He had no blood left when they found him. Not a single
spoonful remained within his body, every last drop had
fled from the violent intrusion of the cold steel into his
body, running as fast and as hard as his pounding heart
could push it from his veins.
Marble. He looked like marble, cold and smooth, and
faintly tinged with blue, the only color aside from that
pale, pale white. His hair was still a shock of dark, the
forelock falling down to kiss one closed eyelid.
It seemed wrong, somehow, that his eyes were closed, but
it was a mercy as well. To see them emptied, pitiless in
their accusatory lack of emotion would have been
unbearable. As it was, the lashes seemed to be pressing
themselves into a seam, sealing the flesh against a last
sighting.
The mouth was oddly slack as well, the corners still and
the center slightly compressed, as though Death had kissed
him too hard, had smudged ever so slightly the careful
sculpture it had made of this flesh, and then abandoned
the work as ruined, left it for mortals to find and wonder
at.
He looked dead. But not at peace. He had never, ever
looked at peace, and even the promise of eternal slumber
had not been enough to release his soul without the
struggle showing, imprinted now forever on a breath that
would never be released.
"Sir? Do you recognize the body? Agent?" The sheriff
looked at the man standing beside the autopsy table,
frankly puzzled. There had been nothing to identify the
victim, but a card was lying conspicuously on the bathroom
vanity. There was nothing on it but a name and a number.
Expecting to reach a home, the sheriff had been surprised
when a federal officer had picked up. Surprised again when
that agent had sworn him to do nothing with the body
except post a guard on it 24/7 until he could get there.
And now, here and looking at it, the sheriff had the final
shock when he realized the agent was weeping silently.
"Agent Mulder, should I...call someone?"
"There's no one to call."
As soon as he said it, Mulder realized it wasn't quite the
truth. There was one other person that should know, that
should bear witness to the powerful statement of this body
lying lifeless.
"Get out."
There was too much in the voice for the sheriff to take
offense at the curt order. If anything, he was relieved.
The whole thing was out of his hands now. Casting a last
look at the body, and wondering what the hell was so
special about it, the sheriff left, using his key while
idly noting that Agent Mulder had his cell phone out,
despite regulations. Willing to let it slide, the sheriff
closed the door, locking it behind him.
"It's me, Mulder. Get here." Barely allowing time for a
response, Mulder snapped the phone shut. He put it in his
pocket, drew up a chair, and then simply sat, waiting in
the dim light of the morgue, not moving, nearly as still
as the body on the table.
Thirty minutes later the door opened, and the sheriff,
confused to the point of apathy, admitted yet another
Federal Agent, this one an A.D. and every bit as frozen at
the sight of their John Doe as Agent Mulder had been.
Shaking his head, the sheriff closed the door behind him,
locking the two men in with the corpse, as per his orders.
Although what the hell reason there could be for locking
up a corpse, he couldn't begin to imagine. Still, there
must be something big going on for this kind of cloak and
dagger, top security bullshit over a dead man.
For a long time Skinner simply stood, looking down at the
form on the table. It seemed smaller, somehow. Shorter,
leaner, all the words that meant lessened, somehow
applied. The brown eyes scanned the face, the body lying
fully nude on the slab, the card in its evidence bag
resting beside the feet. The scars stood out, livid in the
pale fluorescent light, and the truncated left arm didn't
quite touch the steel under it. The muscle must have
cramped and shortened as rigor mortis set in. Skinner
observed all of this flatly, before clenching his fists so
tightly the joints protested audibly. Then, just as
suddenly, Skinner sighed, closing his eyes.
"Goddamn it."
It was whispered softly enough to be a prayer, and Mulder
mentally echoed it, nodding slightly as though in
agreement. He'd stopped crying, and now his eyes were as
flat and dull as Skinner's.
"Is it really him?" Skinner's voice sounded like a
dragging brick, but he got it out.
"Only one way to find out." The two men stared at each
other for a long time, each one loathe to be the first to
desecrate the sacredness before them.
At last, by some subconscious signal, they moved to the
body. Carefully, gently, as though afraid of waking a
sleeping infant, they turned him to his side, revealing
the base of the neck. Mulder pulled out a small zippered
case, removed a scalpel from it, and with a small sound of
pain he didn't bother to hide from his superior, slit the
uncaring flesh just above the seventh cervical vertebra.
He held the slit open with the scalpel and his fingers,
while Skinner withdrew a pair of tweezers from the case,
and began to probe within it. After a moment, his eyes
flashed up to Mulder's, and he carefully withdrew a tiny
chip. A small vial from his coat pocket held the chip, and
then Mulder put his equipment away. They turned him back
over, with even more gentleness than before, and Skinner
fetched a sheet from a stack nearby. Together, they spread
it out, covering the cold naked flesh, all but tucking it
in. Once he was covered, Mulder went first.
He leaned forward, brushed his lips across the smooth
forehead, careful not to disturb that dangling forelock,
and with tears again falling, spoke quietly.
"Goodbye, Alex."
Standing, Mulder turned his back on the body and moved to
the door, knocking twice.
"Take as long as you want." He said it to the glass, but
Skinner nodded anyway. The door was unlocked, Mulder
exited, and Skinner was again locked in.
Looking down at the body, Skinner reached out a shaking
finger, tracing the ridge of one eyebrow, the line of that
oddly innocent nose, across the sweep of a cheekbone that
stood out much more sharply than he remembered. Skinner
simply stared, for a very, very long time, ignoring the
tears that dripped down his face, the harsh panting sounds
of his own weeping, the burning of his nerves as they
demanded he do something, anything at all. He simply
stared, until he couldn't look any longer at that horribly
similar and terribly wrong face. Placing his palm where
the strong, steady pulse should be, Skinner let the hollow
emptiness seep up through the painful quiet, up his arm,
where it flooded his chest before enveloping his soul.
Skinner had time for one bitter, angry, heartbroken
phrase, before he drowned in the cascade.
"Bastard."
Snatching his hand away as though burned, Skinner turned
his back, rapped the door hard enough to break the skin on
two knuckles. When the door was opened, Walter Skinner
strode out the door, not looking back, not listening to
the metallic clang as the door sealed shut for a final
time behind him.
Mulder was in the car, in the driver's seat, staring out
the windshield at nothing. Skinner got in, slammed the
door shut, and buckled his seat belt. They didn't speak.
They didn't talk all the way back to the Bureau, they
carefully did not speak as they then rode up the elevator
together. In silence they handed the sheriff's documents
to the proper division, and in more silence, waited as the
other made a full report. When both reports had been
given, written up and signed, they again walked in silence
out the door, where they went their separate ways.
It was only that night, hours later, that they spoke.
"Skinner." The voice sound had a flatness that couldn't be
accounted for by the smallness of the cell phone.
"Eight-thirty."
"Eight-thirty."
It was all they said, but Mulder felt the weight of the
conversation all the way to the Lone Gunmen headquarters.
They arrived at nearly the same moment, and were admitted
without undue hassle. Entering the main room, Byers
stepped forward, gesturing to the computer set up in a
small room they used for their most private work.
"We converted it for you. It's all in there. We made no
copies, and the original chip is right here." He held it
out, and when neither Mulder nor Skinner moved to take it,
cleared his throat uneasily. "We'll be happy to hold onto
it for you, of course." Byers put the small vial back into
his pocket, and gestured to the room again. "You'll have
complete privacy, my word on that."
A stony gaze and a half-nod was the extent of the thanks
he got, but he hadn't expected that much, so he didn't
mind. Skinner and Mulder entered the room, closing the
door behind them. Frohike keyed the white noise and the
privacy mode, and headed off to make some coffee.
In the room, Mulder sat at the keyboard, by silent
agreement, while Skinner took the chair beside him. A
glance showed that Skinner could see the entire screen,
and Mulder typed in the start sequence.
There were reams of data, they expected that. The file
directory that came up was extensive and well-labeled,
letting them see at a glance exactly what they were
getting. They scrolled through it, until they reached a
folder labeled "IMDEAD".
Taking a deep breath, Mulder opened it. Seconds later,
Alex appeared on the screen. He was sober, somber, badly
lit and poorly miked, but it was unmistakably Alex. After
a moment, he raised his eyes, staring straight at the
camera.
"If you're seeing this, then you know I'm dead, and you've
recovered the body. No doubt you're wondering what
happened, what I was thinking, the usual questions. You
want answers? Tough shit. Find them yourself. It didn't
matter while I was alive, why should it matter now that
I'm not? No, this isn't a healing, Oprah moment of tearful
confession, where suddenly I make sense to you." The face
twisted into a familiar sneer. "Fuck that. This is a
warning. Cremate me. It's the only way to make sure I'm
really gone, and that I'm going to stay gone. You know the
reasons, you know what I'm capable of just as an ordinary
man. Now imagine me as something more."
Green eyes glittered balefully, and Mulder and Skinner
both felt a sickening chill. But then, the face changed,
shifted just a bit.
"I am, you know. Just an ordinary man. Nothing special, no
altered DNA sequencing, no enhancements, nothing. Just
flesh and bone and blood." He gave a sharp sound that
wasn't quite humor. "A lot of blood, I would imagine. It
took me a while, to figure out how, you know? I could slit
my stump, that was no problem." He made a slashing motion
down the length of his left arm with his empty right hand,
stopping at the elbow. "But the right arm, that was the
problem. I couldn't hold the knife well enough in my mouth
to really be sure I dug deep. Thankfully, even fleabag
hotels have a showerhead. A good knife, a little duct
tape, problem solved."
Alex raised his right hand over his head, bringing it down
in a slow steady pull, as though imagining the flesh
resisting. He then sat back down in the chair, the nearly
feverish glow of his eyes fading to dullness.
"And don't even think of asking why. Why is not the
question. Why the hell did it take me so long, now that's
a question." Alex grinned, a real honest grin, and taken
with the words, it was nearly too painful to watch. "And
there are the other questions, the ones we've never talked
about, never hinted at. Did I ever really love you? Did
you really love me? Did it make a damn to me, either way?
Did I think about you, at the end? As the last bit of my
vision faded to black, did I see your face? Did I use my
dying breath to whisper your name?"
Alex looked deeply thoughtful for a minute, then started
to laugh, a harsh, ugly sound, full of mockery and rage.
"How the fuck should I know? If it matters to you, then
think what you like. It sure as hell doesn't matter to me.
I'm in hell, and you're left with a lovely faux granite
urn of my ashes. What are you going to do with my ashes?"
Alex looked honestly curious, and then he grinned again.
"You want my opinion? Take a piss in 'em. It's the closest
you'll ever get to using my body again, so hey, enjoy."
Alex gave a vicious smile, and waggled his eyebrows
suggestively, then sighed.
"Well, time's up. Literally. I'm going to go run a nice
hot bath, do a little creative body modification. Last
words? Hmmm, let's see, what would be an appropriate
epithet for a RatBastard? Krycek's famous last words...
How about, 'I know something you don't know.'" Alex ended
the little sing-song taunt with a full laugh, head thrown
back. He reached out to the side, hit a button and the
screen faded to black.
The two men sat there for long moments, just staring at
the black screen. Finally, in a voice that could have been
stretched steel, Skinner asked, "How expensive is that
monitor?"
"It's not." Mulder, having popped the disk out and put it
in his pocket, answered in a voice that was nearly a
match. He stood up when Skinner did. Without a word, both
men drew their service revolvers, and emptied every round
in the chamber into the screen.
When the bullets ran out and there was only a frustrated
clicking left, a cautious voice reached them.
"Mulder?"
Opening the door, both men strode out. Byers was standing,
staring in stark horror at his computer screen.
"What the hell-"
"Charge a new one to my credit card, I know you've hacked
the number." With that mutter, Skinner marched out, Mulder
right behind him.
They strode to their separate cars, driving away without a
backward glance, each heading in the opposite direction of
the other, but as fast as the cars would go.
Mulder drove for hours. He didn't stop to eat, didn't even
notice that he was hungry or that he needed to use the
bathroom or that his previously full tank was nearing
empty. It was only the shrill chirping of his cell phone
that roused him from his cocoon of rage and pain. Hitting
the button out of habit, he forced himself to focus,
slowing down and aiming the car for the next exit.
"Mulder."
"Saturday. 2 p.m."
"Sure." He clicked it shut, throwing it to the seat beside
him and pulling into a gas station. Mulder got out, and
started pumping. He was going to need a lot of gas if he
was going to outrun this demon.
In his apartment, Skinner listened to the dial tone, not
caring that Mulder had just hung up on him. He'd gotten
home to find a message from the coroner's office,
informing him of when the body would be ready. Skinner had
made a few calls, arranged a cremation. The ashes could be
retrieved Saturday morning. That would give him just about
enough time. He called Mulder to tell him when. It was
understood that Mulder would know where.
Hanging up the telephone, Skinner slumped in his chair,
staring out the windows, out onto the balcony, out into
the black of the night. His whiskey sat untouched. The
revolver was on the table beside it, mockingly empty.
Skinner stood slowly, with great difficulty. His body felt
stooped and cramped and his joints ached, but there was
nothing physically wrong. It was his soul that was hurting
him, that had aged him suddenly, stealing his vigor, his
strength, his life. The word alone made him cringe out
loud, and he gasped, reaching out with one hand to steady
himself against the wall, before slumping down on the
stairs.
There was only one real thought in his mind, but it
echoed, louder and louder and with more and more urgency:
Alex. Just his name, repeated in a mantra of hopeless
need. The lack of an answer, beyond the word never,
brought him to his belly, lying on the stairs in a
crumpled heap, sobbing into the treads.
Saturday afternoon, at precisely two p.m., two men stood
in a small hotel room. It was cheap, anonymous, and still
reeked rather strongly of its previous occupants. The
bedclothes had been changed, but the new sheets were so
old and carelessly cleaned, it hardly mattered.
Skinner had placed the box on top of the dresser, the only
other furniture in the room. Together, they opened it,
lifting out the urn and setting it down carefully in front
of the mirror.
It was plain metal, cheap and unadorned, a basic gun-
colored grey. It was cold to the touch, and scarcely
reflected any light at all, despite someone's attempt to
make it appear polished.
"It suits him." Mulder stated it almost idly, staring at
the plain cylinder.
"Yep." Skinner moved the case to the floor.
Mulder turned away from the urn, walking over to the bed.
He sat down, and slowly began taking off his shoes.
Skinner took a seat beside him, toeing off his own shoes
without regard for the lacings. Skinner raised his hands
to his shirt next, while Mulder opted to take off his
socks. They finished with their pants, standing up to take
them off. Soon, both men were standing face to face,
equally nude, and uncaring about being so.
"Ready?" Skinner asked it quietly, and Mulder closed his
eyes, nodding faintly.
Drawing back his hand, Skinner slapped Mulder hard, right
across the face. It took him down to the bed, the weight
of Skinner's grief giving the blow more force than usual.
Skinner followed Mulder onto the bed, and pinned him down,
roughly shoving the younger man's legs apart. He used one
hand to position his cock, then simply stabbed in,
ignoring Mulder's sound of pain. Skinner allowed him no
time to adjust, just began thrusting short and shallow
into the body faintly struggling underneath him. Soon,
Mulder was thrusting up to meet him, bucking to raise his
ass for the cock now going long and deep.
They said nothing to each other, and it would never have
occurred to either of them to kiss. They didn't even
touch, connected only by a cock laboriously fucking a
hole.
Mulder was jerking himself off slowly, his cock only half-
erect at best. Seeing this, Skinner nodded pointedly at
it, and Mulder gave a slightly frustrated sigh, and picked
up the pace, stroking himself more firmly, with a definite
rhythm. It had the desired effect, and soon, Mulder was
panting, needing only a few more strokes to finish
himself.
Skinner, sweat dripping off his forehead onto Mulder's
chest, saw the signs, and increased his own tempo.
"Alex!"
Both men cried it, and then began to cry, the orgasm over
nearly before it began. Neither one had the heart for it.
Separating their bodies, they were now lying on their
sides, facing each other, but not touching; knowing they
would never touch again, could never touch each other
again, so long as they were both alive, they wept.
Mulder finished first, but he was too tired to move, and
so he simply closed his eyes and allowed Skinner's choking
sobs to move him, too.
When Skinner had finished, Mulder continued to lie beside
him, eyes closed. He was doing the same thing Skinner was,
seeing this room the way he had that first night. The
first, but not the last, not by any means. No, there had
been many nights, and even more days. Mulder saw himself,
hopeful and yet reserved. He saw Alex, looking so pale and
jewel bright in the tawdry setting, all innocent
earnestness and shyly eager. Alex, lashes flickering like
candlelight, mouth an open prayer, body a sacrament. It
was wrong to take him, obscene to take him here, in this
ugly dark room with its scratchy sheets and vomit-stained
rug.
Worse yet, to leave him there like a common whore when the
hour was up, and drive back to the Hoover building, back
to the office, the memory of those green eyes so vividly,
urgently alive, as though rushing to live, hurtling
headlong in a desperate need to be fully, completely
alive.
Dead. Alex was dead, and this room was no longer a church
and the bed no longer an altar and the only things
sacrificed on it were time and money.
Skinner, his thoughts an exact mirror of Mulder's, gave a
deep sigh, and reached for his glasses on the floor by the
bed. It was Mulder's cue, and now they dressed in silence,
not even bothering to try and clean up in the broken sink
near the mildewed toilet.
Once dressed, their eyes met for the briefest of moments,
sharing everything that wasn't being said. It threatened
to turn verbal, and both men looked away, habitually
patting themselves down to make sure that nothing had been
left behind. Seeing that they had everything, both men
turned, and cast a final painful gaze at the urn, before
walking out and away, leaving it there.
The funeral was over.
THE END.
Faith No More
by Raven
Spend all your time waiting for that second chance
For the break that will make it OK
There's always some reason to feel not good enough
And it's hard at the end of the day
I need some distraction or a beautiful release
Memories seep from my veins
Let me be empty and weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight
In the arms of the Angel far away from here
From this dark, cold hotel room, and the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent revelry
You're in the arms of the Angel; may you find some comfort here
So tired of the straight line, and everywhere you turn
There's vultures and thieves at your back
The storm keeps on twisting, you keep on building the lies
That you make up for all that you lack
It don't make no difference, escaping one last time
It's easier to believe
In this sweet madness, oh this glorious sadness
That brings me to my knees
In the arms of the Angel far away from here
From this dark, cold hotel room, and the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent revelry
In the arms of the Angel; may you find some comfort here
You're in the arms of the Angel; may you find some comfort here
"Angel"—Sarah McLachlan
