing and drinking in far too long and Skinner
had sat back, nursing his club soda and watching him with real pleasure. Ham
was coming alive again, the spark coming back slowly and it was good to see.
It was fascinating to watch as he drew Fox Mulder out of his shell, asking
intelligent questions about his cases, his career, his ideas. A lot of
military personnel knew about Fox Mulder now, for better or worse. The
whole Consortium/FEMA/DoD exposure two years ago had splashed all of their
names and faces across the media, but Hamilton wasn't one of those who
wanted to shoot the messenger. Mulder had exposed a conspiracy that
threatened the country that Hamilton had loved and served proudly and he was
grateful rather than hostile.
And Mulder...well, Mulder became someone Skinner hadn't ever seen before.
He loosened his tie and finally took it off after merciless teasing from
Hamilton. With his tie gone, Mulder started to relax and his bloodshot eyes
began to light with laughter as they traded stories. By the time lunch was
over, Mulder and Hamilton seemed well on their way to becoming fast friends.
Which, for some obscure reason, bothered the hell out of Skinner.
He finally shooed Mulder out the door with the recommendation that he get
some sleep and reminded Ham that the hole in the roof needed to be patched
before the next rainfall. Grousing good- naturedly, Hamilton led the way
outside, rehooking his toolbelt as he stood saying good-bye to Mulder. He
started up the ladder, then stopped and reached down his hand to shake
Mulder's. "Was a real pleasure gettin' to know you, Mulder."
"You, too, Colonel."
"Ham," Hamilton corrected with a smile, still holding onto Mulder's hand.
"Come on back sometime and I'll tell you all kinds of stories about your
boss here."
Skinner stepped closer and Hamilton let Mulder's hand drop. "Don't believe
anything he says, Mulder. It'll all be lies."
"I got pictures," Hamilton said cheerfully and started back up the ladder.
"I'll call you."
Mulder blinked again and Skinner watched as a frown of confusion crossed his
face as he looked up into the sun after Hamilton. "Mulder. Mulder," he
said, finally getting Mulder's attention again. "The go-ahead," he handed
the signed papers to Mulder. "Let's try to get it in the right order on the
next one."
"Yes, sir." Mulder looked befuddled and Skinner clamped down hard on the
urge to put his hand on the younger man's shoulder, turn him around, guide
him back into the house and tuck him into a nice cool bed for ten or twelve
hours. Then wake him up and fuck him senseless.
Instead, he shook his head to clear it and remembered to say, "Good work on
this one, Mulder. Scully, too."
Mulder's face lit with a shy smile that made Skinner clench his fists. He
didn't praise Mulder enough, he knew, because when he did, oh when he
did...the reaction was amazing. A kid on Christmas, he thought
disjointedly, and smiled back before he knew what he was doing.
"Walt! Get your ass back up here. I'm not gonna be the only one cooking to
death on this roof!" Hamilton's raucous shout startled them both and Mulder
was striding down the walk without another word before Skinner had recovered
himself.
"Asshole," Skinner muttered and wasn't certain whether he meant Ham, Mulder
or himself.
About halfway through the afternoon, and he and Ham had switched to drinking
Cokes, Ham had tossed down his hammer and said speculatively, "Pretty boy."
He knew what Hamilton was asking. "No," he said around the roofing nails he
gripped between his teeth..
"So he's free?"
Skinner spat out the nails. "What, you thinking of checking out the lay of
the land?"
"Just doing some recon, Walt. But if he's offlimits, just say the word. I
won't poach."
Skinner was trying to nail down a shingle and the nail had bent sideways
before he realized he was trying to pound it through a knot. He jerked it
out with the claw hammer and reached for a new one before saying, "As far as
I know, he's not seeing anyone. But I don't know if he's ..."
Ham chuckled. "He is, Walt, trust me. The way he was checking you out, he
is."
Skinner put the hammer down carefully, then set the nail next to it. "What
are you talking about?" he said calmly.
There was a hoot of laughter from Hamilton. "You haven't changed, have you,
Walt? Never could see what's right in front of your face. Jimmy had to
push you up against a tree, Sharon had to practically club you over the
head..."
"Fuck you, Hamilton."
"Nope, you're not my type. But he is. He most surely is," Hamilton
whistled again softly. "So, to go back to the original question...?"
"Go for it," Skinner said shortly. "If you're ready to get back in the
game, go for it."
"Hey, Walt," Ham said softly. "Toddy is dead. I think I'm finally done
with my grieving. I need to feel alive again, you know?"
"Yeah, I do. I'm glad," he said. He was. But his hand still twitched when
he wrote out Mulder's phone number for Hamilton later that night.
It wasn't just his hand twitching when Sam Hamilton showed up in his office
on Tuesday afternoon, it was his whole damned jaw. Hamilton looked crisp and
handsome in his greens, just as if he hadn't spent an entire day in Senate
committee hearings. Skinner watched Kimberly's eyes do a long slow glide
down the visitor's body and back up to his face before smiling brightly at
him. He sighed and, when the door had closed behind his assistant, said,
"You're going to corrupt my entire staff, you know that?"
Ham just smiled and shrugged in that aw-shucks way that had slain thousands
in its time. Until he'd met Todd and been firmly collared and domesticated
and those good looks and glad eyes had been focused in only one direction
for more than 20 years.
"Just dropped in to say I won't be home for dinner tonight, Walt. Gonna take
your agent out, get him liquored up and see what kind of stories he tells
then."
Skinner shook his head, smiling to hide his unease. "You won't believe half
of them and the hell of it is, I think they're all true."
"Should be a fun evening, then." Hamilton smiled and turned to go.
"Ham..." Hamilton turned back at the door. "He's got to work tomorrow.
Not too much liquor, OK?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Skinner. I'll have your boy home by ten o'clock, I promise."
Hamilton pulled on his forelock and slipped out the door, laughing when
Skinner flipped him the bird.
Hamilton came in around 10:30 and laughed about Skinner waiting up for him.
He offered to let Skinner check for hickeys and lipstick stains and returned
the pillow heaved at him with deadly accuracy. The pillow fight lasted for
10 minutes, not including the five minutes spent picking up the pieces of
the overturned lamp. Mulder's name was not mentioned.
So Skinner was a bit surprised to hear himself asking Mulder the next
morning, "How was dinner?"
So was Mulder apparently, but he covered it well. 'He's quite a character,
sir. He said you were in the service together."
"We were in the Marines together, until he was posted to a different unit.
Eventually, he switched branches and moved over to the Rangers."
"He has some interesting stories to tell, sir," and there was a speculative
gleam in Mulder's eye now and Skinner wondered what the hell Hamilton had
been telling him.
"As do you, Agent Mulder."
"True," Mulder said, grin growing wider. "But his are more fun. You should
come with us next time."
"At least I'd be able to keep him from his more egregious lies," Skinner
said, inexplicably heartened.
"I don't think he lies, sir. I'd say it was more that he dresses up reality
so that it looks more appealing from his angle."
"Trust me, Mulder, he lies."
"He said you'd helped him a lot since his lover died." Mulder's voice was
suddenly gentle.
"He told you about Todd?" Skinner was surprised for a moment, then
remembered how easy most people found talking to Mulder. It was only Walter
Skinner who ever seemed to become tongue-tied around him.
"Sam didn't tell me his name, or even that it was a man, but that seemed
fairly likely from other things he said."
"Shit," Skinner said fervently. "Mulder..."
Mulder shook his head. "Don't worry, sir. I'm used to secrets." He gave a
small smile that held just a touch of bitterness.
"It wasn't my secret to tell."
"It's fine," Mulder said with a touch of exasperation. "It's not like I
didn't notice that we were out on a date."
"Oh," Skinner said. "Well."
After a short silence, Mulder nodded pleasantly, then left. Skinner found
that he had snapped a pencil in half. He tossed the two pieces into the
trash and told himself to calm the fuck down and keep his nose out of other
people's business.
Which resolution he kept for exactly four days. Saturday night, or rather,
very early Sunday morning, he was awakened by Hamilton stumbling around in
the living room. There was a small crash and a drunken snicker, then the
light clicked on. A golden slice filtered down the hallway and into his
room through the partially open bedroom door.
"Have a seat, Fox," he heard Hamilton say.
Fox? Since when did anyone get to call Mulder by his first name? He'd done
it exactly once and the results had not been promising.
"You want something to drink?"
"No, I'd say we've had more than enough," came Mulder's warm tenor.
"Now that might be true, boy, it might be true." There was a thump, the
sound of a large man dropping onto the leather sofa, then the slight squeaks
as he arranged his body more comfortably. "Let's see," he heard Hamilton
purr, "if I remember how to do this." There were some rustling noises, then
silence. Skinner's mind tortured him with images of what might be happening
in his living room, then his conscience scourged him for eavesdropping.
He heard Hamilton say, voice low and a little breathless, "OK, that seemed
like it went well, for a test run. Want to try again?"
"Well, I wouldn't want to base my opinion on only one sample. Statistically
speaking...mmmph." Skinner nearly grinned at the thought of Hamilton
finding a surefire way to shut Mulder up. Then his hands clenched and he
gritted his teeth at the slight squeaks of cloth on leather that filtered
down the hall to his bedroom.
"Oh yeah, I'd say you remember how this works just fine." Now Mulder
sounded breathless and Skinner stared blindly at the ceiling and wondered
what petty god he had pissed off that he was reduced to listening to his
oldest friend making love to his... to his...
'Agent' his rational mind supplied. 'Subordinate' was also presented for
inspection. But it was 2 in the morning and Skinner told his rational mind
to go fuck itself. Mulder was just ... his. But what to do about it?
Especially since Mulder was so obviously enjoying attentions that no one
else had paid him in too long.
He was debating reaching for his gun when he heard the sounds of movement
and soft laughter from the living room. He was prepared to make a complete
ass of himself if those voices came down the hallway toward the guest
bedroom. His muscles began to unclench, one by one, when he heard the front
door open, another spate of soft laughter, and then he heard it close again.
There were the faint beeps of Hamilton setting the burglar alarm, then the
light in the living room clicked off and darkness descended to hide Skinner
and his new knowledge. He fell asleep only after he heard the water running
in the shower.
Sunday morning found him slumped over his third mug of coffee and dodging
phrases like "dog in the manger" and "joy killer". Ham wasn't even up yet
but Skinner was amusing himself with working out everything his friend might
reasonably say to him if he ever got up enough nerve to make a play for
Mulder.
He sighed, remembering how good it felt to see Hamilton back to himself
again, bright-eyed and laughing and ready to tackle the newest flavors in
life once more. How could he take that away from him? The answer was
simple; he couldn't. Miserably, Skinner got up to mix pancake batter and
wound up beating it until it was a sticky mass. He was just pouring it down
the drain when Hamilton stumbled into the kitchen, sleepy and cheerful and
beard-burnt. Firming his resolve, Skinner growled only a little as he told
Hamilton to get dressed, they were going out to breakfast.
His resolve was tempered and tested over brunch. Gregarious and buoyant,
Hamilton shared tidbits of his date with Mulder, relating anecdotes and
stories that Mulder had told him. Skinner was surprised to hear the funny
sides of some of the stolid case reports he had received.
Sometime around their third Bloody Mary, Hamilton started talking about the
man himself, pumping for background details. So Skinner pulled out every
unclassified bit of Fox Mulder trivia he could think of and was a little
surprised to find that he knew so little of the man himself. He knew all
Mulder's vital data, but he'd known this person for eight years, gone
through hell and high water with him and he couldn't tell Ham the first
thing about his likes and dislikes, what he wanted from life, nothing truly
important. Hell, he hadn't even known Mulder was into men.
Skinner knew that the game was over when Hamilton said, "Sweet boy. Funny
and wounded and smart as a whip, Walt. And deep down, a real sweet boy."
He could only nod and stare at the tabletop, fingertip drawing aimless
patterns in the condensation running down his glass. When Sam Hamilton
referred to someone as "sweet", it meant he was dragging out the heavy guns.
And Skinner had never seen him miss.
Walter Skinner was a good friend. He and Sam Hamilton had been friends for
long decades and never failed each other, in war or in peace. He had
invited Hamilton to come and stay with him for a few months while in town
for Senate hearings and to help him get over Todd's death. It was good to
have someone to come home to, someone to share stupid household tasks again,
someone to crack a beer with.
He had sometimes thought it would have been so much easier if he and Ham
could have paired up, but that little spark that would have turned a fine
friendship into a warm romance was just missing. So they shared a house,
Skinner bought the groceries, Hamilton bought the liquor and did the
housework. They watched CNN and the Sports Network and bitched about
politics and government bureaucracy on the evenings that Hamilton wasn't
taking Mulder out to quiet restaurants, noisy clubs, or intimate nightspots.
Skinner had refused two invitations to join them.
On those evenings, Skinner stayed home and read a book, the TV chattering in
front of him, one thumb rhythmically drumming on the arm of the easy chair
until Hamilton wandered in. Sometimes he brought Mulder with him and the
three of them sat around shooting the bull until Mulder recollected that he
had to work in the morning and left. Other times, Hamilton came in, tie
hanging askew and a secret smile on his face that made Skinner want to beat
his good friend until he bled.
This state of affairs continued for two weeks until the Friday morning that
Skinner snapped.
It was a little thing that did it. They had finished a case review meeting
and he had been soothed by Dana Scully's cheerful smile and yet another
successful file closure. Mulder had been professional and courteous and
hadn't annoyed him even once. At the door, Mulder had sent his partner on
ahead and turned back to ask a question, thumb still absently worrying at a
spot just under his jaw. He had been rubbing at it all through the meeting
and Skinner was finally distracted enough to ask, "Cut yourself shaving,
Agent Mulder?"
Mulder smiled. "Uh, yeah, sir," and had taken his hand away, fidgeting with
a pencil instead. Then Skinner could see and his teeth clenched together
when he saw the bite mark on Mulder's jaw. Something inside gave way
suddenly and through the roaring in his ears, Skinner heard himself say,
"Mulder. Come over and have dinner tonight. Seven o'clock." Only it wasn't
really an invitation he heard echoing around his office after Mulder's
departure, it was more of a growling order and he had to wonder at the
bravery of Mulder's startled acceptance.
Dinner was good, the conversation a little stilted at first when Mulder
discovered that Hamilton was out all evening at some Pentagon-sponsored
black-tie banquet. But they had relaxed into one another's company
eventually. The food was good, the wine better, but best of all was the
chance collision as they cleared the table. Skinner put his hands on
Mulder's shoulders to steady him and Mulder just melted against him. Then
there was nothing to do but kiss him, so Skinner did.
Christ, the man's mouth was hot and the taste was rich and sweet and now he
finally knew what Hamilton meant when he drawled "sweeeeeet" about someone.
Mulder made these small sounds, bitten off sighs, escaped moans and whimpers
that made Skinner hot and crazy. He heard himself growling again, but this
time it was a triumphant sound as Mulder pulled him down the hall toward the
bedroom, shirt hanging off his shoulders, chest bare and sweat-slick and
strong.
They made love for hours, fast and hard, then slow and long and it was all
good, all sweet, every groan and sigh and murmur and howl. Sweetest of all,
though, was the feeling of Mulder sighing and dropping into a deep sleep
pillowed on Skinner's chest, his arms wrapped tightly around him. And
Walter Skinner lay awake for hours, trying to feel some guilt over poaching,
trying to feel badly about stealing Mulder from Hamilton, but it kept
getting swallowed up in the wild singing of his blood, in the victorious
whisper of Mulder's sleeping breath against his throat.
He slept some, but was still awake at first light, as usual. Mulder had
slipped out of his arms sometime in the night. He was now sleeping deeply,
sprawled out on his back, a slight smile on his face. Skinner pulled on a
pair of discarded jeans and went to the bathroom, then wandered out into the
kitchen. He was drinking the last of the orange juice from the carton when
Hamilton came in and Skinner nearly choked on the guilt that had gotten lost
in the dark last night.
Hamilton smacked him a couple of times between the shoulder-blades until he
stopped coughing. "What happened, Walt, you forget how to swallow after all
these years?" The cheerfully lecherous twinkle in Hamilton's eye undid him.
"Ham, I..." but he didn't know what to say. Hamilton's bright gaze was
fixed upon him and there was nothing to say.
"I see Mulder's car in the driveway, Walt."
Skinner swallowed. "Yeah."
"Was it good?"
He couldn't lie, not now, not even about this. "Oh yeah, Ham. It was real
good." He wished he could stop the stupid grin that he could feel creeping
onto his face, but he couldn't. He figured that Hamilton would knock it off
for him and so he was beyond startled when Hamilton just smiled gently and
said, "I knew it'd be good between you two."
"What?!" Lead-eyed shock was wrestling with the grin now and winning, two
falls out of three.
"That boy's been pining for you for years, Walt, and you never noticed.
Same old Skinner, always gotta be hit over the head with something before
you see it. Or someone."
Understanding hit, a lightning bolt of clarity that burned away the guilt
and left him clean and clear and ready for some strong emotion to fill him.
"You set me up!"
Hamilton grinned and held up one thumb. "Got it in one, Walt."
"You son of a bitch," Skinner said softly, still trying to figure out what
emotion was spilling through him.
"True enough," Hamilton said cheerfully. "He's a good man, Walt. You treat
him well, you hear? Or I'll kick your sorry ass."
Skinner shook his head sharply, trying to clear it. "What the hell was all
that business with making out on my damned couch? And the..." he stopped,
not even sure how to describe Hamilton's air of cat-with-the-cream during
the past two weeks.
"Call it a tutorial, if you want. Mulder spent that whole first night
talking about you, Walt, so I sort of figured out which way the wind was
blowing. I know you—you would have just stared and licked your lips and
never done a damned thing to help yourself. And he's so cherry that he
practically glows, you know? So I thought I'd just help you two out; a
little honest jealousy is good for the soul." Hamilton was rummaging around
in the cupboard, taking out coffee and mugs. "I let him feel his way around
a little, showed him how to touch another man and not be scared, that kind
of thing." He filled the coffeepot and turned it on. "He kisses real well,
though. Don't think I could teach him a damned thing in that department."
He stopped and took a good look at Skinner, who was slumped back against the
counter, holding on for support. "You don't look so good, boy. What's the
matter, Walt?"
"Cherry?" he said faintly.
"Oh, Walter, what did you do?" Hamilton was shaking his head, one eyebrow
raised.
"He never said anything."
"Well, shit, Walt, what did you expect him to say? You know anyone who's
gonna admit to being a 43 year old virgin?"
"Forty-two," he said weakly.
"Walter S. Skinner, get your ass back into that bedroom and wake him up and
you make sure you didn't hurt him. Because if you did, I swear to you that
I will beat the shit out of you and make you beg for more."
Skinner was already in motion. "If I have, Ham, I'll let you."
He let himself back into the bedroom, dim and cool with early morning light
creeping around the edges of the drapes. Mulder was still sleeping soundly,
still smiling faintly, lips parted and just a little swollen. He slid onto
the bed and brushed the hair away from Mulder's forehead, caressing a
little. Then he ran his hand down the bristly cheek and jaw, watching as
Mulder shifted a little, swimming his way up to consciousness.
"Hey," he said as he opened his eyes, still hazy and dreamy.
"Hey," Skinner said softly, then leaned down to kiss him gently. "You OK?"
he asked, indescribably relieved when Mulder tried to deepen the kiss into
something more purposeful than 'good morning'.
A slow sexy smile then, and Skinner thought he must have learned that
expression from Hamilton. "Oh yeah, I'm good." He reached up and pulled
Skinner down firmly on top of him.
"You're good," Skinner agreed fervently, head resting over Mulder's heart.
"But you should have told me."
Mulder stiffened a little beneath him and Skinner raised his head to meet
Mulder's suddenly shy gaze. "It wasn't a problem."
"Idiot! I could have really hurt you." Worry gave birth to annoyance and he
sat up, running a hand over his scalp.
Mulder looked away, hands playing with the edge of the sheet. "I'm not some
delicate kid, Walt, so lay off the daddy act. I'm fine."
Skinner groaned and reached for him. He dragged Mulder half into his lap,
settling himself against the headboard and shifting and pushing at Mulder
until they fit together perfectly. "Fox, it's not that, I swear. You're the
toughest man I know. It's just... I don't ever want to hurt you. You tell
me, next time. Got it?" God, it was good to whisper that name, to feel
Mulder relax, then smile against his throat and nod.
"There's no bleeding, but my back is kind of sore," he admitted.
Skinner, remembering just how hard they had gone at one another, chuckled.
"I'll bet. A hot bath'll help. So will a massage. After breakfast, I'll
give you one."
"My old coach used to say that the best cure for sore muscles is more of
what made them sore in the first place," Mulder said, squirming
suggestively.
"Fox, no. No." At the grumble of protest, Skinner relented. "Well, OK
then. Later on, you can fuck me. That ought to give all those stiff
muscles a decent workout."
Mulder went very still for a moment, then his arms tightened around
Skinner's neck. "OK," he said softly.
And they sat there, wordless, until Hamilton called them to breakfast.
Part II: Dog in the Night
The first thing Skinner noticed when he got home that wet evening was that
the front porch light was out. The second thing was that his garage door
opener didn't work. He parked his car next to Hamilton's with a prickle of
unease. Half-convinced that he was a paranoid fool, he unholstered his gun
and moved carefully up the rainsoaked front walk. When he found the grayish
smear of blood and the splintered holes in the door, he went on the
offensive. The door was locked; he opened it carefully, quietly. He
catfooted through the darkened front room, heard noises, some conversation
in the den.
He spun around the doorframe, dropping into a professional crouch and found
himself staring down the muzzle of Sam Hamilton's weapon. After a second of
shock, they both put their weapons up, hands opened peaceably. Skinner blew
out a relieved breath.
"I saw the bullet holes... I thought... what happened?"
Hamilton was sitting on the coffee table, a wet washcloth in his hand.
"Where the fuck have you been? I've been calling your cellphone for the
past 10 minutes."
"I left it at the office..." Skinner's voice trailed off as he realized that
there was a body on the sofa. "Who the hell is that?"
"He followed me home, Walt. Can I keep him?" Hamilton had that sharp grin
on his face that Skinner recognized from the aftermaths of a dozen
firefights. He was wired and jittering now and would crack jokes until dawn
if not forcibly restrained. Hamilton stood up and Skinner could see the man
clearly for the first time.
"Only if you get him neutered first, Hamilton." Alex Krycek was lying
unconscious on his sofa and suddenly, all Walter Skinner wanted was a very
large drink.
"Let me get this straight. Alex Krycek jumped you outside the door?"
"No, Walt. I said he tackled me to get me out of the line of fire. You saw
where those bullets hit the door. I was standing right there; if he hadn't
taken me down, I'd be dead."
It was the second time he'd heard the story and Skinner still couldn't quite
grasp it. "Ham, level with me; which of us is stoned?"
Hamilton just grinned at him and left, carrying the washcloth which was
stained a nasty shade of pink, and a bowl of the same colored water. Krycek
still lay on the sofa, pale and unmoving. He had a shallow scrape on his
forehead and a minor bullet crease in his left shoulder, just enough to
bleed all over Skinner's upholstery. The unconscious man's breathing was
labored and harsh, though. The redness around his nose and mouth, his
cracked lips and the sickly hue of skin suggested that Krycek was ill as
well as wounded. Skinner hoped that would explain his continued oblivion.
Ham came back in carrying the first aid kit Skinner kept in the bathroom.
"I think he's in shock, Walt. Looks sick as a dog besides being shot."
Skinner helped strip away Krycek's soaked leather jacket, deftly removing no
less than three guns and a small throwing knife from various holsters and
sheaths on Krycek's body. He touched the prosthetic arm, grimacing with
distaste at its chill. Hamilton merely looked interested but did not
comment. Then Skinner watched Ham efficiently tear away the dirty T-shirt
and clean and bandage the shallow wound. "Got any smelling salts in that
kit?"
"Let's leave him out for a while longer, Ham. I need a drink and there's a
couple of things you should know about this guy."
Hamilton nodded, packed up the kit and stood up. Then he shook out a
blanket over the unconscious man and tucked it carefully around him. His
thick fingers brushed across Krycek's forehead, then trailed down to his
throat and lingered. It took Skinner a moment to realize that he was taking
Krycek's pulse. Ham shook his head and then followed his friend into the
kitchen.
Skinner poured two moderate glasses of scotch and they silently toasted one
another before sitting down at the kitchen table. "Tell me again," Skinner
said.
So Hamilton told it again. He'd come home, the house was dark, all the
lights off. The garage door wouldn't work, so he'd gone up to the front
door. The hair on the back of his neck had prickled and something had
flickered in the darkness. He had just been reaching for his weapon when a
voice had hissed, "Skinner—get down!" Then something hit him hard and low
and he'd gone down, someone sprawling on top of him. There was the whuff!
and thud of silenced rounds hitting the door behind him and he'd stopped
fighting his assailant. The man on top of him had returned fire and several
more silenced rounds had cut the air around them before a car screeched off
down the street. Hamilton had struggled out from under the weight of his
unlikely savior and found him mumbling desperately and incoherently. Krycek
had grabbed his jacket front with one hand, the other scrabbling uselessly
against his chest before he'd slipped into unconsciousness. So Hamilton had
brought him inside, made certain he wasn't dying and then tried to contact
Skinner to warn him.
"Did you call the police?"
Hamilton shook his head. "I had a feeling you might not want them
involved."
The good FBI man inside him shook his head at that, but Hamilton was right.
Until he knew why Krycek was here, the fewer people who knew about it, the
better. "No one noticed?"
"Doesn't seem like it, Walt. They were using silencers and our boy here
only got off two shots before they took off. Most folks around here
probably figured it was a TV on too loud."
Hamilton poured them both another splash of scotch. "OK, Walt. Now, who'd
want to kill you? And why is that pretty boy in there trying to protect
you?" He got up and put the kettle on, setting up a pot of tea.
Skinner snorted at that description of Krycek; maybe scorpions were pretty
to other scorpions, but they were just as deadly. "I have no idea, Sam.
He's a hired gun and he's got no special reason to want me alive."
Skinner ground his teeth, remembering all those times he had done Krycek's
bidding; first, because Krycek held his very life in a palm top computer,
then because Krycek was fighting with them to save the world and Skinner had
had to let go his private vendetta for the greater good. Krycek had
disappeared as soon as the aliens had been defeated; the mop up of
Consortium members hadn't included Krycek and Skinner had gradually given up
on his dreams of revenge. And now Krycek lay wounded and insensible on his
sofa and Skinner had no idea why.
"There's something about him," Hamilton said meditatively, pouring boiling
water into the tea pot. "Something a little lost and sw..."
"Don't you say it, Hamilton. I swear, if you do, I'll shoot you myself. He
is not sweet."
"Damn right, I'm not sweet," a new voice snarled weakly. Krycek stood
propped in the doorway, paler than wallpaper paste, eyes burning as his lip
curled. His filthy T-shirt hung from his undamaged shoulder; there were
streaks of blood from his now- bandaged wound and the pale pink of his
prosthetic made the greenish shade of Krycek's skin look all the more
sickly.
"Boy, you don't look so good," Hamilton said, unperturbed, as he got up and
moved swiftly to support Krycek under his undamaged shoulder. Skinner
noticed that, even though Krycek sneered at Hamilton's concern, he leaned
almost gratefully into the taller man's warmth. He sighed as he was let
carefully down into a kitchen chair.
"I'm not some stray," he growled as Hamilton pressed a mug of hot, sweet tea
into his hands.
"No," Ham agreed calmly, checking for fever with the backs of his fingers.
"Stop that," Krycek said irritably as Hamilton brushed the damp hair away
from his eyes and peered at the blackening scrape on his brow, then looked
deeply into the glassy green eyes to check for concussion.
"Sure," Hamilton said, pointing to the untouched mug of tea. "Drink that,
then we'll get you into a tub."
Skinner wanted to groan. Sam Hamilton had a domestic streak a mile wide—completely wasted on the military. He ought to have been running an Animal
Rescue shelter. Instead, he was coddling a half-drowned, obviously ill,
semi-battered ex-assassin. It was insane. Skinner wondered when Mulder
would arrive and start the carnage.
"I don't need a bath! Just give me my jacket and my guns and let me get the
hell out of here." Krycek staggered to his feet, only to overbalance and be
caught by Hamilton in the next instant.
"Now, boy, I don't mean to be personal here, but trust me...you need a
bath."
Skinner watched in bemusement as Krycek weakly shoved at the hands that
supported him, then appeared to simply give up and hang in Hamilton's arms.
He was propped against the big chest, then Ham turned and looked at Skinner.
"Walt?" The single word, a wealth of entreaty behind it, undid him.
"Shit," he muttered, then got up and led the way to the bathroom. "Don't
make me regret this, Krycek."
Hamilton propped the semi-conscious man on the toilet as Skinner ran the
bath. "So tell me the story, Walt. It's obvious there's some history
here."
When Skinner looked over his shoulder at Hamilton, he was relieved to see
his friend looking clear-eyed and sharp. Maybe his brain wasn't completely
fogged with lust and whatever weird rescue impulse he appeared to have been
seized by?
"Krycek used to work for the FBI. And the Consortium. Later on, we found
out he was working for the Resistance and was something of a triple agent.
But not before he'd betrayed all of us, killed some of our loved ones
and..." he stopped.
"Tell him the rest, Skinner," Krycek said quietly, words only slurring a
little as Hamilton worked to get his waterlogged boots off.
Skinner shook his head, standing up suddenly, fists clenched. The water
roared behind him. Misty green eyes fixed on nothing, Krycek said flatly,
"I infected him with nanocytes in order to control him, to get to Mulder and
to make it look like we had them under control of the Consortium. I killed
him once, to convince him to do as he was told. I killed Mulder's father.
I betrayed every single damned oath I ever took, every friend I ever had,
everything I ever believed in. I'm not much better than the people I fought
against. That's what he's trying not to say, Hamilton."
"Walt?" Hamilton said softly.
Skinner nodded, not looking at either man. He leaned over and turned off
the tap. "It's true."
"So what was he doing outside your house tonight, trying to keep you from
catching a bullet?"
Skinner shrugged. "Ask him," he said tightly.
"Krycek?" Hamilton said firmly. There was no way to ignore the order in
that voice.
"I owe him. I heard about the hit and I figured that...it's all over now.
You deserve something good...I heard about you and Mulder. I owe Mulder,
too." Krycek stopped, looking faintly surprised at himself.
"Walt?" That same soft voice again, asking Skinner what he wanted to do.
"Let's get him into the tub."
Working together, they soon had Krycek stripped and lowered into the warm
water. Careful not to get the bandages wet, Hamilton ran a washcloth over
Krycek's battered torso. "You've seen some action, haven't you, boy?"
Hamilton asked softly, washing the truncation of Krycek's arm
matter-of-factly. Krycek had insisted on removing his prosthesis himself
and it sat on the side of the sink, a miracle of plastic, steel and
hardwiring for the complex software that helped Krycek control the
artificial limb. The metal interfaces gleamed dully against his skin but
Hamilton showed nothing more than gentle interest.
"Don't call me 'boy'," Krycek tried to growl. The warmth of the water and
the residual shock was making it hard for him stay alert, which was fine as
far as Skinner was concerned. "Skinner, you're not safe. They're just gonna
keep coming after you."
"Who, Krycek?"
The other man just shook his head and started coughing, deep wracking coughs
that seemed to steal his voice, leaving it weaker than before. "I'm not
sure. I need time to track down the client. I just heard about it today."
"Why are you doing this, Krycek?"
Krycek wouldn't look at him. Hamilton stayed silent, just running more hot
water into the bath. "I owe you," he repeated softly.
The rush of fury burning through him shocked Skinner; it had been so long
since he'd even allowed himself to feel it. "Tell you what, Krycek, let me
kill you. Then maybe we'll be even."
Krycek just started coughing again, then he shook his head as he tried to
catch his breath. "You kill me, they kill you, Skinner. You choose."
"Walt, let's get him into a bed, then figure out what to do about this."
They worked silently to lever Krycek out of the water. He seemed no more
than half-aware as Hamilton efficiently toweled him down, then wrapped him
in his own robe. They half-carried him down the hall to the guest room and
maneuvered him into bed. Hamilton took his pulse again, this time from
Krycek's lax wrist. His fingers brushed the hair back from Krycek's
forehead. Fever bright green eyes fixed on Hamilton with a confused frown.
"Be alert tonight. They probably won't come back, but..."
"I know, boy. I got it covered, all right? Sleep now," and Hamilton
brushed a hand over Krycek eyes, forcing them to flicker shut. Then he
turned to Skinner and said, "Maybe you'd better tell me the whole story."
So Skinner did.
Skinner was awakened by the rumble of Hamilton's voice about a foot from his
ear. "This isn't what it looks like, Mulder."
"Actually, Sam, it's exactly what it looks like," Mulder said pleasantly.
Skinner kept his eyes closed and wondered if Mulder was armed and whether
he'd have a chance to explain to his lover of only a month what he was doing
in bed with another man. He and Ham had both refused to let the other one
sack out on his too-short couch, so they were splitting the bed, just like
old times. Hell, they even had their guns out and ready to hand. They had
been talking over possible contingency plans when they'd just plain fallen
asleep, adrenaline and willpower running out.
"Mulder," Hamilton said weakly, his legendary glib failing him entirely.
"Frankly, Sam, I'm a hell of a lot more interested in why there's blood on
the front door and why Alex Krycek is unconscious in your bed.
"Mulder?" Skinner said softly, finally opening his eyes to fuzzily look at
his lover leaning in the doorway, weapon drawn, an anxious smile on his
face. His hair was plastered to his head, water dripped from his nose and
he had never looked more wonderful to Skinner than when he said,
"Come on, Walt, give me some credit here. If you and Hamilton haven't
gotten together in the last 25 years, my being out of town for one week
isn't going to do it, either. Besides, you're both still dressed."
"And I worked too damn hard to get you two together," Ham added smugly.
Blessing Mulder's sharp eye and ignoring Hamilton, Skinner sat up and
reached for his glasses. "Fox, we've got a problem."
"Yeah, Walt, I'd guessed. Would someone please explain to me about the
bloodstains and Krycek?"
Mulder's main talent was an ability to easily grasp the strangest
information and Skinner had never been so grateful for it before. Within 20
minutes, Mulder had approved their roughed out plan of action, added his own
sensible modifications, called Scully and arranged a meet back out at the
airport. Watching Mulder's face as he made the call, Skinner could imagine
exactly how happy she was to hear that she would be driving back out to
Dulles only three hours after she had left it.
"She's pissed, Walt. She might even be pissed enough to rent us a Gremlin."
But she had not failed them. They found her at the car rental lot, standing
in the lurid orange nimbus thrown by cold autumn rain and 4 am lighting.
Beside her was a large 4x4, her medical bag on the seat. When Hamilton
manhandled the barely conscious Krycek onto the backseat of the rental
vehicle, her mouth thinned but she said nothing as she examined the wound.
Mulder started talking to her, explaining, and Skinner let him do it, tired
enough to simply let the words wash over him as he stood shoulder to
shoulder with Hamilton.
"Your life is a lot more interesting than you told me, Walt." Faintly
reproachful look.
"Not really, Ham. There're just these moments, you know?"
"Yeah, well, who doesn't have a few skeletons in his closet?" Skinner had
told him everything, trying to give Hamilton as clear a picture as he could.
"What gets me, though, is that Mulder still trusts you."
"Trusts me again," Skinner corrected tiredly. "Sometimes I think Mulder
is a little too forgiving."
"You afraid that's what he's doing with Krycek?"
"Hell, no. I'm afraid that's what I'm doing."
"Well, a guy saves your life, it's bound to make you look at him a little
different."
"Is that what's happening with you, Ham?"
"Maybe," Hamilton said grudgingly, a small grin curling his lip in the rain.
"He's not..." Skinner stopped. If he tried to list all the things that
Krycek was not, they would be there until long past dawn.
"I know, Walt," Hamilton said softly. "He's not Todd. But I'm not looking
for Todd."
Before Skinner could say anything, Scully called them over. "He's got
bronchitis and is heading for walking pneumonia. The head wound isn't
serious, the shoulder wound is minor; it's mostly the exhaustion we need to
worry about."
"We?" Krycek asked hoarsely. Scully ignored him.
"I gave him a dose of antibiotics and something for the pain. But he's going
to need several days of complete bed rest before we can even figure out what
to do with him."
"OK. Then that's what we'll do. We'll find a place to hole up in West
Virginia, let him get back on his feet, then let him start pumping his
contacts." Skinner started grabbing the hastily packed duffel bags and
tossing them into the back of the 4x4. "Mulder, you and Scully get back to
D.C. and stay there. We'll ..."
"No."
"There's no reason for you to..."
"No."
"As your supervisor..."
"I quit."
"You're being an ass..."
"Yes," Mulder grinned, then turned and took the keys from Scully. "Thanks,
Scully. I owe you."
"Tell me about it," his red-haired partner sighed. "Just take care of him,"
she nodded at Skinner, who was still standing and glaring. "And him," she
nodded toward Krycek. "I can't believe I just said that, but he's really
sick, Mulder. Get where you're going fast, then stay there."
"What about me?" Hamilton loomed over her, grinning.
Scully smiled back, actually dimpling. "It's too big a job, Ham. You're
like Mulder. The only way to take care of you is to get you to watch out
for someone else."
She left while they were all still blinking over the truth of her words.
Darkesville, WV had almost nothing to recommend it, which made it perfect.
They found a campground not yet closed for the season and rented a
two-bedroom cabin. Mulder claimed to have investigated a Bigfoot sighting
nearby and the owner actually seemed to remember him. Skinner just shook
his head and paid cash, including a hefty deposit for the cable hook-up. It
was barely ten in the morning by the time the four men were settled in.
Mulder had insisted on driving the entire way, a determined light in his eye
that quickly turned mulish every time Skinner or Hamilton tried to
remonstrate. By the time they made a ten minute stop at a grocery store,
Skinner hadn't even tried to rein in Mulder's junk food habit the way he did
at home, just watched in horrified silence as Mulder bought enough empty
calories to fuel a platoon, along with more sensible foodstuffs and a host
of over-the-counter drugs for Krycek.
Later on, lying in bed with Mulder a tense weight at the other edge, gray
light slinking around the edges of the faded curtains, Skinner sighed. "I
feel like a vampire," he offered.
Somehow, Mulder heard the apology hidden in his words. He rolled toward him
and lay his head on Skinner's shoulder. "Undead? Or wanting to drink
someone's blood?"
Skinner nuzzled Mulder's hair, stale with cigarette smoke and the
recirculated air of airplanes and rain water and he didn't reply. Mulder's
hand came up to rub the tense muscles at the base of Skinner's neck and he
groaned quietly as they started to relax.
"Don't mix up the AD and the lover again, Walt," Mulder said quietly.
"It's just..."
"I know."
Skinner fell asleep with Mulder's knowledge blanketing him.
When he awoke midafternoon, Skinner heard Mulder and Hamilton talking softly
in the kitchen. He wandered out to find Mulder in jeans and a sweatshirt,
stirring a pot of soup while Hamilton munched a handful of crackers and
supervised. If not for Hamilton's shoulder holster and Mulder's weapon
clipped to his belt, they might have looked like any two buddies up for a
weekend of hunting. Skinner felt his own weapon tucked into the small of
his back and sighed.
"How's our patient?"
"Fever's up," Hamilton said. "Not too bad, though. Dana said it probably
would go up for a day or so." He took down a tin mug with a cracked ceramic
rim. Mulder filled it for him, then handed him a bottle of Gatorade and the
box of crackers. "Lemme see if I can wake him up enough to eat something."
Skinner and Mulder ate in comfortable silence, sitting at the battered pine
table, knees touching. Hamilton didn't come back, although they heard the
easy rise and fall of his voice talking to Krycek. After a time, Mulder
said carefully,
"Sam seems to like taking care of... I mean, he's... Krycek..."
"He's always been like that," Skinner sighed. "Any goddamned stray dog or
wounded bird or fucked up human being he could find. He used to hook up with
the most unbelievable losers."
"What was Todd like? From what Sam said, he was a pretty together guy."
"Todd was the exception to the rule, Fox. Todd just showed up and eclipsed
everything and everyone in Sam's life. He was actually a normal, stable guy
with a career and not a single major neurosis in sight. He took care of Sam
for a change and the novelty of that must have carried them for five years
at least. He didn't even mind staying closeted for Hamilton's career."
"And now?"
"Krycek would appeal to a lot of Ham's old instincts."
"He saved Sam's life, Walt. He was trying to save yours. Frankly, I find
that pretty damned appealing myself, right now."
Skinner rubbed his hands over his face, feeling the stubble rasp his palms.
"I know. If I could just reconcile that with the man I promised I'd kill
very slowly one day... It was a lot easier when we were still fighting the
war, wasn't it? It all made more sense."
"No, nothing made sense, then. That's what made it easier," Mulder said
softly but with certainty.
"I guess you're right. The whole forgiveness/redemption thing kind of
escapes me," Skinner admitted. "Hatred and revenge is much simpler."
"No philosophy at the breakfast table!" Hamilton said as he came into the
kitchen. He took a mug of soup for himself and dropped into a chair next to
Mulder. "Krycek's asleep again," he said between mouthfuls. "Seems pretty
worried about you, Walt."
Skinner sighed. "It used to make more sense than this," he complained to
Mulder, who merely grinned and handed him a cookie.
It was an odd, disjointed time for them all.
It took three days for Krycek to recover enough to stay awake for longer
than the time it took to drink some broth or stagger to the bathroom.
Hamilton took the other bed in the sickroom and elected himself chief nurse.
He medicated Krycek, fed him, rebandaged his wounds and ignored Skinner's
worried looks.
He knew what Walt was afraid of; hell, Walt had good reason to fear that
Hamilton was getting all starry-eyed over another lowlife scum. Hamilton
smiled to himself as he filled a dishpan with warm soapy water and grabbed a
threadbare but clean washcloth and a bath towel. It wasn't like it hadn't
happened before, time and again. But this was different and he couldn't say
why. Maybe it was that Krycek so clearly did not want rescuing. He snarled
and snapped, in between coughing and gasping for breath, or moaning in his
sleep. He tried to resist all efforts to aid him and gave in only when his
body failed him again and again.
Hamilton crossed through the living room carrying his bath supplies and
smiled at the sight of Walter Skinner curled up like a small boy, his head
on Fox Mulder's lap, both of them fast asleep on the couch. The TV was
muttering away to itself and the rain was spitting down outside. Hamilton's
latest restoration project was sitting up and watching the drops skid down
the glass.
Krycek scowled at the idea of being bathed, but didn't protest as the
colonel started sponging away the sticky residue of three days of fever. He
turned his face away as Hamilton worked with detached absorption, gently
stroking the damp washcloth over his scarred torso, then rubbing him dry
with the towel.
"You've been beat up some, boy."
Krycek shrugged and kept watching the rain. "It happens in my line of
work."
"Mine, too." Hamilton skimmed the cloth down the line of Krycek's spine,
noting a long, thin scar down one shoulder blade. "So why don't you get out
of the business?"
"Nothing else to do. My last employers forgot to give me letters of
recommendation before they... left."
"Smart boy like you can't figure out anything else to do with your time?"
Hamilton had pulled back the covers and was washing Krycek's long legs,
stopping at the edge of the flannel boxers Mulder had lent him.
A weary snarl curled Krycek's lip but he began coughing before he could lash
out. Hamilton kept a warm hand in the middle of his back, supporting him
until the worst of the spasms were over. His hand gripped Krycek's, giving
him an anchor to clutch as he gasped for breath.
Finally, Krycek said, "Why the hell are you doing this?"
Hamilton didn't try to misunderstand. "Because I want to. Nothing more than
that."
"Everyone wants something," Krycek said bitterly.
Hamilton shrugged. "Maybe." Then he asked seriously, "What do you want,
Krycek?"
But Krycek had begun shivering again and would not answer. So Hamilton
tucked the blankets back up around him and left, feeling those fever-bright
and confused eyes follow him out of the room.
Mulder sometimes spelled Hamilton in looking after Krycek. One of those
times, while Hamilton was out taking a hike, Skinner had overheard Mulder
shouting at Krycek and Krycek's pitiful attempt to respond in kind. By the
time Skinner caught himself in the doorway of the sickroom, Mulder was
holding Krycek's head and bracing his shoulder as he coughed, deep, wracking
noises that Skinner expected to produce a lung. Mulder was murmuring
apologetic noises as he helped Krycek sit back against the headboard and
Skinner went away before he could be seen.
The next day, Skinner had passed by the open door and seen Mulder standing,
staring out the window, hands gripping the window frame until they were
white-knuckled. Krycek sat, head bowed, staring at his own knees. The
silence in the room felt thick and silty with whatever had just been said.
That time, too, Skinner left without a word.
Late at night, when he and Mulder lay wrapped together in the too-small bed
in their room, he could hear Hamilton's low Texas drawl rumbling through the
wall. Sometimes, he could hear Krycek's voice, at times quieter, sometimes
raised in anger. Sometimes, Skinner heard nothing more than the rolling
rhythms of Hamilton reading long verses from a dog-eared copy of Dylan
Thomas that someone had left behind.
He swore to himself, sometimes, in the dark, as he listened to the sound of
Sam Hamilton falling for a man who had once tried to kill him and once tried
to save him.
The afternoon of the fourth day, Skinner looked up to find Krycek standing
beside him. "Give me a cell phone; I think I may know how to figure out
who's after you."
Without a word, Mulder handed over his phone and they spent the next hour
listening to Krycek speak abrupt sentences in three languages. He hung up
after the longest call, no more than four minutes, and coughed again,
swearing weakly when he had finished. Hamilton handed him the bottle of
cough syrup Scully had included and they watched him as he swigged a
mouthful of the dark cherry liquid.
"Now what?"
"Now, we wait," Krycek wheezed. "I call Rico back at 6 p.m., he tells me
who hired the Maliazzis."
"You know the hitmen?"
"I know of them. They're street scum. Whoever has it in for you, Skinner,
never learned that quality costs."
"Which is all to the good," Mulder said dryly. "Otherwise, Walt and Sam
would be sharing a slab at the coroner's office."
Krycek nodded. "I think we can rule out any ex-Consortium members on this
one, Skinner. This sounds personal."
"That's a real comfort, thanks, Krycek."
The bruising over his eye made Krycek's grin that much sharper in his pale
face. He was wearing an amalgam of all of their clothing, and had borrowed
Skinner's razor to shave for the first time in days. A few nicks testified
that he was not yet back to snuff.
Scully had called only once. She had given Hamilton some medical advice
after listening to his report on Krycek, then she had spoken to Skinner. Her
voice was calm and steady, telling him that there were no outstanding
warrants on Krycek.
"What do you want me to do, Scully?"
"Whatever feels right, sir."
Skinner looked at Mulder, who stood out on the porch watching the late
autumn rain fall. Then he looked at Hamilton, who was never more than a few
feet away from Krycek, despite the younger man's nervous irritation with
such solicitous treatment. "Damn," he said softly.
"Everything has to have an end, sir."
He hung up without a word.
At 5:30, Krycek had roused himself and asked politely but firmly, to be
taken to a payphone on the interstate. Hamilton had objected immediately.
"Forget it, boy, you can barely stand."
"Rico won't talk to any of you and we can't risk making that call from a
cellphone. There's an even chance that he might have sold me out and if he
traces the call, they'll know what area to start looking in. A payphone on
the highway isn't worth tracing." Krycek stood up defiantly straight.
"Unless you plan on spending the rest of your life playing cards and reading
old mystery novels in backwoods West Virginia, you'd better let me make that
call." His expression turned curiously pleading. "Once we know who's got it
in for Skinner, we can start planning how to neutralize the threat and then
we can all go home."
"You late for a hot date, Krycek?" Mulder teased.
"I've got a life, Mulder," but the words sounded curiously hollow.
There was a brief silence, then Hamilton said, "I'll take him to a phone.
You two rest up and get some dinner going. We'll be back in an hour."
Grumbling and ruffled, Skinner handed over the keys. He pulled Hamilton
aside. "Ham, keep an eye on this one, will you? Don't trust the pretty
face."
Hamilton had surprised him, saying seriously, "I don't trust him, Walt. Not
at all." Then he had grinned, "But I do like him. He's... uncomplicated."
"So is a knife, Ham."
"Exactly." Hamilton had slapped him on the shoulder and gone out into the
dusk and the rain with Krycek, walking slowly beside the assassin.
The two men had not returned within the hour. They were not back in three.
Mulder and Skinner spent the time trying not to stare at Mulder's cellphone
on the kitchen table. They spoke little. At ten, Mulder called Scully and
asked her to monitor the police reports from their area. At midnight,
Skinner put a fist through the plasterboard wall in the hallway; Mulder
bandaged it silently. At 1 am, Hamilton and Krycek stumbled through the
door, soaking wet and eyes quick and wide with adrenaline.
They only grinned at Mulder and Skinner's drawn weapons, standing shoulder
to shoulder, although Krycek was rocking a little on his feet. Skinner,
knowing Hamilton as he did, growled, "You son of a bitch. You went out and
dealt with it by yourselves, didn't you?"
Hamilton grinned and shrugged and Skinner wanted to put him through a wall.
Krycek said in a low voice, "It's done, Skinner. No mess, no fuss and no
connection to you."
"Krycek! I wanted justice, not another body in an alley!"
"Sometimes that is the only justice, Skinner."
"I didn't ask you to fight my battles, Krycek."
"I know. It was his idea," and Krycek hooked a thumb at Hamilton who was
suddenly very interested in the new hole in the wall.
"It was the same old story—you put his brother in jail fifteen years ago,
the brother just died, he sends hitmen after you. I think he'd been reading
too many bad novels," Hamilton offered with an attempt at a grin.
"Hamilton, for crissakes, we can't just go around killing people..."
"I don't, Walt, except when they shoot at me or my friends. Law of the
Jungle, man."
Mulder heated some soup and he and Krycek ate it silently, listening to
Skinner and Hamilton wrangle and bitch. Mulder rinsed off the dishes and
stacked them in the sink, then said, "Walter. Shut up. Sam, you shut up,
too." He looked like he wanted to grin at the startled silence. "Everyone
go to bed. We can argue about it on the way back to D.C. in the morning."
But as Hamilton passed him on the way to bed, Mulder made him give up the
car keys. "No more joyriding, Sam. Who knows what you and Krycek could get
up to?"
Anger and fright and relief were a heady mix and the addition of a hungry
lover made it burn brighter still. Their lovemaking was short and sharp and
bright and Skinner knew that it had to carry through the thin walls. When
the sounds of their own harsh breathing had subsided, when their desperate
whispers were all exhausted, Skinner laid there beside Mulder and let
himself be petted and soothed. "The idiots," he grumbled.
"Shh," Mulder said for the fifth time. "Nothing happened to them. It's all
right." So they were lying there in silence, perfectly able to hear a long,
rich moan, then a flurry of coughing and some hastily smothered chuckles
from the next room.
"Hell!" Skinner whispered furiously. "'Nothing' happened to them, huh?"
"What was the strange thing the dog did in the night?" Mulder quoted
ruefully. It took him another half hour before he was able to calm Skinner
enough to sleep.
In the morning, they said nothing about it. Hamilton smiled serenely at the
world and Krycek was withdrawn and tended to jump at unexpected noises. He
stood as far from Hamilton as possible and spoke in single word sentences
when a grunt or cough wasn't enough.
When they reached Dulles, Krycek slipped out of the car and vanished into
the crowd without a word, without a backward glance. Hamilton stared after
him with a half-smile on his face and said nothing.
It was a week after their return from West Virginia that Hamilton said one
evening, "I think I'll be moving out, Walt."
A little surprised, a little hurt, Skinner could only say, "Oh?"
"I think it's time. You've been damned good to me and I won't forget it.
But I should probably get a place of my own."
"You're staying in Washington?" Skinner smiled a little. He'd gotten so
used to having Hamilton around.
"I'll be around, Walt. Don't worry about the weekly poker game. Besides,
this'll give you room enough, in case you've been thinking about inviting
someone else to move in."
"I—uh, haven't..."
"Jeez, Walt, what is your problem? He loves you, you love him, let's get it
together, marine!"
He had only gotten to the daydreaming phase, wondering whether or not he
might be able, in a year or two, to convince Mulder to move in with him. Or
let him move in with Mulder. Anywhere he could get truly used to finding
Mulder beside him every morning, where he could take for granted the arm
that held him close every night. Where he could bitch about Mulder's papers
everywhere and get really aggravated by the way he drank milk from the
carton.
"Ham..."
"It's time, Walt."
"And...?
"And what, Walt?" Hamilton's patented innocent expression gave him away
every time.
"Just make sure he doesn't bring his work home with him, Ham," Skinner
sighed. "Better yet, get him to retire."
Hamilton only grinned like an idiot.
Colonel Samuel Hamilton, USA (ret.) sat alone in his brand new apartment.
He sat in the dark and he waited. Eventually, the sound he'd been waiting
to hear for over a week came. Someone was picking the lock of his front
door.
The door swung open slowly and a shadow flowed through it.
"Nice to see you again, Alex."
The shadow jumped and started badly. There was a small crash and when
Hamilton turned on the light, he saw a stack of books that had been beside
the door now spilled out across the floor.
Krycek glared at him, eyes crackling with nervousness and adrenaline. He
looked far better than he had a month before; healthy, tanned, weight back
up where it should be, hair and clothing both fashionable and unremarkable.
"Close the door." Hamilton gestured with his weapon, nodding toward the
concealed holsters Krycek wore. "You could have knocked, you know," he said
as Krycek slowly emptied both holsters and the sheath at his back, placing
the weapons on the bookcase next to the door.
"I didn't want to interrupt, in case you had a guest," Krycek said, hands in
the air.
Hamilton smiled gently at the clumsiness of the probe. He had learned a lot
about Alex Krycek on their rainy night raid together. He had seen him in
action, judged him as a professional. This kind of mental and physical
clumsiness on Krycek's part echoed his own recent distraction and he hoped
it had the same cause.
He got up and walked slowly toward Krycek, watching as the other man started
and fidgeted but held his ground. Hamilton pushed Krycek up against the
door, liking the grunt of surprise that he gave, then the catch in his
breath as Hamilton's weight pinned him.
"No guests, boy. I've been waiting for you."
"Sorry I was late," Krycek grinned cockily, then gasped as Hamilton ground
against him a little. His head rolled against the door and he arched into
Hamilton's arms as they came around his body. Hamilton removed the small
hold-out .38 from the holster in the small of Krycek's back and placed it,
along with his own weapon, on the bookcase next to the others.
"Now," he said, leaning in very close, "let's get some ground rules
established, shall we?"
"I'm not a stray," Krycek said breathlessly, squirming as Hamilton's hands
stroked up beneath his sweater.
"No," Hamilton stared into the green eyes for a moment, then reached out and
very delicately licked at Krycek's upper lip.
"I'm not a pet." He moaned as those wandering hands slid around to his chest
and teased at his nipples.
"No," Hamilton agreed, smiling a little as his hands flowed down the warm
skin to rest on the strong hipbones.
"I'm not sweet," Krycek gasped, just as Hamilton's mouth closed over his.
Long, slow moments later, Hamilton released Krycek's mouth and smiled into
the hazy eyes.
"Yes," he disagreed gently.
Boneless and stupid with lust and something else for which he had no name
yet, Krycek just stared back at him and said softly, "Yes."
Hamilton wondered if Krycek knew all the things to which he had just agreed,
then decided he would take his time explaining it to the younger man. A lot
of time. Years. He grinned and leaned in for another kiss..
Part III: Dogs of War
Walter Skinner was still staring at the tasteful cream linen invitation in
his hand when Sam Hamilton called.
"Walt? I hate to bother you, boy, but I think I have a problem. Alex
didn't come home last night."
Skinner's last hope that this might just be an elaborate practical joke died
at the worry crackling in his friend's voice. "Ham, I know there's a
problem. Listen to this." And he began to read the invitation aloud.
"Ham, there are pictures. They've got Krycek." Skinner spread the three
photos on his desktop and stared at the man in the middle. Bruised, one eye
blacked, a lip split, Krycek glared at the camera. The other two men shown
were even more roughed up but less defiant; Skinner had the odd thought that
Krycek might fetch a higher price merely because he looked tougher to kill.
There was an odd tapping sound from the phone and Skinner placed it after a
moment. Hamilton was tapping a pen against his teeth as he weighed and
abandoned strategies, considered options, determined the odds.
"Someone out there knows I have an ax to grind against Krycek; it's got to
be someone linked to the Consortium. And they have to be internal—this
invitation came through internal mail. The bastards are still out there,"
Skinner gritted. "I really thought it was over."
"When's the auction?" Hamilton asked.
"Tomorrow night. Christmas Eve."
"Hey Walt, wanna go teach these jokers about Peace on Earth and goodwill
toward men?" Hamilton tried to sound like his usual offhand, daredevil self
and failed miserably.
Skinner closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Hamilton wanted him to help
rescue Alex Krycek, of all people. For a brief but intense moment, he
wished that he had just become a corporate lawyer like his old man had
wanted. Hamilton said quietly, "Walter, please. I have to go after him."
"Yeah," Skinner sighed, "count me in."
"Mulder, too?"
"Mulder, too. I'm going to need some explanation for missing Christmas Eve
with his mother. Might as well tell him the truth." Skinner had already
learned that Mulder didn't appreciate being protected; he had no intention
of making the same mistake twice in as many months.
"I'm on my way."
The truth was all Mulder ever really asked of anyone. Once they had told
him, he was in, committed and ready for action. Skinner wasn't certain
whether Mulder's friendship with Hamilton, his desire to keep tabs on
Skinner himself, the chance to cancel a strained first Christmas as a couple
with his mother or Mulder's own gradually lessening hatred for Krycek was
the real motivator here. Ever since Krycek's startling return as Skinner's
savior a few months ago, Mulder had begun building a cautious sort of
friendship with Alex Krycek. While Skinner was still very uncomfortable
around his one-time nemesis, Mulder had spent several evenings discovering
that he and Krycek did have more in common than either had thought,
including a fondness for truly awful B-grade science fiction movies. Ham
had merely watched, smiled that secret smile of his and handed Skinner more
beer.
Skinner watched Mulder piece together the facts as they sat in his office
after hours He turned the invitation over and over in his long fingers as
if hoping to gain some information through osmosis. "When did you first
know for sure he was gone, Sam?"
"Last night. He never showed up for dinner."
"That's unusual? I thought he didn't live there." Krycek had remained
adamant about maintaining his own apartment; they didn't even know the
address.
Hamilton rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and stared out Skinner's
window. "He doesn't, exactly. He just keeps some clothes there and he's
been there every night since a week after I moved. Every night, Mulder.
So when he didn't show..."
"You thought he'd skipped out on you?"
"I'd wondered, yeah." It cost Hamilton something to admit that.
"So they snatched him sometime yesterday, then. You last saw him that
morning?"
Hamilton nodded. Mulder picked up the photo and grimaced as he looked at it.
"Looks like he made them pay for the privilege, though." Mulder turned to
Skinner. "There's something truly sick about that invitation, Walt. The
people who dreamed this up are monsters. I think I'll enjoy taking them
out."
"No one's taking anyone 'out', Mulder. We're getting in there, getting
Krycek and getting out. Any evidence we pick up on the way, we turn over to
the Bureau. Got it? The main objective is getting Krycek out of there
alive."
Mulder grinned at him suddenly. "And did you ever think you'd hear yourself
saying those words?"
"Shut up and call the Three Whackos," Skinner growled. "We've got less than
22 hours to plan an undercover op."
The Three Whackos, a.k.a. The Lone Gunmen, were more than happy to help
Mulder although a little doubtful about the wisdom of rescuing Alex Krycek.
Between the four of them, they managed to turn up information on the
"auction" site, which led them to the owner of the mansion and an impressive
file of indictments and racketeering charges that had all been mysteriously
dropped. The owner was one Ricardo Montrecini; Mulder theorized that this
was the "Rico" who had provided Krycek with the information regarding the
recent assassination attempt on Skinner.
"Why the hell did you ever let Scully take a vacation now?" Mulder
complained to Skinner as he reported the latest findings when Skinner came
to pick him up sometime after midnight. "She's much better at teasing all
this stuff out of Records."
"Because it's Christmas and you threatened to pout until I gave her two
whole weeks off," Skinner reminded his deliberately amnesiac lover.
"Where's Hamilton?"
"Out picking up some party supplies for tomorrow night."
Skinner winced, knowing the kinds of things that Hamilton would consider
reasonable equipment for a nighttime raid on a mobster's mansion in the
Virginian countryside. "Well, he knows my position on tactical nukes.
Let's hope he restrains himself." That startled a smile out of Mulder, who
came over to rub his shoulders. Byers and Frohike exchanged glances and
pretended not to have seen the intimacy. Langly merely snorted and kept
fiddling with a headset he was customizing for their operation. Mulder's
friends had taken the news of their relationship with remarkable aplomb but
Skinner knew that they considered him to be Mulder's biggest romantic
mistake to date, Diana Fowley notwithstanding.
Mulder's strong hands dug into the bands of tension that had been woven the
instant he'd read that damned invitation, then tightened when he'd heard an
unfamiliar quaver somewhere deep in Hamilton's voice. Sam Hamilton knew no
fear—for himself. But the sap was honestly frightened on Krycek's
behalf. At one point, when Skinner had balked at the idea of any of them
going in armed, Ham had just looked up and said seriously, "What would you
do if it were Fox in there?"
Skinner groaned, half in pleasure as he felt the knots in his shoulder ease
and half at the barbed knowledge that he could no longer deny; Alex Krycek
was not merely a pastime or odd hobby for Hamilton. The idiot actually
loved the rat bastard and that meant that Walter Skinner had to help his
buddy get Krycek back. Hadn't Krycek taken a bullet on Skinner's front
stairs trying to protect him? When Honor reared its austere head, he knew
he was lost.
"Dammit!" he spat suddenly, making Byers and Langly jump and stare at him
out of the corners of their eyes. Mulder's hands squeezed him gently for a
second, then he leaned down and said softly, "I know. Let's go home." And
suddenly, Skinner knew that Mulder did know, did understand why he hated
doing this, why he had to.
"Come on, Walt. Let's go home. Sam'll find us there."
Hamilton arrived at 6 am, carrying a duffel bag and driving a stretch
limousine. Skinner wanted to ask, but the set of Hamilton's jaw and the
blaze of his eyes forestalled him. This was the Sam Hamilton he knew from
the jungle, the man that lurked beneath the west Texas good ol' boy drawl
and the mischievous grin. This was the squad leader of 22 successful raids,
a man who wrote training manuals for Black Ops, grim, focused and deadly.
Hamilton sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out a small machine pistol
and began stripping it down and cleaning it with careful and precise
movements. He ignored the cup of coffee that Mulder set beside him.
"Ham?" Skinner asked carefully.
"I've got everything we need. We leave here at 3 p.m." Hamilton squinted
down the barrel, then ran the cleaning rod up it.
"Ham, did you sleep?"
Hamilton merely shook his head, then carefully re-threaded the barrel back
onto the stock.
"You know you need sleep before an operation, Ham." Hamilton didn't reply,
merely concentrated harder on his oddly mechanical task.
Mulder and Skinner exchanged looks, then Mulder said quietly, "We'll get him
out, Sam. Now go get some sleep so you'll have enough energy to welcome him
home properly."
Hamilton's hand jerked, then he fumbled, dropping the trigger guard on the
floor. He stared down at it as if he suddenly had no idea what to do about
it. The stark confidence in Mulder's tone had shocked Skinner; but that was
Mulder. He had faith in the most insane things...and he was usually proved
right.
Skinner stood up, then gently took the half-stripped pistol from his
friend's hands. "Come on, Ham. Bed. I'll wake you at 2." He steered his
friend down the hall to the now-unused guest room and watched him strip down
to boxers and T-shirt, then saw him climb into bed and drop into a deep
sleep in a matter of moments. Hamilton had always been able to sleep
anywhere, even in four inches of standing water, Skinner remembered.
Then there was nothing to do but take Mulder back to bed and hold him very
tightly.
The limousine turned into the stately gates and paused at the guardhouse.
The chauffeur, a bored-looking man with a long nose and hazel eyes handed
the armed guard a single sheet of engraved cream linen and waited with
ill-concealed impatience until a discreet number on the invitation was
noted, checked, cross-referenced and his passenger's face peered at and the
inside of the car inspected. Finally, they were waved through and the
liveried chauffeur guided the car up the smoothly sloping drive to come to a
stop before the long marble steps of the mansion, fully half a mile from the
gate. The foyer doors were thrown open and light poured out into the
midwinter gloom.
The chauffeur got out, put his hat on, then came around the car and opened
the rear passenger door. A tall, grim-faced man in a dinner jacket got out.
The driver handed him a small satchel, then nodded respectfully when the
man spoke a few quiet words. The chauffeur then drove off in the direction
indicated by a liveried servant standing in the drive and the tall man
climbed the stairs and entered the mansion.
At the door, his invitation was checked again and his face most carefully
inspected by a liveried security thug. The tall man stared aggressively and
snapped, "Well?"
"Forgive the delay, Mr...?" a smooth voice with a trace of an accent said
from behind him. The tall man turned and met the mildly amused gaze of a
short dark-haired man in white tie.
"Hunter," he supplied, not meeting the man's charming smile with one of his
own.
"Mr. Hunter, so good of you to come," and Skinner knew that this man knew
exactly who he was.
"Mr. Montrecini," Skinner saw the cool amusement in Montrecini's eyes deepen
for a moment, "I was surprised to receive your invitation. We don't move in
the same circles."
Montrecini took his arm in the casual way of the continental and walked with
him across a marble parquet hall, past a glittering golden staircase
carpeted with crimson. "But we do, Mr. Hunter, merely on different sides.
And, in the case of tonight's ... entertainment, we certainly share a common
interest, do we not?"
Skinner grunted noncommittally. Montrecini, catching his guest's taciturn
mood, said smoothly, "Perhaps you would like to post your intention to bid
now?" A careful request for payment. Skinner reached into an inner pocket
and saw that he was suddenly the focus of attention for at least three
trained sets of eyes belonging to men who looked over-large for their satin
livery. Moving more slowly, he drew out an envelope with ten thousand
dollars in it and handed it to his host.
"You won't be disappointed tonight, Mr. Hunter. I promise you that."
Montrecini tucked the envelope away discreetly and urged him across the
parquet toward the sound of music and voices.
They entered a small salon filled with men and women in formal dress.
Skinner was assaulted with a mix of perfumes and the scents of foreign
cigarettes and champagne. A welter of voices and languages struck his ear
and his host said something that he couldn't catch before his arm was
released. Skinner paused to take a flute of champagne from yet another
liveried servant with a suspicious level of muscular development. Looking
back towards the door, Skinner was impressed with the design that made the
metal detector seem part of the intricate marquetry panels that adorned the
walls of the room. All except one. Skinner turned and swore silently. At
the far end of the room was a small raised dais that held an auctioneer's
lectern and three oversized video screens. On each screen was a man; two
showed men who were slumped in attitudes of dejection in small gray cells;
the third man was pacing and swearing at the ceiling. There were neat rows
of gilded ballroom chairs arranged before the dais.
Skinner raised his glass to his lips and muttered, "Mulder, are you reading
me?" The tiny throat mike tucked behind his tie was chafing at him and the
receiver lodged deep in his ear made him want to swat at the side of his
head like a bee-stung bear.
"Loud and clear, Walt. I'm already past the first set of guards and heading
for the basement. Seems to be some heavy electronics down there." Mulder
was using a set of toys provided by Byers and Co., searching out the most
likely sites for the prisoners to be held.
"Yeah, well there's a wrinkle. There's live video feed from each cell. The
instant you move Krycek, everyone in this room will know about it."
"Shit," Mulder said.
Then something Mulder had said struck him. "What do you mean "you're past
the first set of guards"? Where the hell is Hamilton?" The plan had called
for Mulder and Hamilton to do the recon and actual rescue work while Skinner
provided cover and distraction, if necessary.
"Um...Hamilton stepped out for a moment," Mulder mumbled.
Shit. Five minutes into an operation and Hamilton was already hot-dogging.
Deja vu, he thought and didn't even waste time getting angry. "I'm gonna
kill him," he said quietly. "He's supposed to be watching your back! Every
damned time, he used to do this every single time."
"He said you'd say that," the laughter in Mulder's voice soothed Skinner as
he stood and scanned the crowd. He stiffened suddenly when he recognized a
familiar hairstyle and the line of a feminine throat in the glittering
crowd. "I think I found our internal Consortium spy," he muttered, covering
his mouth with a hand as if to cough. "Johnson from OCB. I knew she was
dirty, dammit!"
Mulder didn't reply for a moment and Skinner got worried. "Are you OK?"
"I'm fine. I'm just having trouble picking this lock..." Mulder hissed in
irritation. "Can you tell which cell Krycek is in?"
"Not from the screens," Skinner said, considering the images of the two
slumped men. He rather thought the one on the right was Krycek, something in
the shape of the ear that was showing. This man had his head pillowed on
his knees and was contained. The more Skinner studied him, the more he saw
the man's posture as careful readiness, less desperation and despair.
"Well, we're in luck. The cells are all on this floor, but they're not right
next to one another. Now I just need to figure out where Krycek is."
After another fifteen minutes of useless milling, there was a sharp rap from
the lectern below the video screens. A cadaverous looking man in evening
clothes that looked like Lon Chaney castoffs called the crowd to attention.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to begin tonight's auction. This will be a
silent auction, bidding to begin at $10,000. Should you win your particular
bid, you are asked to pay promptly then invited to dispense whatever justice
you'd prefer. The only caveat is that it must take place here, before the
cameras." There was a murmur of protest, a thin whining sound of complaint
and a much louder hum of approval that raised Skinner's hackles. This
highly-coifed crowd was out for blood and wanted a show.
"Mulder, plan B just went to hell, too. We can't just buy his way out of
here."
There was a grunting acknowledgment from his lover and nothing more. The
crowd began moving toward the chairs set in neat lines before the dais.
"Come, come, surely you wouldn't deprive your fellow guests of a dose of
amusement to kick off the holiday season, would you?" the auctioneer asked
with toothy geniality. There was a polite ripple of laughter at that.
"Then, ladies and gentlemen, let's begin the bidding with Lot #1, Terrance
Cawdry, a former enforcer for the Caniglio Family..."
To Skinner, who had allowed himself to be dragged to far too many antique
auctions during his married life, the scene had a gruesomely surreal
familiarity. The crowd chatted and laughed and well-manicured hands or
subtly shaped brows were lifted as the bidding to murder the pacing wretch
became heated. Finally, a cheerful looking older man won the bid at $74,000
which he piled on a silver salver with a happy smile. Mr. Montrecini
escorted him from the room and the crowd chatted and laughed as Skinner
muttered, "Mulder, find cover. I think they're coming your way."
"Check."
On the center screen, there was some movement and the watchers in the salon
grew silent and attentive. The pacing man appeared to have heard something;
he lurched to a stop as bright light flooded his cell. His expression
became terrified and he shrank back against the wall and began shrieking in
silence. Suddenly, five orchid-like splashes of color bloomed on the man's
chest as explosive tipped bullets tore into him. In seconds, the man's
torso had been turned into pulverized meat and he slid slowly to the floor,
leaving a bloody streak on the wall behind him.
Skinner swallowed heavily, then murmured, "One piece of good news, Mulder.
There doesn't seem to be an audio feed."
"I heard it from here," Mulder's voice came back grimly. "I think I've found
a way to bypass the video...there's a studio down here."
The auctioneer stepped back onto the dais. "Well, that was short but sweet,
wasn't it, folks? A round of applause for Mr. Genelli, if you please!"
Skinner was forced to join the entire ghoulish assembly as they applauded
the cheery-faced killer politely, sounding like the court-side seats at
Wimbledon.
"Mulder, I take it back. It would definitely be a pleasure to take these
people out. Every single one of them."
"Well, now, boy, I'm glad you see it my way," Hamilton's voice flowed into
his ear through the circuit.
"Where the hell have you been?" Skinner demanded under cover of a cough.
There was no one seated directly beside him and he had long ago mastered the
art of speaking without moving his lips, but he didn't think he could be too
careful. On the screens, the remaining two prisoners had obviously heard
the shots. Krycek's shoulders had jerked but otherwise, he hadn't moved.
The other man had dropped to his knees and now appeared to be sobbing
quietly.
"Just checking the lay of the land, Walt. Nuthin' to get excited about."
Hamilton had his good ol' boy persona firmly back in place and he was
working himself up to be as irritating as he could be, Skinner could tell.
Once the adrenaline started pumping, Hamilton was all wisecracks and folksy
geniality.
"Let's keep the objective in mind here, Ham. He's not MY lover," Skinner
snapped as best he could without moving his lips or jaw, eyes fixed on the
unmoving figure on the right-most screen.
There was a silence, then Hamilton said very quietly, "The mission
objectives are in hand, Skinner."
"Good."
"Cut the chatter, you two," Mulder ordered. "The lock on this door is ...."
and he descended into half-heard obscenities. "Hamilton, where are you?"
"Two floors above you, keeping your escape route clear. What are you doing
down there, playing with yourself?"
"Fuck you, Sam."
The auctioneer ascend to his podium again and the crowd quieted. "The next
lot, ladies and gentlemen, is a particularly nasty piece of work. Charles
MacIlhenny, late of Sinn Fein..." Skinner tuned out the auctioneer's obscene
patter to listen in as Mulder grumbled, then began to crow with triumph.
"They do have a tape feed on these cells. I think I can loop the tape...
Yes!"
Watching carefully, Skinner saw the moment when the video feed switched to
tape; there was a slight bobble and a jump, then the right-hand screen
showed Krycek still just sitting there.
"I think you've got it, Mulder. How long is that tape good for?"
"12 minutes."
The auction for the luckless IRA terrorist was heating up between an
iron-gray British woman and two voluble Saudis. Skinner checked his watch
and folded his arms on his chest and did his very best impression of a man
jaded and bored with the entertainment.
"You are not pleased, Mr. Hunter?" Montrecini's oiled tones in his right
ear nearly made Skinner jump and drowned out whatever Mulder said next.
"Only a few more moments of your patience and then the lot in which you have
a more personal interest will come up." Skinner grimaced in polite
acknowledgment and Montrecini drifted on to chat with another guest.
"Let's get a move on, Mulder. Krycek's number is coming up."
"Almost got it," Mulder's voice whispered.
"Just blow the damned thing," Hamilton urged. "I showed you how. All you
need is a handful of the C-4. There's no one on two floors to hear it."
The image of his impulsive lover playing with plastic explosives made
Skinner's stomach roll. Then he recalled that it wasn't a game and his
stomach rolled again. There was a muffled thump! in his ear that had him
shaking his head.
The Saudis overbid the British woman and were escorted triumphantly from the
room.
"Heads up, Mulder," Skinner whispered urgently.
"Check," Mulder said, then there was nothing.
All eyes were riveted on the left-hand screen. In a few moments, the door
to that cell also opened, but two of the liveried goons entered and seized
hold of MacIlhenny's arms. They held him solidly as the two Saudis advanced
into the camera's view. Each man held a very long, wicked-looking stiletto.
This execution took much longer and several women and two men ran from the
room in the first five minutes. The rest watched in rapt silence as a man
was sliced to thin ribbons before them. Skinner kept his eyes fixed on the
British woman who had been outbid. She watched with a serious sort of
attention that would not have been out of place at the opera. When the
first of the man's fingers was displayed and then dropped, her cheeks
flushed and her eyes began to sparkle and Skinner had to grit his teeth to
keep his roiling gut where it belonged.
"OK, Walt. We're out of here. I've got the engine running."
Skinner shot to his feet, handkerchief pressed over his mouth as he had seen
the others do. He passed quickly through the gawkers, ignoring the amused
glances and tittering remarks. He gained the parquet entrance hall where he
was observed and dismissed by Montrecini's's disdainful thugs. He headed
for the main doors and had taken his first deep draughts of the frigid
night air when Montrecini's voice stopped him.
"Leaving us so soon, Mr. Hunter?" Surprise in the well-modulated voice,
suspicion in the shrewd eyes that catalogued him.
"I came for a kind of justice, Mr. Montrecini, not to watch a man be sliced
to ribbons by foreign sadists!" he growled, breath steaming and curling into
the night above them.
"You would prefer, perhaps, domestic sadists?" Montrecini appeared to regret
his lapse into callous humor. "Forgive me, Mr. Hunter, I see that you are
truly unwell. Or is it that the bidding is a touch higher than you were
expecting?" Again the assessing look.
"I'm leaving." Skinner shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket and
tried to look like a man more embarrassed by his own financial weakness than
by any inconvenient moral compunctions.
Montrecini touched his shoulder with polite concern. "I understand, Mr.
Hunter. You must understand, of course, that I cannot return your opening
deposit."
Skinner nodded shortly. "That's OK. I'll consider it my part of Krycek's
price. At least tonight, I'll know he's dead, even if I don't do it myself.
Well worth the money."
Montrecini inclined his head politely. "I am sorry that we are to lose the
pleasure of your company, Mr. Hunter. Perhaps some other evening?"
"Perhaps," Skinner said shortly, eyes already seeking the sleek black
limousine that Mulder ought to be driving up at any moment.
"A last thought, Mr. Skinner. I do expect discretion from all of my
guests...and I know how to insure it." The shrewd eyes fixed themselves on
him meaningfully.
"You have nothing to fear from me, Montrecini," Skinner growled.
"I know," the other man said complacently. "Good night, Mr. Skinner," he
said as the limo pulled up and Mulder silently came around to open the door
for Skinner. Skinner didn't reply, he just stalked down the stairs and got
into the limo.
Watching from the steps of his mansion, Montrecini saw Skinner's limousine
pull away and wind its way down the drive. So pretentious of the man, to
allow himself to be driven, as if he were not merely a bureaucrat with an
unfulfilled longing for murder. Montrecini snorted as he watched the limo
pause at the gatehouse—the man was probably arguing with his rented
chauffeur as to the best route home. Was that a flicker of movement down by
the gatehouse? No. The limo was turning the corner and pulling out onto
the main road, the gates closing smoothly behind it.
Rico Montrecini shrugged and turned to re-enter his mansion. He was looking
forward to this next lot a great deal. Alex Krycek had been more trouble
that he had ever been worth and the sudden demise of the Maliazzi Brothers
in the wake of Rico's own minor information transaction with Krycek had left
him in a most painful position. Tonight would solve that problem. He had
even rigged the bidding so that Krycek would fall to the one person in the
room who had the artistry to make this final lot a truly fitting
entertainment for the night. Montrecini clapped his hands together in
anticipation and went inside.
"You OK, Krycek?" Skinner asked.
"Fine." Krycek was sitting beside Mulder and didn't turn around. His head
was tipped back against the headrest and the side of his face that Skinner
could see seemed very pale.
"Where's Hamilton?" Skinner asked Mulder as they came up on the gatehouse.
"He said he'd meet us here." Mulder braked and waited for the massive gates
to swing open. There was a whisper on the closed circuit they had been
using to communicate and Mulder pressed a button, lowering the passenger
window next to Skinner, the one on the right side of the car, away from the
view of the gatehouse guards. A crackling of dead leaves and a breath of
wintry air and there was a black form diving through the open window and
across Skinner's lap. Mulder closed the window, then nudged the limo
through the gaping gates and took the turn onto the main road.
"Hamilton!!" Skinner roared, the tension and adrenaline of the night
finally finding release as he shouted at, then hugged his maniacally
grinning friend. Hamilton was sprawled on his back, still half-lying in
Skinner's lap, dressed in black, covered in dead leaves, his teeth flashing
palely in the dark.
"Just one more detail to take care of Walt, then this op is wrapped up, OK?"
Hamilton struggled to sit up, then fumbled around in his blackout gear
until he found a palm-top computer. Turning, he looked at the mansion
behind them, a festering brightness in the night, then his grin got wider.
Skinner didn't get it until Hamilton said softly, "Time to cash out, Mr.
Montrecini." Then he touched the stylus to the screen.
The night behind them exploded into light and sound.
Mulder drove them back to Skinner's home, the place he had moved into less
than a month ago and was only now starting to think of as 'home'. He
blatantly ignored any suggestions or orders from Hamilton and the stony
silence from the battered man seated beside him. Krycek's behavior was
something of a puzzle. In the red-gold light of Montrecini's blazing
mansion,. Krycek's eyes had glittered and his teeth flashed as he watched
one after another of Hamilton's party favors detonate, leveling the entire
Mansion and most of its outbuildings. Hamilton had turned to look at his
lover and the wild fire had died out of his eyes, leaving them very dark and
very gentle as he reached out a hand to touch Krycek's bruised face with his
fingertips. Krycek had allowed the caress for a moment, then his expression
froze and he drew back, turning around to sit next to Mulder again, staring
forward and not replying to anything they said.
It was barely 10 p.m. when they walked through the door of Skinner's house
Mulder led the way to the kitchen, automatically sweeping away the
disassembled pieces of the machine pistol Hamilton had left on the table
that morning. "You have to admit, Walt, it was a lot more fun than spending
the evening making polite small talk with my mother."
"Actually, I think that I would have preferred explaining out entire sex
life, in graphic detail, to your mother to just about all of this evening,"
Skinner said. He pointed Krycek toward a chair and rummaged in a cabinet
until he found the first aid kit. The sullen Krycek tried to escape and was
settled more firmly in his chair by Skinner's glare and a heavy hand on his
shoulder.
"Aw, c'mon Walt, you gotta admit, the fireworks show at the end was worth
the price of admission alone," Hamilton said from across the room. Only
someone who knew him as well as Walter Skinner would have known how much
effort he was putting into sounding normal. He leaned casually against the
doorframe, eyes bright and glittering with the evening's work, but Skinner
could see the muscle in his jaw jumping whenever Hamilton tried to catch
Krycek's eye and was ignored.
"We'll talk about that later, Ham," he said heavily, not wanting to get into
the old argument about morals vs. efficiency just now. "Speaking of the
price of admission, you're out $10,000. The rest is still in here." He
handed the attache case back to Hamilton, who only shrugged. "It doesn't
matter, it was all counterfeit anyway."
Skinner closed his eyes and counted to ten as he tried very hard to ignore
just how many laws his friend had broken tonight...how many laws his friend
had gotten him to break tonight. A hand on his shoulder and he turned to
look up into Mulder's gentle smile. "Don't worry about it, Walt. We've
both done worse for less reason and you know it." He handed Skinner a
bottle of beer, then handed Krycek an ice pack and a wet washcloth. He
offered a bottle to Hamilton, who only shook his head and kept staring at
Krycek.
Skinner turned his attention back to Krycek, neck prickling with what Mulder
had said. It unnerved him when Mulder demonstrated exactly how well he knew
his lover. He was willing to bet that Mulder even knew that most of his
anger at Hamilton was really disgust at how little tonight's forays into
lawlessness truly bothered Skinner, despite what he wanted to believe about
himself.
"Skinner," Krycek said hoarsely, "Rico was a rabid dog with opposable
thumbs. Trust me, you did the world a favor. And me," he added, wincing as
Skinner doctored the minor cuts and scratches on his face. Besides the
beating, there were slight chemical burns around his mouth and nose.
"Chloroform pad?" Skinner asked.
"Something like," Krycek grimaced. Hamilton made an aborted movement, then
stopped when Krycek looked at him coldly.
"Did they feed you?"
Krycek shook his head. Mulder brought over a plate with a pile of roast
beef sandwiches on it and put it on the table in front of Krycek. He also
put down a large glass of milk that Krycek regarded with sincere disgust.
Mulder smiled uncompromisingly. "No beer. Eat. Drink," he ordered. As
Skinner finished bandaging and anointing him, Krycek picked up the first
sandwich and glared at it, then ate it in two or three snaps. The others
joined him as he made short work of three more sandwiches and a full quart
of milk. They ate silently, except for Hamilton, who took two bites, then
put his sandwich down and took out a cell phone. He spoke three words into
the receiver, then disconnected and put the phone away.
"The limo will be gone in 20 minutes. No one can connect it with you."
"Good," Skinner growled. "If I have sheriff's deputies on my doorstep
tomorrow morning, Hamilton, I will personally give them your address..."
"Don't bother," Mulder said.. "Just point them down the hall. You're
spending the night, gentlemen. Your old room is open, Sam, and there are
clean sheets on the bed."
Both Krycek and Hamilton looked up to argue, but Mulder said firmly, "You're
staying. We'll talk in the morning. Breakfast at 8. And if either of you
is missing, I'll hunt you down personally. Got it?"
"What's with the bossy Queen act, Mulder?" Krycek asked with a sneer.
"Just getting in touch with my inner bitch, Krycek," Mulder shot back,
standing up. "You two have some issues to work out and you'll do it better
on neutral territory. I'm going to bed." He looked at Skinner and jerked
his head toward the bedroom. Skinner nodded and stood up.
"Lock up, will you, Ham?"
They were nearly out of the room when Krycek said quietly, "Merry Christmas,
Mulder...Skinner."
They stopped for a moment, then Mulder said, "You're welcome, Krycek," and
they left the two men sitting in their kitchen.
They prepared for bed silently. Skinner stripped off his tuxedo and left it
in a heap in the corner of the room. Somehow, he had a feeling he would
never wear it again. While Mulder showered and brushed his teeth, Skinner
sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his hands, wondering.
When Mulder came into the room, ruddy from his hot shower and a towel
wrapped around his waist, he said nothing. He merely sat down beside
Skinner and waited.
"There were over sixty people in that room tonight, Mulder. There were
servants and bodyguards and all sorts of people in that house tonight. You
saw it—no one could have survived that."
"I know," Mulder said neutrally.
"He killed all those people, Fox...and I helped him."
"We helped him," Mulder corrected gently. "And I'd do it again. So would
you."
Skinner nodded miserably.
"That's the real problem, isn't it? You know exactly why Sam had to do it
and a part of you secretly approves and that's why you're so angry at him.
For making you know that that part of you is in there, too."
Skinner sighed, then turned and leaned his aching forehead against Mulder's
warm shoulder. "I hate it when you do that," he said.
"I know," Mulder said quietly.
"He asked me last night, what I would do if it were you." Skinner paused for
a moment. "I would have leveled the whole damned place, then sown salt on
the ashes while I drank their blood."
Mulder grunted. "That's a bit more graphic than I needed, thanks, Walt."
But his hand came up to rub very gently at the base of Skinner's skull.
"Let it go, Walt. You are who you are, Hamilton is who he is...and we're
all alive."
"Take me to bed and show me?" Skinner asked with a hint of a smile growing
as the muscles in his neck slowly relaxed.
"As long as you promise not to tell my mother," Mulder said as he stood up
and dropped his towel.
Hamilton and Krycek sat in frosted silence for nearly five minutes before
Hamilton broke. "What the fuck is wrong with you, boy?!"
"I'm not your 'boy', Hamilton," Krycek grated. "I don't need you looking out
for me, Daddy!"
"Coulda fooled me, boy. You'd be dead right now if I hadn't been looking
out for you tonight!"
Krycek shrugged, an ugly smile on his face as he stared into space. "Nah,
knowing Rico, I wouldn't be dead yet...not for hours. He had 'plans' for
me. I know, he told me. Sick fuck," Krycek added, almost meditatively.
"Jesus, Alex," Hamilton's strangled whisper finally caught Krycek's
attention and he looked at him.
"You don't get it, do you, Hamilton? I'm not a 'fixer-upper'. I'm never
gonna renounce my evil ways and go straight and use my powers for Good,"
Krycek sneered. "There is no good little boy under here, Hamilton. Just
beneath the surface of the mud is more mud, got it? So save us both some
trouble and let me walk out that door."
Hamilton's fist bunched on the table, knuckles going bloodless and white,
arm shaking with the intensity of his own grip. But when he spoke, his voice
was low and might have been mistaken for calm. "You don't get it, do you,
b...Alex?
"I don't want to change you. I never did. In case you missed something back
there tonight, I'm the one who just turned a Virginia estate into a pile of
smoking ash. And liked it. I don't want a 'good little boy'; I just want
you."
Krycek stared at him across the table. "Why?"
Hamilton stared back and shook his head slowly, no glib words rising to the
occasion. "I don't know. But I do."
Somehow, against the odds, that had been the right answer. He could see it
in the way Krycek's body suddenly slumped in his chair, his exhaustion
quenching the anger. "Shit," he muttered and Hamilton began to smile. He
stood up and tugged on Krycek's hand.
"Come on, time for bed, boy."
Krycek stumbled to his feet, frowning again. "Don't call me 'boy'," he
snarled then rocked on his feet.
Hamilton gathered him quickly to his chest and held him firmly. "Time for
bed, Alex."
"Better," Krycek muttered as Hamilton's hand came up to stroke his hair. "I
really hate the way you keep trying to take care of me," he mumbled as his
head was gently pressed to rest on Hamilton's shoulder.
"I'm just trying to pay my debts, Alex," Hamilton murmured, mouth against
Krycek's temple. There was an interrogative grunt as Krycek shifted his
head a little to press his face into Hamilton's throat. "Hey, the first
time I ever met you, you were saving my life. I figure I owe you."
Krycek lifted his head and foggy green eyes stared at him in consternation.
"You're insane," Krycek said after a moment's inspection.
"And you're only working that out now, boy?" Hamilton gently pressed his
lover's head back to the comfortable spot it had been in.
"Don't call me 'boy'," Krycek whispered, his arm curving around Hamilton's
waist.
"Come to bed, Alex," Hamilton said softly. "You can yell at me some more in
the morning."
"'Don't think I won't," Krycek warned sleepily as Hamilton smiled and
wondered if Krycek would ever be ready to hear all the silly, soft words
Hamilton had stored up for him. Probably not. He might even have to tie
Alex down...
Hamilton began to grin and plot as he steered his half-conscious lover down
the hall toward bed.
Part IV: Every Dog Will Have His Day
"What the hell happened?" Skinner mumbled, blinking at the light that seemed
to stab into his eyes. He tried to moved his right hand up to shield his
eyes and found that it was immobilized. He jerked slightly to free it and
had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out.
"Hey! Watch it! You've got a dislocated shoulder, Walt, just take it
easy." Mulder bent over him, one restraining hand on his unwounded
shoulder.
Slowly Skinner recognized his surroundings; another pale beige hospital
room, an IV in his left arm, his right arm strapped to his chest, thin
medicinal-scented blankets pulled up to his waist and a hell of a headache.
"Welcome back," Mulder said, unfamiliar lines beside his mouth easing some.
"Who hit me?" Skinner groused. Mulder smiled gently and said, "The Key
Bridge abutment, I think. What's the last thing you remember?"
Skinner closed his eyes against the fluorescent lights and tried to think.
He was comforted by the feel of Mulder's hand slipping over his. "I was
over at the Pentagon for some damned meeting, then I met Ham for lunch. We
were coming back when...?"
"When the Metro jumped the tracks and the car you were in rolled. You've
got a dislocated shoulder and a pretty good whack on the head. Walt, was
Sam with you?"
Skinner tried hard to think. He had a half-memory of he and Ham hanging
onto the same pole in the over-crowded car, discussing the Wizards' chances
against the Celtics that night. "Oh shit, I think so. Can you...?"
"I'm on it," Mulder said, already in motion. At the door, he stopped,
turned suddenly, then came back, closing it behind him. He bent over and
very gently kissed Skinner. "I'm glad you're OK. You scared the hell out
of me."
"Paybacks are a bitch, Mulder," Skinner said, eyes closing as Mulder's hand
stroked his cheek. The last thing he heard as he slipped back into sleep
was Mulder saying, "I'll be back soon," and that was a very good thing.
It took Mulder only twenty minutes and one temper tantrum to find Sam
Hamilton. Then he had to flash his badge just to be admitted to the ICU,
six floors above Skinner. Hamilton was lying very still, his normally tanned
skin looking very pale in the dim lights of the glassed-in room. There were
tubes and wires and sensors and electrodes hooked to him, needles in his arm
and the back of his hand. His face was bruised and his right eye bandaged
shut, the edges of a sutured wound just visible where the gauze ended. It
was muffled and quiet on the ward, with very few patients there, but Mulder
still couldn't hear his friend's breathing. There was no respirator;
Mulder hoped that was a good sign. He stood staring stupidly down, waiting
for Hamilton to grin and tease him for being taken in. After a few minutes,
Mulder pressed his hand on Hamilton's shoulder and went to go find a doctor
to interrogate.
When Skinner woke again, Mulder was sitting beside his bed, reading a
dog-eared copy of 'Cosmopolitan'. "You know, I always had a secret
suspicion that you read stuff like that," he said hoarsely.
"How else am I gonna learn how to 'Keep My Man Affair- Proof'?" Mulder
asked, holding up the cheesy cover and pointing to the article in question.
"Apparently, I'm supposed to encourage you to carry a trendy leather purse,
like the European men do, in the hopes of making all the other girls think
you're gay so they'll leave you alone." Mulder tossed the magazine aside
and poured a cup of water, dropping in a straw and holding it for Skinner
until he took a long draught.
"What happens if I refuse to carry the purse?" Skinner asked, pleased that
his voice sounded more normal now. His shoulder throbbed in a rhythmic
counterpoint to his head.
"I'm supposed to pout and claim that you don't love me," Mulder said
cheerfully. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a train. When can I get out of here?"
"Possibly tomorrow, more likely the day after," a new voice said. A
middle-aged man in doctors' scrubs wandered in, reading the chart in his
hand. "I'm Dr. Brackett, Mr. Skinner. How do you feel?" After establishing
that Skinner hurt like hell but could focus on the point of a pen and could
see colors from both eyes, the doctor wandered out again, promising to send
more painkillers. "A dislocated shoulder, a minor concussion, you'll be fine
in a week," he threw over his shoulder. Two more nurses bustled in, checked
his vital signs and drew more blood, fixed his blankets and fluffed his
pillows, chirping cheerfully all the while. Finally, they were left alone
again.
"If one more person asks me how I feel..." Skinner grumbled, annoyed by the
niggling suspicion that there was something he ought to be worrying about.
"You could armwrestle them," Mulder offered with wicked cheer, then his face
sobered abruptly.
"What?" Skinner demanded. Then he remembered. "Hamilton? Did you find
him?!"
Mulder nodded, eyes sliding off to look out the now darkened window, fingers
pleating the white cotton blanket beneath his fingers. "Walt, Sam's
upstairs. In ICU. He's got a hell of a head injury and he's still
unconscious. He may lose his right eye and they're not sure if there's any
brain damage. He had to be revived at the scene and they don't know how
much oxygen deprivation he suffered."
"Shit. It was just supposed to be a two-martini lunch, you know?" Skinner
whispered, staring at the far wall.
"I know," Mulder murmured, putting his hand on Skinner's shoulder. They sat
like that until Scully came in.
It was Scully who asked, "How do we get in touch with Krycek and let him
know what's happened?" She had just returned from her own visit to the ICU
and her face was tight and grim.
Mulder and Skinner stared at one another. Skinner shook his head and
immediately wished that he hadn't. "Ham never gave me Krycek's phone number
or address. I wouldn't know where to begin looking."
Mulder pursed his lips. "I do. When Krycek was grabbed at Christmas-time,
Sam told us that Krycek came home every night to him." He looked at his
watch. "7:00 o'clock. I'm going over to Sam's."
"Mulder, I could go," Scully offered, half-rising.
"No," he shrugged into his trenchcoat. "I think I'd better be the one to
tell him." With a long look at Skinner, Mulder left.
"He hates hospitals," Scully said apologetically.
"I know. So do I," Skinner said grimly, knowing exactly why Mulder had
fled.
Three hours later, Alex Krycek sat beside Samuel Hamilton's bed, having
spoken no more than four words since being told of the accident. The first
three had been, "Where is he?" The last word had been a clipped "No," when
told by the night nurse that he would have to leave. Mulder, watching
Krycek's pale face, had intervened at that point and explained to the nurse
that Krycek was a Federal agent assigned to guard this patient. She peered
doubtfully at Mulder's badge, then shot another hostile look at Krycek
before telephoning someone and apparently being told to cooperate. She even
went so far as to drag a hard plastic chair down the hall and thrust it
ungraciously at Krycek.
Krycek said nothing else. He placed the chair beside the bed, sat down and
stared at the opposite wall. He merely nodded when Mulder told him that he
was leaving.
Mulder went back downstairs and looked in on Skinner. He was asleep again,
lying on his back, a position Mulder knew he hated. A perverse rage woke in
him that Skinner should not be allowed to sleep how he chose, no matter what
his injury. He sat down beside Skinner's bed and stared at the opposite
wall, jaw clenched. Half an hour later, his cell phone rang and he could
not say what thoughts had been moving sluggishly around in the dark.
"Mulder? Go home," Scully said. He could hear a canned laugh track from her
TV in the background.
"How do you know I'm not already home?" he spoke quietly to keep from waking
Skinner.
"I know you," she said with a huff of exasperation. "Go home. Stop
mooning. He's fine."
He opened his mouth to tease, but what came out was, "I could have lost him
today."
Her voice softened. "I know. But you didn't."
"But..."
"What do you want, Mulder, some kind of guarantee? Accidents happen." Her
voice was crisp, a verbal smack on the rear. After a long moment, he sighed
and stood up.
"I hate Chaos Theory," he said conversationally, shrugging into his
overcoat. "I'm tired of random events."
"I know," Scully said more gently as he leaned over and touched Skinner's
bruised forehead in farewell, then left the room.
"I'd just like a little certainty in my life. I think it's time," he said,
waiting for the elevator.
"Join the club, Mulder," Scully said fondly. "See you tomorrow morning?"
"Bright and early. Thanks, Scully."
"Any time," she said and he could hear her smile.
He was walking toward his car in the half-empty gloom of the parking garage
when he saw the dark figure striding away from him. The coat was wool, not
leather, and it was gray, not black, but Mulder would have recognized Alex
Krycek in any set of shadows.
"Krycek!"
The other man jerked to a halt and spun to face him. "Get out of my way,
Mulder." His eyes were gleaming in the half-light and Mulder had the
impression that he wasn't really seeing anything beyond his own dark
thoughts.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Mulder stared at Krycek and spread his
hands out peaceably. "Why aren't you upstairs? Did something happen to
Sam?" A chill spread through him.
"Yeah, Mulder, 'something happened to Sam'. Someone put him in this hospital
and I'm going to find out who and make him pay." The mad glitter in those
wolf-like eyes made Mulder take a step back. Krycek was on a hair-trigger
and hell-bent for revenge.
"Krycek, I told you already, it was an accident. There's no one to blame
for this one."
Krycek snarled and pushed past him, now striding angrily in the opposite
direction from the way he had first been heading, but he didn't even seem to
notice. Mulder reached out and caught his sleeve. "Just calm down,
dammit!"
It was the wrong thing to say. Mulder knew that, even before the fist
slammed into his jaw. Bouncing off a parked car, he wondered why he was
even bothering to try to stop Krycek. He slumped, gasping, over the hood of
the car and felt the blood flowing from his nose, thick and hot. He saw it
splashing on the metal beneath him and suddenly, it was all that he could
see. There was a step behind him and he had turned and punched Krycek in
the gut before he even knew that his body was in motion.
The fight was short and vicious and there was no clear-cut victor until
Krycek stumbled and fell heavily to his hands and knees. "Come on, you son
of a bitch! This is what you want, isn't it?! Someone to hurt as much as
you do?! Well, here I am, Krycek!"
Krycek just shook his head, panting. He wouldn't look up and the slump of
his shoulders drained away Mulder's anger. "It was an accident, Krycek. An
honest-to-god, totally impossible to prevent, shit-happens accident.
Trust me, I checked it. Walt was on that train, too."
At that, Krycek looked up. He stared into Mulder's eyes for a long moment,
testing for truth and apparently finding it. A bruise was forming on his
left cheekbone and his lower lip was split. Those glittering eyes closed for
a moment, then he opened them again and nodded. Mulder leaned down and
carefully offered one hand. Krycek stared at it, then took it and heaved
himself upright. He wiped at his mouth and stared at the reddish smear on
his fingers. "You have a hell of a left jab."
"Walt's been teaching me to box." Mulder pulled out a handkerchief and
wiped at his own face, then grimaced at the resulting stain. They didn't
look at one another. Mulder said, "Come on home with me. Things'll seem
better in the morning."
"I doubt it," Krycek said flatly, then turned back toward the elevators.
"I'm going back upstairs."
"Krycek," Mulder said, and the other man stopped, but did not turn around.
"It really was an accident." Krycek nodded, then kept walking. Mulder
waited until the elevator had closed before turning to go home alone.
"What the hell happened to you?!" was the loving greeting Mulder got when he
arrived the next morning. Skinner pushed his half-eaten breakfast away and
stared meaningfully until Mulder came over and sat on the edge of the bed.
"I ran into a door," he offered. Skinner's inspection was quick, but
thorough. He ran careful fingers down Mulder's broken nose, gently prodded
his split lip and examined the knuckles of both hands before letting them go
and fixing Mulder with a reproachful look.
"C'mon, Walt, even my mother didn't look at me like that when I got
suspended for fighting."
"Your mother wasn't trying to teach you to throw a decent upper cut without
breaking your knuckles." Skinner smiled a little, then his gaze turned
serious. "What does the other guy look like?"
Mulder shook his head. "Like someone kicked his puppy."
"And his ass?" The gleam in Skinner's eye told Mulder that he knew exactly
what had happened and with whom.
Mulder shook his head again. "At least I didn't break his nose." Mulder
gingerly touched the wounded area in question. "He just needed to let off
steam and be convinced that this really was an accident, no great conspiracy
or assassination attempt."
Skinner shifted and winced. "I can understand his paranoia, though. How's
Sam?"
"Still unconscious. The doctor says it's just a waiting game now."
Krycek had never been good at waiting games. In the dank past, he had
fidgeted, shifted, sighed and gritted his teeth when his assignment was to
"watch and wait". But he had done it, because his employers had left him no
choice. Now, somehow, it felt like he had even less choice. No one would
order his death if he simply stood up and walked away from this. No one
would blame him, or question his professionalism or his loyalties to The
Cause. Maybe three or four people—Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter
Skinner.
Sam Hamilton.
Krycek shifted in his uncomfortable molded plastic chair and considered
Hamilton's slack features. He knew that his own face was expressionless, not
even his "game face" on—just nothing.
Hamilton wouldn't even blame him if he walked away. He knew that. In fact,
he knew that Hamilton had been waiting for the day that Alex Krycek never
showed up again. In some ways, that made the slow smile that bloomed on his
face every evening that much more ... Krycek didn't know what. All he knew
was that he felt like a cross between Santa Claus and a crack dealer
whenever he came home to Hamilton and saw that smile settle onto his tanned
face, take root in his dark eyes. Not relief, exactly, but Hamilton was
never complacent, never took Krycek's daily return for granted. And in the
night, deep in the night, he told Krycek why.
It had begun not long after his rescue from Rico Montrecini's mansion
several months ago. One night, Krycek had awakened to find himself securely
bound, hand and foot, to Hamilton's bed.
After a moment's flash of panic, he stopped thrashing and started thinking.
The cuffs around his wrist and ankles were leather lined with sheepskin,
specially designed not to bruise tender flesh. He was now naked, despite
having fallen into bed in his underwear. The room flickered with
candlelight and he could smell the spicy scent of Hamilton's preferred
massage oil heating somewhere nearby. He took a deep breath and willed
himself to relax—it was seduction, not abduction. He was certain of it
when Hamilton came back into the room.
"You're awake? That's good, boy. You wouldn't want to sleep through this."
"Don't call me 'boy'," Krycek said hoarsely, a little surprised. He hadn't
needed to remind Hamilton of that rule in weeks.
Hamilton smiled, a small, cool smile that sent a ripple of something that
might have been fear down Krycek's spine. "Don't go thinking that you make
the rules here tonight, boy. It's time we had us a little talk."
"About what, Daddy?" Krycek spit, feeling himself falling into Hamilton's
game easily, despite that disquieting frisson that something was different
tonight.
"About feelings," Hamilton had grinned evilly.
"What?!"
Hamilton settled onto the bed beside Krycek's naked hip; he was stripped to
the waist and he had oiled himself. Krycek's attention was caught by the
ripple of candlelight on muscle and he almost forgot the sense of jarring
danger. This was more than a seduction, suddenly, and he struggled briefly
and pointlessly. Hamilton had tied him down with scientific thoroughness,
even lashing down his upper arm above the amputation.
"Unh, unh, unh," Hamilton had warned gently, then run a soothing hand up and
down Krycek's chest. The warm stroke of oiled skin against his own settled
Krycek back onto the bed. Hamiton's familiar touch had meandered over his
chest and throat, stroking and caressing him until he had nearly forgotten
his lover's odd words. He felt himself hardening and squirming, almost
purring beneath Hamilton's warm hands.
"Feels good, doesn't it, Alex?" And Krycek, half-drugged with sensation,
had only nodded.
"But you don't like to talk about feelings, do you, Alex?" Krycek had
shifted restlessly on the bed but said nothing. He hoped to Christ this
wasn't what it was shaping up to be, some weird psycho-sexual encounter
group with Sam Hamilton asking him about his feelings while jacking him
off..
"That's OK, boy," Hamilton said softly, "I understand." He stroked one hand
down Krycek's left thigh, then slowly up his right thigh. "Not everyone can
talk about their feelings. It's not 'manly'. Hell, most of us don't even
know what we feel, half the time." He traced one finger slowly, achingly
slowly, up Krycek's cock. At Krycek's gasp, his kindly smile broadened a
little. "So I won't make you talk about your feelings," he said and gave
Krycek's cock two or three firm strokes that had Krycek gasping with the
promise of relief. "Instead," Hamilton said, moving to straddle his
captive's chest and stare down into the hazy green eyes, "I'm going to tell
you how I feel, boy."
His smile had widened at Krycek's anguished moan and his sudden bucking
attempts to free himself. One hand reached back and took firm hold of
Krycek's balls, his grasp just firm enough to freeze Krycek in place. "Stay
still," he suggested, then released him and leaned down to run his teeth
across the side of Krycek's throat. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you
are?" he whispered into Krycek's ear.
The torture had begun.
Krycek sat and stared at Hamilton's sleeping profile. The bulk of bandaging
over the right eye interfered with the broad line of Hamilton's forehead, so
Krycek slowly dropped forward, lowering his own head until the wound was
obscured beyond the edge of Hamilton's silhouette. Krycek found that if he
laid his head on the edge of Hamilton's bed, he could sit and watch Hamilton
without being distracted by the bruising or bandaging. He often watched
Hamilton sleep, awakening before the sun was up. This was almost like his
morning ritual and he found a parched comfort in it. Realizing this, he
heard himself make a choked noise and ruthlessly clamped down on it. He had
recently learned, to his cost, that if he let that sort of thing get away
from him, he would be lost. This time, Hamilton wasn't here to rescue him.
His fist clenched around the bedrail, bruised knuckles protesting and almost
offering enough distraction. In the end, it wasn't enough. One dry, tight
sob led to another and Alex Krycek felt all the newly-set pieces of his soul
separating and fracturing again.
In that moment, Krycek hated Sam Hamilton.
It was the sound of his own voice sobbing that had broken him before.
Hamilton had kept his body teetering on the sharp edge of orgasm for an
hour, ignoring Krycek's pleas and threats, laughing at his frenzied
thrashing and watching avidly as he gasped and writhed with pleasure. Worst
of all, the sadistic bastard kept talking. Hamilton had kept whispering
sweet, forbidden, insane things against Krycek's skin, next to his ear, into
his mouth.
So sweet, boy, you're so sweet
All I want, all I ever want
Beautiful and so sexy
Need you here, all the time
Don't leave me
I love you, Alex
He had thrashed hardest at that, moaning as Hamilton's hand had finally
tightened, finally stroked just the right way, finally given him the killing
stroke that cut him free and let everything in him pour out. He kept
gasping, trembling, bathed in sweat, waiting for the trembling to stop so
that he could begin cursing Hamilton for ever doing this to him. But it
didn't stop and it was Hamilton who first realized that Krycek was sobbing,
that his face was wet with tears, not sweat. It was Hamilton who quickly
slipped the straps free and then gathered Krycek's naked body against him,
cradling him against his chest as he shuddered and wept. Hamilton had held
him for hours, stroking him and soothing him, crooning nonsense, babbling
remorse and love and need until Krycek had slipped into exhausted sleep.
They had never spoken of that night. There had been no need. Alex Krycek
had been completely exposed then, all his defenses stripped away and Sam
Hamilton knew it. It hardly seemed to matter to him that he, too, had been
laid bare. They treated each other as gently as two burn patients, careful
not to hold too tight or prod at barely healed points. But Hamilton, the
bastard, wouldn't give up one thing; deep in the night, he lay beside Krycek
and whispered all those same sweet, poisonously addictive words until Krycek
no longer threatened or begged him to stop. He merely lay there and
listened and castigated himself for believing and kissed Hamilton's hair and
ear and knew he would never survive on his own now.
It was Mulder's hand on his shoulder that helped stop the debacle this time.
Somehow, that made it worse.
Showing more tact than he had ever thought the man capable of, Mulder said
nothing but urged Krycek up and out of the Intensive Care Unit. They made a
stop at the men's room and Krycek washed his face in cold water, noting
dispassionately that he looked like hell, with redrimmed eyes and
spectacular bruising coming up well on his bristly jaw. His hair was greasy
and lank and he had been wearing these same clothes for two days now.
Mulder still said nothing, just jerked his head toward the door and led
Krycek downstairs to the hospital cafeteria. It was nearly empty in the
mid-morning, so there was no one to watch them as they ate, chewing silently
and staring in opposite directions.
When they got back upstairs to the ICU, there was a flurry of activity in
Hamilton's alcove. Krycek shouldered past every white-coated obstacle until
he stood beside the bed. A bleary eye blinked and slowly focused on him,
then white teeth flashed.
"You don't look so good, boy," Hamilton rasped.
"Let me get you a mirror, asshole," Krycek growled, resting his hand on
Hamilton's forearm. He left it there as Mulder welcomed Hamilton back to
the land of the conscious, then took his leave. The two men said nothing
more; Krycek settled down beside the bed again and watched Hamilton drift
into a true sleep, hand still clasped on the only part of Hamilton's arm
that had no IV lines running into it. It was the nurse who later discovered
the five bruises on her patient's forearm.
Skinner's face lit with an undisguised joy when Mulder told him the news.
"He's too tough to kill," he said, "it'll take more than a train to take Sam
Hamilton out of the game."
"There's always Krycek," Mulder suggested, leaning against the wall and
watching as Skinner shifted and yanked irritably at the stupid patterned
hospital johnnie they had forced him into. At Skinner's questioning look,
Mulder said, "I think Sam may have met his match, Walt. Krycek was damned
scared and now he's angry at being that scared."
Skinner's face was now alert and focused. "Do you think he's in danger?"
"Sam?" Mulder mused, staring into space. "Well, he's decided to fall in
love with a trained assassin who has fewer morals than he does and who
equates caring with weakness. Sam has now exposed that weakness and Krycek
is seriously pissed. I think it's safe to say that Sam is in a world of
trouble, Walt." Mulder smiled gently. "But Krycek will never lift a hand
against him. Don't worry about that. Worry about whether he ever lets the
man out of the house again, instead."
Skinner ran his unbandaged hand over his head and sighed. "I miss Todd," he
said, remembering Sam's dead lover, who had been a calm, cheerful attorney
who rarely had crises of any sort and never emotional.
"So does Sam," Mulder said, then grinned, "but he seems to be having a hell
of a lot of fun, anyway."
Skinner had to smile back, then he realized something. "Why are you lurking
over there?"
Mulder straightened abruptly and shoved his hands in his pockets. The most
damning evidence was the way he wouldn't look at Skinner. "Um...A.D.
Cassidy and a few of the others from the office mentioned they would be
dropping by to visit you this morning. I didn't want them to walk in and get
the wrong..."
Skinner's jaw tightened. "The right idea, you mean?" Mulder shrugged, a
tight, unhappy look on his face.
"Come here," Skinner commanded; Mulder shook his head and held out until
Skinner said softly, "Please."
Mulder gave in and threw himself into the chair pulled up beside the bed on
Skinner's undamaged left side. Skinner took a firm hold of Mulder's hand
and squeezed it when Mulder would have pulled away. "Look Fox, don't you
think they know by now? Use your head. Who was the first person the
hospital called?"
"Me," Mulder said with a raised eyebrow. Then what should have been
blindingly obvious hit him. "You have me listed as your emergency contact?!"
"Well, who better, at this point?" Skinner asked in an annoyingly reasonable
tone.
"But..."
"Someone at work is bound to have noticed that we have the same telephone
numbers and addresses, don't you think?"
Mulder began swearing viciously and creatively. "I told you this would
happen!"
"And I told you I didn't care," Skinner said firmly.
Mulder stared at him hopelessly, then dropped his head to the bed and he sat
there shaking it. "You're insane, you know." Skinner put his hand on
Mulder's neck and massaged the tight muscles he found there. Mulder mumbled,
even as he arched his neck, "They're going to can both of us. I hope you
like life on unemployment."
"Fox, everything will be fine, I promise."
Mulder gave a muffled snort. "You must have some new definition for the
word 'fine' that I haven't heard yet. What the hell did they put in your
IV? "
"Trust me."
"I do; I always have," Mulder whispered. Skinner's hand stopped rubbing for
a moment, then he stroked his fingers once over the nape of Mulder's neck.
There was a shocked cough from the doorway and Mulder gave a groan. "It's
started, hasn't it?"
"Yup." But Mulder could hear the suppressed amusement in Skinner's voice,
so like Hamilton's when he was whipping up some deviltry. Without lifting
his bruised head, he asked, "Which of them is it?"
"All three of them. Kersh, Cassidy, and Jorgensen," Skinner said quietly,
then raised his voice to normal conversational levels. "Well, you might as
well come in. We have things to discuss." Then Skinner patted Mulder's
head, a clear signal to sit up, which Mulder did, fixing him with a stare
that he hoped would communicate exactly how much trouble Skinner would be in
when Mulder next saw him alone. There was a wholly unrepentant gleam in
Skinner's eye that suggested that he knew. Mulder bid him a sedate good-bye,
pointedly ignoring the rest of his superiors, and contriving to tread on
Kersh's feet on the way out of the now-crowded little room.
Mulder brought Skinner home the next day and god, it was good to be there.
Mulder smiled and brought him cups of tea, turned on ESPN, fed him Motrin at
reasonable intervals and puttered in the kitchen fixing Skinner's favorite
meals. Skinner spent a nervous eight hours waiting for the other shoe to
drop and finally cracked around 8 p.m., when Mulder actually bustled
through and brought him a cup of hot chocolate. With marshmallows.
"OK. That's it." Skinner muted the TV, then sat up and tried not to jostle
his still-tender shoulder. "What's with the June Cleaver act?"
Mulder stopped in the doorway and turned around, all trace of faux good
humor gone from his face. "I figured it made a nice counterpoint to your
"Father Knows Best" act yesterday."
"You're mixing up your sitcoms."
"What the hell gives you the right to make the decisions about our
future?!"
Skinner winced as Mulder's shout echoed and reverberated in his bruised
skull. He had to give Mulder points for going right to the heart of the
matter. "Look, Fox..." he began.
"Oh no. Don't take that reasonable tone with me. We're going to shout and
throw things about this, Walter. What the hell were you thinking!" Mulder
was uncomfortably close to the mantel, which held several heavy and
breakable objects and he looked more than capable of lobbing a few of them
to illustrate his point. "They fired you, didn't they?"
"No." Skinner had the fun of watching Mulder's next angry words pile up in
his throat. Finally, "Huh?" emerged.
"They didn't fire me. I resigned, effective one week after the end of my
disability leave."
Mulder sounded a little strangled. "You resigned?"
"In exchange for a complete lack of media attention and a very nice
severance package, I resigned."
"And me?"
Skinner shrugged, then wished he hadn't. "Your career is as secure as it
ever was." Which caused Mulder to smile a little; they both knew what that
was worth. "Don't look so tragic, Fox. We both knew that I was never going
to rise any higher after all the shit that's gone down. And we knew the
risks we were taking when we moved in together. They were bound to find out
sooner or later."
"But..." Mulder's brow was knit and his lower lip pushed forward; Skinner
would have cut his arm off before telling the man how adorable he looked,
but there it was. Christ, it was embarassing to be this besotted still.
"Sam and I were meeting that day to talk about some ideas we had for
retirement." Skinner held a hand out, silently inviting Mulder to come and
sit beside him. Slowly, Mulder did, that troubled look still darkening his
face even as he settled gently onto the other end of the couch. "Sam wants
to open a kind of private agency, one part security firm, one part detective
bureau..."
"One part anarchist's picnic," Mulder finished, shaking his head. Skinner
was silent, watching Mulder's face become focused and remote as his mind
worked over the problem, searching out alternate solutions, testing probable
outcomes. He could see the instant that Mulder accepted the proposal and
all that was implied but had not yet been said. "The severance package the
Agency gives me will provide a pretty good chunk of start-up capital,"
Skinner added.
"You're a manipulative bastard," Mulder said reflectively. But he slid over
when Skinner held out his undamaged arm.
"I wasn't trying to be, Fox. But when it hit me that we were out of the
closet anyway, I figured that I might as well go for broke. Cassidy and the
others showing up right then was just a..."
"Serendipity?" Mulder suggested with a sigh. Skinner nodded and started to
smile when Mulder finally let his head rest on Skinner's left shoulder.
They sat in silence for a while, then Mulder said reflectively, "I think
we'll need to work out a payscale for independent contractors; the Gunmen
don't come cheap and we really don't want them on the payroll."
"We?" Skinner asked softly.
"You don't think I'm going to hang around to work for Kersh again, do you?
Besides, someone's got to ride herd on you and Sam and I know Alex isn't
going to be any help there."
"You're going to be the voice of reason?" Skinner tugged on a lock of dark
hair and smiled at the idea.
"You want to go into business with a former Army Black Ops guy and an
ex-assassin. In this crowd, Walt, I am the cautious one."
"That's what scares me, Fox." But it wasn't fear warming his gut and
snuggling against his side. It was his future and Skinner thought he liked
how it was shaping up.
Home was strange, but good after the never-ending attentions of the nursing
staff at the hospital. Every two hours, they had wanted some vital sign,
some sample of blood, something to keep him from sleeping. It had brought
back some memories and nightmares that Hamilton had thought particularly
well-buried and he had not slept at all in the three days since he had come
out of his coma. Krycek had brought him home, scowling at Skinner's
suggestion that Hamilton come and stay with them for a few days.
Hamilton found Krycek's sullen care irritating, as if he were shrugging into
a new harness and waiting for it to wear properly enough to become familiar.
With one eye still bandaged, Hamilton was a bit unsteady on his feet, but
otherwise fit enough, in his own opinion, despite the occasional dizzy
spells. Yet Krycek hovered, always in the same room, watching him, unsmiling
and often unspeaking. He made quick forays out to get prescriptions filled
and groceries, but otherwise was a constant and largely silent companion. At
night, he held Hamilton, running meditative fingers through his hair, still
saying nothing.
Hamilton had fallen asleep on the couch to which Krycek had banished him
most of the two days since they had come home from the hospital. When he
awoke, Krycek was once again sitting across the room, not even watching the
muted television. Hamilton could feel the dark-ringed eyes fixed on him and
it irked him. Almost as much as the feel of the soft blanket Krycek had
thrown over him while he slept. Shit—he was being nursed, watched and
fed, tucked in like a little kid. He tried to get a hold on his temper,
figuring that he was being a little unreasonable, but that tenuous hold
slipped the instant that Krycek silently brought him a mug of tea. Herbal
tea.
"I am not drinking this shit," Hamilton announced, hoping to spark something
that would banish this careful stranger and bring back his snarling,
difficult, lively lover. The dark something lurking in Krycek's eyes looked
far too much like fear for Hamilton's comfort.
Krycek merely shrugged and put it down next to his own mug, clearly
intending to drink it himself without argument.
"I'm gonna get myself a scotch," Hamilton announced, beginning the
head-spinning process of getting off the couch. Krycek nodded and pretended
to read his book. Hamilton, who had a polished sense of the absurd, noticed
that it was his own dog-eared copy of 'War and Peace'. "Suit yourself,"
Krycek muttered. "Just give me a shout when you fall over," he added
nastily.
"I'm just fine," Hamilton growled, rocking a little on his feet before
walking over to the bar.
"Sure you are," Krycek agreed sourly. "You want me to read you the part
about 'no alcohol' from your discharge forms again?" But he didn't get up to
interfere, just sat there and watched, damn him.
Hamilton, who was finding it a little difficult to judge the distance from
the lip of the bottle to the glass with only one eye, merely growled. He
capped the bottle, then realized he had absolutely no taste for the drink he
had poured. In fact, the scent was nauseating him. It suddenly seemed like
a good idea to sit down again and he turned back toward the couch, leaving
the half-full glass behind him.
Somewhere along the way, things got remote and black. He found himself down
on one knee, Krycek's arms around him, holding him up as he took deep
breaths.
"You are such a pain in the ass, Hamilton!" Krycek snarled in his ear.
"Stubborn, stupid, pig-headed..." his voice trailed off as he heaved
Hamilton to his feet and carefully guided him back to the couch, lowering
him gently to the cushions.
Embarrassment got the better of him; his body had never betrayed him like
this and he hated it, hated that Krycek was the one to see him this weak.
"Well, if this is too much fucking trouble for you, boy, why don't you head
on home and I'll take it from here?!"
For a long frozen moment, they glared at one another. Hamilton became aware
that Krycek was now kneeling beside him, still gripping Hamilton's forearm.
His fingers tightened and dug in, slowly, inexorably, undeniably, nails
biting into tender flesh. Krycek's voice, when he finally spoke, was harder
than iron but somehow with a dangerous brittleness lurking somewhere just
beneath the words.
"Because this is it, you son of a bitch."
Hamilton blinked at him, only vaguely noticing that a few drops of blood
were now slipping down the skin of his forearm, beginning to drip onto the
leather. Krycek's eyes held him captive, even as that toneless voice began
again, breath hot against his face. "I gave up my apartment two months ago.
You're stuck with me until you're back on your feet. After that..."
It seemed like he could smell the scent of his own blood, twining with
Krycek's wild, forest-scented aroma. It cleared his head in a way nothing
else could have. He grabbed Krycek's chin in his hand and forced him to
look straight into his eyes. "If you leave me, I'll hunt you down and kill
you," Hamilton said gently, then stroked the hair back from Krycek's eyes.
That nameless something died in Krycek's gaze then, that small, furtive
frightened something was suddenly gone. What was left was the Alex Krycek he
had first met, bold, brash, impossible. But Krycek only nodded and said,
"You're bleeding on the couch." He let go of Hamilton's bloody arm and
slowly got to his feet. He looked at his stained fingers, then down into
Hamilton's face and smiled a very small, very real smile. Then he went to
get a towel.
Hamilton sat on the couch and casually wiped at the blood on his arm, then
smiled as he waited for Krycek to return. Home was strange, but home was
also very, very good.
A Dog in the Manger
by JiM
A low whistle. "Look what's a-coming up your front walk, Walter Skinner!"
"Revenge is a dish best served cold. You are cordially invited to an
Auction of Revenge. Come and bid on the opportunity to kill some of your
favorite enemies. High bid wins the right to execute public justice on your
purchase. Ten thousand dollars and this invitation offer you a front-row
seat at this exclusive event. Discretion is assured.
