Formerly Unsuspected
by JiM
It took a couple of months for him to regain enough muscle tone to walk
steadily again. We saw the Finnish winter crackle and melt away slowly
from a rented cottage close to the hospital where I'd first brought
him. The medical team monitored him closely, putting him through hours of
physical therapy and tests. He was no less eager than they and
everyone was pleased with his progress. By the first of June, the doctors
pronounced him fit enough to travel and David Winterborn and his faithful
partner, Alec Barnes, took off for Paris.
'David'. I can't quite manage to make myself say it and believe it.
He's Skinner and always will be. Although, those first few days, I just
couldn't quite wrap my head around the idea that I was sleeping in
Walter Skinner's bed, in his arms and he wanted me there. It wasn't like
before, when he needed someone, anyone, and I just happened to be there.
Hell, I pushed myself on him, I know that.
But after the hospital, I wasn't pushing any more. I didn't have to.
One month out of the hospital and he's sucking my cock like a pro. I
never asked him for that. He decided all on his own that this would be
part of our new selves. He spent a lot of those first days lying on his
back, exhausted from therapy, working out all the details of our new
identities. I had the paperwork but I hadn't cobbled together any
coherent life histories; these were both merely back-up identities that I
hadn't planned on ever using.
But Skinner is methodical and detail-oriented. He constructed our
lives as carefully as any deep cover assignment, then we began to live
them. He shocked the hell out of me. Somewhere in there, he decided that
David Winterborn had had a mid-life crisis after the death of his wife
and had discovered that he was in love with his younger business
partner.
So he started behaving as if he were in love with me. In a very hung
up, straight-man-starting-to-come-out kind of way. He held my hand
sometimes, especially if it was a tough bout of therapy. The therapist
and nurses merely smiled gently and thought it was cute. He would wind
his arm around my waist while we were out walking the grounds, leaning
on me when he got tired. He brushed a kiss across my cheek or mouth
most evenings when I left him at the hospital, or he'd smooth my hair out
of my eyes carefully. Once we moved into the cottage, he made it clear
that he expected us to sleep in the same bed.
I didn't mind. I actually don't like sleeping alone. He's a quiet
sleeper and scrupulously polite in bed, never steals the covers or sprawls
into my space. He likes to cuddle, I discovered, even when he's not
dying.
And he seems to like oral sex a lot. I figured he wanted it when he
asked me to stay and 'help' him. But I admit, he surprised the shit out
of me the first night he reached down to feel me up. That was a hell
of an evening.
First he finds out that I don't get hard when I'm bringing someone else
off. There was a lot more discussion about that than I needed. He
ended it abruptly, saying, "Not acceptable, Alex." Jesus, his face was
grim when he said that and I felt like beating the shit out of him and
explaining between punches exactly why giving blow jobs isn't much of a
thrill for me any more.
Then he slides down and starts lapping at me like a kitten, all short,
clumsy licks and tastes. I know I made some stupid squeaking noise
because he grinned, even as he was sucking my cock into his mouth for the
first time. It wasn't a good blowjob, but he learned the tricks pretty
quickly and I'm not sure which of us was more dazed when he slid up
beside me again, lips shiny and slick with my come.
I think it was me.
So much about me he doesn't know. The 'Alec Barnes' cover story he
knows by heart. He sleeps beside me at night. He buys me shirts that are
easy to button with one hand. But there's so much he doesn't know.
He doesn't know that I like to sit and watch him eat, the smooth
exchange of utensils like a victory dance. He drinks something deeply,
swallowing easily and carelessly, and I am left grinning like an idiot and
can only shake my head when he says "What?"
He doesn't know that I sent Mulder a postcard about a year after we got
here. Something about the last time either of us saw Mulder has stuck
with me. The look on his face as he left, knowing he'd never see
Skinner alive again—it stabbed at me sometimes, late at night. So one
day, when I was in Wellington on business, I bought a cheap post card
showing a simple beach scene on the western side of the island; we took a
short vacation up there just before we moved to the farm. Before I
really had time to think, I scribbled,
/Mulder—
He's in a much better place now. If it helps, think of him here. I
know you don't have much reason to, but trust me on this./
I didn't sign it. I figured that Mulder would understand; it was the
best I could do for him.
Skinner has never mentioned Mulder or Scully to me, beyond asking me to
make certain that his will was probated correctly. It was, and some
dead junkie received a military funeral in Skinner's place; his ashes
take up space in a modest urn in a cemetery outside of Arlington.
He doesn't know that, either.
He knows something about my childhood. I know more about his, but
then, I read the files. We talked a lot, trading stories, figuring out what
could be woven into our new identities and what would have to never be
spoken of again. We went to Paris first and I picked up a small but
very valuable packet of papers "inherited" from one of the dead
Consortium controllers. Then we rented a car and took a leisurely drive to a
certain banking house in Switzerland. I think it was that long drive
that actually laid the foundations for our friendship, more than anything
that had gone before.
That was the first time I heard him laugh aloud for no other reason
than good humor. We ate enormous meals on the road; it seemed like he was
always hungry. I would sometimes catch him, those first few days, just
taking deep breaths and flexing his hands. He still walked with a cane
but he was regaining his balance and agility quickly.
His mental agility was never in question, however. He and my Swiss
banker nearly came to blows over investment strategies for that packet of
bonds and certificates, but Skinner managed to put together a hell of a
portfolio and the Swiss accepted a commission lower than any I'd ever
paid. We toasted that achievement over beer in Munich and pastries
across half of Austria.
He didn't put on much weight, despite the feeding frenzy. His doctors
had warned me that he would never regain the kind of muscular
development he had had before. But he had lost that pallid bony look that had
shocked me the first time I'd helped him strip down. There was some
padding there now and I wasn't being stabbed by his hipbones when we lay
close together anymore. His body was a pleasure to look at again and I
made sure to indulge myself. I even bought him decent clothes, silk
and leather and anything that wasn't his starched Fibbie uniform, just to
show him that he didn't have to dress like Walter Skinner any more.
David Winterborn just shook his head and wore anything his lover laid out
for him in the morning.
I think that I realized that I loved him one afternoon as we walked
slowly down the main avenue at Angkor Wat. I don't remember what I said,
exactly. Probably some smartass comment comparing the herds of
tourists with the troops of monkeys bouncing through the trees around us. But
suddenly, he was grinning at me and then he reached out and ruffled my
hair.
Such a small, fucking stupid gesture and I was nearly in tears from it.
It was so normal. No one had treated me like that since high school
and even then, I was only pretending to be normal. Alex Krycek could
never have that with a friend or a lover; that man had always had to
watch his back, to sleep with one eye open, to keep his lovers' hands in
sight at all times, knowing that the betrayal would come from the
direction he least expected. But Alec Barnes, he could crack stupid jokes
and get cuffed on the head and laugh aloud and never once wonder where
the threat was. Skinner has given me the chance to be Alec Barnes and,
no matter what happens, I will always be grateful for that.
But that day scared the shit out of me. I spent the next few days
trying to stay as far away from him as humanly possible, which is tough
when two people are sharing a bed. He spent a lot of time watching me
with his brows knit together, but he said nothing. He just kept up his
David Winterborn act, friendly and attentive, the picture of a
comfortably well-off man lounging around the world with his lover.
I decided in Sydney that it was time to leave him. I would find some
place quiet and safe for him, get him set up, then leave. My job would
be finished once he had a new life. Then I could go back to mine.
That was the plan, anyway, at least until I got myself poisoned.
He found me on my knees in the bathroom of our hotel room, eyes
streaming, head pounding, just waiting for the retching to begin again. I
have only felt that bad one other time in my life and I was in the same
damned position—hands and knees, every muscle in my gut cramping.
Coughing up that black oil alien had felt pretty much like this; at least
this time, nothing was running from my ears. Small comfort, I thought,
the spasms beginning again.
Then there was a hand on my forehead and one supporting my chest and I
could really give myself up to the misery. When it finally stopped, I
slumped against the tub, hoping that death would come soon. Skinner
wiped my face down with a damp cloth and the chill of it seemed to get
deep inside me and that's when I started shivering. He held a glass of
water to my mouth and got me to swallow a few sips, but they came right
back up.
I was too dizzy to stand on my own and he was still using that damned
cane; somehow he got me to a bed. He made a phone call, then got me
half undressed and took off my prosthetic. I don't know how long it took
the house doctor to arrive; I was too busy moaning and clutching my
gut. He was jovial and thorough, nimbly getting a basin under my head
the next time the spasms hit, clucking professionally over the stump of
my left arm, peering quickly into my eyes and ears. He poured a few
drops of something reddish into a half a glass of water, then fed it to me
a spoonful at a time. It tasted like ouzo and it stopped the next wave
of cramping like magic. You have to love opiates.
The doctor left soon afterward, telling Skinner it was nothing more
serious than food poisoning and to keep me quiet and warm for the next 48
hours. That wouldn't be too hard if he kept spooning that damned elixir
into me; it already had me warm and floaty. At least I didn't give a
damn about all the muscles I had just pulled or the fact that I had been
rolling around and whimpering like a poisoned dog only minutes before.
"Sorry about this," I said hoarsely. My throat felt burned raw by all
the bile I had coughed up.
"I told you not to order the shellfish." Skinner grunted as he
straightened the covers around me.
"Sure. Blame the victim."
"Didn't you ever learn the rule about never eating shellfish in a month
without an 'R'?"
I shook my head, then immediately regretted it. At my groan, he came
over and sat on the edge of the bed. He brushed my hair off my damp
forehead and pressed his lips together. "You look like hell."
"Funny thing..." I wanted to shake his hand off, to tell him to stop
with the Winterborn act, to put some distance between us. But I didn't.
I was too sick, too weak, too miserable to do anything but close my
eyes and let him stroke my clammy forehead until I fell asleep.
After that, I just sort of forgot to leave.
Two weeks later, on a day trip out into the countryside from
Wellington, New Zealand, I saw the farm. As a farm, it wasn't really much—a
couple of macadamia trees, a small spring fed pond, three or four
pastures and some idiot software developer's idea of a rustic little
farmhouse. The house had a satellite dish, three bedrooms, four bathrooms and a
hot tub. The bank owned it and no one had even looked at it in two
years. The next neighbor down the valley was paying a nominal rental fee
for pasturage, but it had nothing much to offer a serious farmer. It
was about an hour and a half outside of the capital and four miles off
the highway and days could go by without seeing another person. In
other words, it was perfect.
I bought it the next morning while Skinner was out for a walk.
Security systems were in place within two days while we checked out the
beaches on the other side of the island. When we got back to Wellington, I
took Skinner out there and watched his reactions to it carefully. It
suddenly struck me as a stupidly romantic gesture and I guess I was
quieter than usual. So was he. We walked the entire property line, looked
over the whole house and the two outbuildings before he said anything.
And when I handed him the keys, all he said was, "Thank you, Alec."
But there was a look in his eyes I had never seen.
We moved in that week. The neighbors, Jim and Laura Brewer came over
the morning they saw the truck from the furniture store. If they
thought it strange that we had bought all new furniture and had no personal
items of any kind, they never mentioned it. They were friendly,
hard-working and incurious. The only thing they really wanted to know was if
they could keep pasturing their herd of sheep and long-haired goats on
our property. I looked at Skinner, he shrugged, the sheep stayed.
Medical treatments and our wanderings across Europe, Asia and Australia
had taken a significant bite out of the money Skinner had paid me for
his little list. Buying the property took the rest and emptied most of
my prior ready cash reserves. It would take a few years for the
accounts in Switzerland to start really paying off, so I decided to just stay
where I was for the time being. You can live fairly cheaply in New
Zealand, if your needs are modest.
Skinner was good company and we actually lived together peaceably
enough. Even the sex was good, although we slept in that bed a hell of a
lot more than we did anything else. Neither of us is young and sex is
fraught for both of us. He never planned on being gay and I never
planned on... him. Any of it, really. But it's good to sleep beside someone
in the night.
The past sometimes ambushed him. Something would set him off, an
article about the United States or a true crime show on TV or some other
damned thing would send him into a spiral and he'd spend two or three days
grim-faced and silent. I think he hated me sometimes, for being a
reminder of a past he didn't want to face. But no more than he hated
himself. I just left him alone when it hit him; I've got a past, I know
what it's like.
Then he'd snap out of it again and David Winterborn would reappear,
relaxed and smiling, and we'd be fine again until the next time. Maybe I
should have had them wipe his memory when they were fooling with the
rest of his neural chemistry.
We both got bored after a while. There are only so many healthful
walks in the country you can take. Skinner was worse than me, for all that
I'm more able-bodied. Farming was right out and neither of us is good
with sheep. Eventually, I remembered what I do best—finding
information and selling it at a reasonable price. I started a small business
and began making a modest income as a security consultant. Skinner kept
the books and occasionally consulted; keeping abreast of New Zealand
tax law for resident aliens took up more than half his time anyway and he
was adamant about staying on the right side of the law in this new
life.
We went into the city sometimes, watched a movie or a play. He has
this thing for abstract art and the museums are pretty good there. We got
friendly with the Brewers and a few other neighbors along the valley.
One or two were nasty about having a couple of gay neighbors, but on the
whole they were friendly enough, willing to leave us in privacy.
It was good. Sometime during our second spring there, I realized that
I was content. It was a Monday morning and I was bitching about the
weather and Skinner was grunting replies at reasonable intervals as he
read the morning paper and drank his coffee. And that's when it hit me—
Alec Barnes had a life; a home, friends, a job... hell, he was almost
married. It was so fucking domestic that I started laughing and
couldn't stop, not even when Skinner glared at me over the paper and
ostentatiously sniffed at my coffee, checking for drugs.
I should have known it couldn't last.
It was a cool Sunday afternoon when Jim Brewer found him lying in the
dust at the foot of the front stairs. Skinner was half-conscious when
Jim picked him up and at first, he thought he was drunk. Skinner
couldn't stand and he kept slurring his words. Jim said that his hands were
shaking like a man with the DT's but there was no scent of alcohol on
him. They got him inside and were just debating whether or not to call
an ambulance or drive him into Wellington themselves when I walked in.
I stopped in the doorway and had to grab the frame.
I knew what it was. Christ, there was no way I could mistake that
pallor to his skin or the tremor in his hands, the muscles of his arms
rippling and twitching. His breathing was labored and it cost him some
effort to open his eyes and meet my gaze.
"S'come back."
I nodded, not knowing what to say. Jim and his hired man were still
there watching me, Laura Brewer was in the kitchen making tea, and Death
was somewhere close.
Skinner's lips curved a little. "Three years. 's a pretty good
score."
I shook my head, fingers still locked on the doorframe. "How bad is
it?"
"S'bad as zat las' day. Worse," he said and then licked uselessly at
the corner of his mouth. Somehow, that freed me and I went to sit
beside him, nudging him over on the wide sofa. I took the bandanna from my
pocket and dabbed at the slow trail of saliva that had begun to slip
from the side of his mouth.
"Alex..." Never, not in three years, had he slipped and used my name
in public like that. He saw my shock and smiled a little. "Doesn't
matter now." His face grew deadly serious. "You remember the last job I
paid you for? The one you screwed up?"
Eventually, I felt my head shaking back and forth. But I said, "You
got more than your money's worth. Stop complaining."
That barely-there smile again. "Wanna hire you again."
"Shit, Skinner, you can't afford me any more."
"Simple job," he insisted. "Stationary mark. Five grand."
His face had gone remote and watery suddenly, like rain on a mirror.
"Ten," I whispered.
"Clean," he said, remembering his lines. His fingers were cold as they
trembled and jerked beneath mine. "No hospitals."
I nodded once. "Sleep now. I'll handle everything."
His eyes closed but his hand stayed in mine, so I was forced to dial
with the fingers of my left hand.
Jim Brewer didn't leave the room. I suppose he wouldn't. He and
Skinner had been tight since about a week after we got here. They had some
'big silent man' friendship thing going on. I had often watched them
spend entire mornings working around the property without speaking a
word.
Jim remained silent as he watched me hold Skinner's hand in mine and
speak in German and English and finally, urgent Finnish. It took time to
reach Skinner's doctor, but I finally did. She got me to describe "Mr.
Winterborn's condition", including his pulse and whether his pupils
reacted to light and how far the paralysis had spread. She was concerned,
but reassuring. They had expected a minor relapse for some time now.
They had been working on a booster serum that had produced excellent
results. They would fly some to any airport in the world within 24 hours—for a reasonable fee.
I gave directions for the serum to be flown to Wellington and figured
on having Jim pick it up. Although I trust the Finns implicitly, having
tested their security and discretion several times, I still don't want
anyone tracing me or Skinner back here. I then called Lucerne and
arranged for a wire transfer that involved a lot of zeroes. I wondered
briefly if the old man was watching from whatever cool spot he'd found in
Hell and if he knew how his money was being used. He would have
appreciated the irony, if nothing else.
"Alex?" Jim asked as I disconnected the phone.
"What?" I was distracted, fingers on Skinner's chest, checking that his
breathing was regular.
"David called you 'Alex'. I thought your name was 'Alec'."
Shit. I didn't need quiet, honest, thoughtful Jim Brewer wondering
about that right then, not before I could come up with a decent lie. "It's
a nickname."
Jim didn't blink. "You called him 'Skinner'."
"Another nickname," I tried, but my hand was shaking and I could feel
my tongue pushing at my teeth, trying to lick at my dry lips. When the
hell had I forgotten something as basic as how to lie?
Jim obviously didn't believe me, but he dropped it for the moment. His
eyes left mine and fixed on Skinner's face. His expression softened
some. "Is he dying?"
That, at least, I could answer honestly. "No. Probably not."
"He's had this before, then?"
I nodded. "It's been... in remission."
"He never told me." Jim's voice is faintly questioning. I could tell
he felt a bit hurt.
"He wouldn't, would he?" Skinner never would have mentioned it and
David Winterborn isn't much for idle chat about his health, either.
Laura brought us tea then and Jim finally left me alone with Skinner
who was sleeping lightly. I found myself watching his face, the small
tics that I hadn't seen for years now come back like a bad dream. I wiped
the damp side of his mouth again and wondered why my world had cracked.
The end was nearly anticlimactic. I sent Jim to the airport to meet
the shipment the next morning. He came back after noon, carrying a small
refrigerated shipping cooler. I walked into the house a few minutes
after he did, having shadowed him all the way there and back, making
certain there were no tails. He and Laura, who had been sitting with a
sleeping Skinner, exchanged looks and I knew what they thought.
I bared my teeth at their unified disapproval. I hadn't left his
bedside for a lazy drive in the country; I was doing my job. I wondered, as
I cracked the container and cool mist poured up and over the side, when
keeping him safe had become my job.
Inside were three measured vials of amber serum, six hypodermics and
some alcohol wipes. The accompanying documentation from the medical team
was mercifully in English. Six carefully spaced injections and Skinner
would probably be as well as he had been yesterday morning. Or rather,
as well as he had been at least three weeks ago. It seemed likely,
from evidence they had gathered in other cases, that he must have been
deteriorating for some time. I wondered why the fuck he hadn't mentioned
it and why the fuck I hadn't noticed anything. Fury made my movements
sharp and jerky; the vial slipped from my prosthetic fingers.
"Here, I'll do that," Laura Brewer said softly and took the hypo from
my hand. She retrieved the vial and drew out the 30 mgs as I told her.
She looked like she wanted to argue with me when I took the filled
syringe from her, but I could feel the cold set of my face. She backed off
and Jim put a hand on her shoulder.
I shook Skinner gently, wanting him to be awake for this. When he
didn't respond, I started talking to him. I finally heard myself.
"Skinner? Come on. The Finns came through with another miracle drug. Let's
see if it works, OK?"
He blinked a few times, then managed to fix his gaze on my face. I
held up the hypo and he frowned. "I hate needles."
"Stop whining. It worked out pretty goddamned well for you last time."
I swabbed at the inside of his left arm and flicked at it until I found
a decent vein.
"Yeah, but who am I gonna be when I wake up this time?" He grimaced as
I slid the needle in, then depressed the plunger.
"You'll still be Walter Skinner. I can call you anything you want me
to, but you're still..." Suddenly, I realized that Jim and Laura were
still there. What the hell—Jim already had a pretty good guess and
Laura loved Skinner like a brother, no matter what name he used. If I
felt a kind of sick shame at screwing up on the most basic tenets of
undercover work, I kept it to myself. I knew I had lost my edge; I just
hadn't known how badly.
The hypo was empty. I pulled the needle out and pressed a gauze pad to
the injection site. "You're going to feel dizzy and hot for a while,"
I said, watching him rub one hand over his eyes, then blink rapidly.
"Why?" he asked fretfully. "It wasn't like this the first time."
"That's what you think. You just don't remember it. You were pretty
whacked out for three or four days. I know, I sat there through it." I
remembered those long days, sitting beside his bed in that huge room,
watching the monitor flash and listening to it beep and wondering what the
hell I was doing there. Deja vu.
I leaned forward and laid a cool cloth on his forehead. He gripped my
wrist clumsily. "Is this still in the job description, Alex?" Even
then, he must have known something.
"Just go to sleep. It helps." I loosened his fingers from my wrist
and put his hand on his own chest. Then I started to rub lightly at the
juncture of his shoulder and neck, where it always used to spasm
before. He mumbled in pleasure, then closed his eyes and was asleep within
moments.
I left him three days later. He had taken his first steps the night
before, hanging onto Jim Brewer's shoulder. His recovery was pretty much
assured. So I took him to bed and we made love twice, in a kind of hot
frenzy that had rarely hit us. I woke up at 4 am and packed a small
bag with a couple of changes of clothes and three or four thousand
dollars. Then I wrote out a list for him—two Swiss account numbers that
were in David Winterborn's name; the number of the Finnish clinic and his
doctor's personal number; the passwords for the two security accounts I
had outstanding. I walked to the highway in about an hour and hitched
a ride into Wellington. By that evening, I was in Hong Kong and 'Alec
Barnes' was so many torn bits of colored paper floating in the harbor.
God, I hate Hong Kong.
I should have known better. This is not a business you can drop in and
out of, as the mood suits you. The players change daily and old
alliances aren't worth much if your contacts are stale. Which is how I wound
up with two corpses and a knife wound in a greasy back alley. I never
had any luck here, anyway. This is just par for the course.
The beating I took makes thinking difficult. That's the only excuse I
have for what happens next. I walk out to the street, hail a taxi and
get in. With liberal tipping, the driver stops at a pharmacy and gets
me some first aid supplies and I tend myself as best I can. It's a
pretty shallow cut along my ribs and it hurts like hell but probably won't
kill me. I lost more blood than I like, but my shirt is dark and the
coat will hide it.
I take the first flight going anywhere; I wind up in Korea, just as
dawn breaks. No one seems to be following me, so I take a risk and stop
long enough for a meal and a bottle of painkillers. Pain and blood loss
have left me dazed and I can barely read the departure signs. I
stumble onto another flight and fall asleep almost immediately. The steward
has to wake me, his face troubled as he helps me to my feet. He has to
repeat himself twice before I can parse what he's asking me.
"We've arrived at Wellington, sir. Are you all right? Do you need
medical assistance?"
Wellington? Doctor? I shake my head. "No, I'm fine," I croak and pull
away. My ribs burn and ache and I wonder if the wound is infected. It
would be just like Hong Kong, I think as I walk slowly through the
airport. In the men's room, I see why the steward was looking so concerned.
The scrapes and bruises on my face aren't pretty and one eye is
blackened. My head is aching and I am nauseated, which probably means another
concussion. I clean up as best I can; the cold water wakes me up some.
Renting a car is out of the question; my vision has been blurry since
Chin smacked my head into the wall a few times as we discussed payment
arrangements. Wellington taxi drivers are more discriminating than
their Hong Kong brethren; several pass me by before I start waving a couple
of hundred dollar bills. It starts to rain as one finally stops and I
fall into the back seat, giving the address and dropping the bills over
the driver's shoulder. Two hours later, I am right back where I
started two weeks ago.
The driver won't risk his axles in the muddy trench of a dirt road that
leads up to the farm. Not even the promise of an extra hundred can
make him get me any closer and the quarter mile from the gate to the house
seems to stretch endlessly. There's no reason to think that Skinner
will take me in again... except, he took me in once before, when that hit
went bad. He looks after his people, or he used to. I'm not one of
them any more and that was my own mistake, but he might give me a couple
of days grace period to get on my feet again.
I refuse to stagger, no matter how fucking much my ribs and head hurt
now. The rain doesn't help, though, and I slip and stumble a few times
before I make the steps.
There is a light on in the living room and I focus on that spot of
brightness in the gloom. Getting up the four front stairs is the hardest
thing I've done in years and it takes all of my concentration. Rain is
dripping in my eyes and I can't really focus too well, so the arm that
comes around my waist is a shock. Another arm slides under my right
shoulder and I dimly hear Jim Brewer ask, "What the hell happened to him?"
"Probably the usual," Skinner grunts from the other side. "Someone
decided they didn't like his business style."
The two men maneuver me through the front door and into the warmth and
light of the living room. They lower me to the couch and I grab my
wounded side. Now it is hot and throbbing and I know it's infected. I am
soaked through and shivering, but there is a fire in the fireplace and
the warmth feels good on my skin as Skinner gently pulls off my jacket
and the torn remains of my shirt.
I hear Jim speaking quickly and Skinner talking more slowly, a calming
tone. Then someone is toweling off my hair and gently drying me.
"So, who was it this time, Krycek?" Skinner asks as he plucks at the
blood-soaked bandages that have glued themselves to my skin. "Russian
mafia? Ex-Consortium thugs? The Tunisians?" When I can focus on his
face, his expression is colder than I've seen in a long time.
"Tong. A deal went bad. Very bad."
"I can see that," he says and peels the last of the gauze away. I hear
Jim suck his breath in and know it must look worse than it is. "Can
they trace you here?" Skinner asks.
I shake my head, even though it hurts a lot. "No tails. And I used
the Arntzen identity. Alec Barnes is gone. No connection back here."
His expression unfreezes some. "Good. I think you need a doctor."
"He should be in hospital," Jim Brewer says worriedly.
"No hospital," Skinner and I say in chorus.
They start discussing options and I lay my head back and decide not to
worry about it anymore. I am home and warm and I don't even care that
Skinner is bitching about what a pain in the ass I am because his
fingers are warm and so gentle on my face...
Two days later, there is not a trace of that gentleness as he looks at
me across the kitchen table. My fever was down this morning and I
could actually get up and make it to the kitchen under my own steam. He
said nothing when I sat down. He just got up and brought me a mug of tea
and now he's sitting there, staring out the window and drinking his
coffee in measured gulps.
He hasn't asked me a single thing. At first I was grateful, imagining
that I had been granted some kind of general amnesty. Then I realized
that he won't ask because he doesn't want to know. He just wants me
out of here. Somehow, his smoldering silence makes me want to start
babbling, to try to explain. Clenching my teeth is the only thing that
stops a stream of words from flowing out of me and drowning us both.
There is nothing of David Winterborn about him now. Maybe I threw him
away when I tore up Alec Barnes. This is Walter Skinner, gritting his
teeth, eyes locked on the fist he has wrapped around his mug. I try to
take a sip of my tea, but swallowing seems like too much fucking work.
No hospital has meant no doctor, which meant that I have had to fight
the infection on my own. It hasn't been fun and Skinner has had to
nurse me through it. Which he has done, carefully and competently and in
utter silence. He leans heavily on one cane now, using two when he goes
outside. Judging from last time, it will probably be a couple of
months before he can walk freely again. Jim or Laura Brewer have been
around every morning and evening, just to look in on him. They look in on
me too, though there is little friendliness in their eyes.
I know, I want to say. I know what I did. It wasn't what they thought,
but it might as well have been. Jim Brewer told me so yesterday
afternoon when he came in to bring me some water and some painkillers.
"You walked out on him when he needed you most, Alec." He slid a hand
behind my shoulders to help me sit up. All the muscles in my back and
side were screaming and I wound up gasping for a while before I could
take the glass from him.
"It wasn't like that, Jim."
"Then you tell me what it was, Barnes. Or whatever the hell your name
is. Do you have a name?" I nodded and tossed the pills back, then
slowly drank the water, knowing that he resented having to help me but
that he would do it because Skinner was his friend. And because he'd
liked me at one time.
"Alexei. My name is Alexei." The only one I have left that I can call
my own.
Jim took the empty glass from me and put it beside the bed, then helped
me lay back down, watching impassively as I grimaced when the sutures
pulled. He and Skinner had used 22 butterfly sutures to close the gash;
Laura had driven into town that night to get medical supplies but
hadn't been able to get me antibiotics without a doctor finding out way too
much. Typical. I can get a miracle drug from halfway across the world
that can remake a man's nervous system but I can't get enough fucking
penicillin to stop the fire in my gut and the pounding in my head.
"Well, Alexei?" Jim gets this stern principal look on his face and I
would have liked to laugh but it would hurt too much and it would just
piss him off more.
"It was never meant to be permanent."
"You've been here almost three years, Alec." Even now, Jim can't quite
wrap his head around the idea that I am not who I said I was. Honest
men are too credible. "What was it, you saw him suddenly weak and took
off to look for someone younger, someone with a lot more money?"
I wanted to laugh again. I guess everyone around here bought Skinner's
cover story. Except that I somehow managed to look like a gold-digging
gigolo in the bargain. Oh well.
"He needed you, Alec. And you weren't there." Fuck, again with the
guilt trip. Like he can do a better job than I can at that?
"Hey! I got him the drug, Jim. I made sure he got it and no one could
trace him and that he was out of danger before I left."
"Who the hell are you people, anyway?" he asked, bewildered.
"We're just two guys who had a hard life, Jim, and we wanted someplace
quiet to retire to. David is a good man, you don't need to worry about
him."
"But you're a different story," Jim said and I had to nod. "You know,
the first time I saw you, you reminded me of a dog my father had on his
station. He was a great herd dog... but he was a sheep killer. It
took us years to catch on to him."
Then I really was laughing and I almost welcomed the pain. The image
of myself, jaws red with the blood of all the lambs I've killed... and
all the wolves in sheep's clothing. I pressed my arm across my gut and
threw my head back and let the laughter gasp out of me. But then my
head was really hurting and the bed was spinning some and all I could say
when Jim came closer was, "Woof!"
The last thing I remember is Skinner's worried frown hovering over me
and those warm fingers on the side of my head.
This morning, he is gripping his mug so tightly that the tips of his
fingers are whitened to the first knuckle. Finally, he says to the
window, "How are you feeling?"
"Fine. I'll be out of here by noon."
He snorts. "You can barely stand. It'll be at least a week before you
can leave safely."
"I didn't think..."
He turns to look at me. "Now would be a good time to start."
Jesus, I hate that fucking superior tone. It's guaranteed to start a
fight every time he uses it and he knows it. I grit my teeth, trying to
hold back the anger. "I thought you'd want me out of here as soon as
possible."
His jaw works back and forth and I can see the muscles in his neck
tightening. He still won't look at me. "It's your house, too."
I don't know what to say. I expected the anger, the resentment; I
wouldn't have been all that surprised if he had kicked me back out into the
rain. But this...
"The deed is in your name."
"You bought it."
"For you," I say, so quietly that I can barely hear myself.
He picks up his cane and stands slowly, still not looking at me. When
he finally does, I know this is my one chance to make it right, to
explain.
I say nothing.
"Coward," he says flatly, like he never expected anything else and
doesn't blame me for failing the test. Then, "Go back to bed." He starts
to limp out of the kitchen and I am staring at his abandoned mug,
trying to make sense of this.
"Dav... Skinner—why?"
I hear him stop behind me. He knows exactly what I'm asking.
"Because you came home." Then he's gone and I am left staring at the
table top and my hand on it, the steam still rolling up from my tea into
the gray light filtering in from outside. Home.
It's late and quiet enough to hear the rain rolling down the roof and
dripping from the eaves. I heard Skinner go to bed a couple of hours
ago. He fed me some broth earlier and took my temperature and got me
fresh clothing and I went back to bed in the guest room where he'd put me
that first night. After sleeping most of the day, I feel hot and
restless. I want to shout, just to break through all this damned quiet. The
silence between us, the stillness of the house, the muffle of confusion
that I feel every time I try to understand what happened here.
I was weak enough to love him and he was playing at it until he came to
believe it himself and neither of us is free of the other, it seems.
Thinking about it is doing no good. There are no answers in my own head.
So I go looking for them.
He wakes up as I slide into bed behind him. I can feel him lying
there, awake in the darkness, facing the wall as always. I meant to say
something, but all I can think to do is to lay my hot forehead against the
cool skin of his shoulder.
"What do you want, Alex?"
"I just want it to be like it was before."
"Before what?" His voice is low and rough in the darkness.
"Before," I say again and press my bruised face more tightly against
him. I wrap my arm around his waist and pull myself closer to him. He
sighs and I feel all of the tense muscles slacken beneath my hand. I
know I've won then.
"Are you going to leave again?"
I shake my head, rolling it against the soothing coolness of the back
of his neck. He says nothing, does nothing, just waits again for me to
say something. "No," I whisper finally, hating him for making me say
it aloud.
He moves then, turning onto his back and pulling my head down to rest
in the cup of his shoulder. "All right, then." And I know that he's
won.
It's not so bad, winning. I think I might get used to it, in the years
to come.
The descent beckons
No defeat is made up entirely of defeat—since
The descent
For what we cannot accomplish, what
—William Carlos Williams, excerpts from "Descent"
left him on a very clear day, a golden morning that would burn into a
blue blue day of the kind I have only ever seen here at the end of the
world. He must have known it was coming; the signs were all there. In
fact, he probably knew long before I did. The way I never referred to
the farm as 'home'; the large amount of cash that I always kept in the
house; the fact that I never promised him a damned thing. I still
remember the look on his face when he realized that the deed for the farm
was in his name alone. He must have known then. I wish I'd realized
it. It would have saved us both a lot of trouble.
as the ascent beckoned
Memory is a kind of accomplishment
a sort of renewal even
the world it opens is always a place
formerly
unsuspected. A
world lost,
a world unsuspected
beckons to new places
and no whiteness (lost) is so white as the memory
of whiteness
made up of despairs
and without accomplishment
realizes a new awakening:
which is a reversal
of despair.
is denied to love,
what we have lost in the anticipation—
a descent follows,
endless and indestructible.
