by Val Adams
lumping into his chair, a very weary Walter Skinner squinted at the
clock on his desk and sighed heavily. He might as well give it up for
the night; he wasn't going to find what he needed. The work wasn't
doing it for him. Not tonight. Usually, he could bury himself in his
files, his work, and find that groove—that place within himself
that eluded him so regularly these days. The groove where the reports
came alive to him, where he became so involved in the written words
and facts that he disappeared into the case. The groove that let him
forget who he was, who he had been, who he might have to become
tomorrow. The groove that, for a little while, let him pretend that
he was just another agent doing his job, finding the missing pieces,
solving the puzzle. Making a difference.
Every time he found the groove, he found himself—the person he knew. At least for a little while.
He had a talent for disappearing into a case report and coming up with the right questions to ask, the correct response, the final answer. That talent was augmented by a gift for administration, a nose for politics, a knack for detecting bullshit when he heard it or read it, and a habit of keeping his thoughts to himself and his mouth shut. The combination had made him Assistant Director at a relatively young age.
They were also some of the reasons his superiors needed him. Still. Even after all the shit that had gone down. And even if he did know where some of the bodies were buried, he had never had to play that card. Skinner was simply very, very good at his job.
Tiredly, Skinner closed the file he had been working on and placed it on top of a stack of files to the left of his blotter. He squared the edges out of habit, then tidied the other things on his desktop. He briefly considered taking a few reports home with him, but decided against it. If the reports weren't working for him here, they wouldn't work for him at the condo. Skinner shrugged into his jacket and pulled his keys out of his pocket. He turned off the desk lamp and walked out of the office, locking the door behind him.
As he strode down the quiet hallway hearing only the sound of his own shoes against the linoleum, Skinner wondered if he'd ever be comfortable with himself again. He had always considered himself to be a good man. He had been brought up to be a good man. He had been a good student, a good boxer, a good football player. A good Marine and a solid agent. A good husband, a good friend, a competent lover. A normal, conservative, good man.
How did he get from where he had started to where he found himself tonight?
The elevator stopped at his level in the parking garage, and Skinner stepped out. He stood for a moment staring into the darkened garage, seeing red blood and hearing gunfire.
Alex Krycek. Skinner blinked and gritted his teeth against the ever- present pain. Alex Krycek was dead, and Skinner had killed him here only a month ago.
The A.D. came here twice a day, morning and night. Twice a day, he walked over this spot where Alex had died and tried not to think of that one black moment. The moment when all the betrayals and pain had coagulated into one seething, semi-solid veil of hatred. When he had pulled the trigger once, and again, and again. And Alex had died, finally and forever.
Skinner slid into the car and shut the door. He glanced into the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see Krycek there with that sneer on his face and the palm pilot in his hand. Shaking, he rubbed his hand over his face and started the car. He had killed several men over the course of his life, in battle and in the line of duty. Never had he killed in anger. Until Alex.
But then again, he had never been unfaithful to Sharon before Alex. He had never had a male lover until Alex.
Alex Krycek, with his sparkling green eyes and his impish grin. He had stolen Walter's breath and heart at the same moment, standing there in Skinner's office as his newest agent, looking staggeringly innocent and sinfully wicked both at once. And he had seen in an instant what no one else ever suspected: that Walter Skinner had fallen hard.
The next time Alex had come to his office, Walter Skinner had committed adultery and a few other sins as well.
But the passion! He had never known physical desire before, not like this. And the way Alex made him feel—he had never experienced anything like it. Not in any dream or any fantasy. He was thunderstruck—he'd never dreamed the young man would want him. But it seemed that Alex wanted him every bit as much as he had wanted Alex.
Skinner sat in his car, his hands clenched on the steering wheel as he remembered: Alex bent over the big desk in the A.D.'s office. Alex on his knees, his mouth wrapped around Skinner's cock. Alex with his shirt hanging open and his hand on his belt.
Alex Krycek smirking at him with a palm pilot in his hand.
The first few times they actually made it to a bed, Skinner couldn't get enough of him. His hands were always reaching, touching. Some part of Skinner— knee, foot, tongue, anything—was always touching his lover. He felt needy and desperate for Alex's touch, and he couldn't stop himself from reaching any more than he could have stopped himself from smiling at the green-eyed imp.
Alex had laughed at him.
"Is this love, Skinner? Oh, shit—Walter Skinner, stone-face hard ass, is a romantic!"
Skinner kept smiling as he caressed the silky skin under his palms. "Got a problem with that?"
"Hell yes, Skinner."
He wiggled out from under his lover's large body and stared soberly down into his brown eyes. After a moment, he began to nip and lick his way down Skinner's chest. He paused and laid his head on Skinner's taut belly, allowing the other man to hold him and smooth the hair away from his face.
Skinner held Alex close for a minute before he said, "So, I'm a romantic. It's your fault; you changed my point of view. I never have been romantic, not even with my wife. But you... You make me feel lucky to be me. I finally fit in my skin. I finally wake up and don't wish I was someone else. And right now, I wouldn't change a thing about myself. I like that feeling. But I won't say the L word if it bothers you."
Alex sighed against Skinner's belly and said, "I do not believe in or trust love. Love is not the most powerful thing in the world, Skinner. It's just emotion, just sentiment. In our line of work..." he looked up and pinned the brown eyes."As you, Mr. A.D., should remember—emotion can get you killed. Can make you fuck up that one time you can least afford it. You die because of love, not for it."
Skinner was yanked back into the present by the headlights of an oncoming car. He must have started driving while he was daydreaming. Jesus! He could have killed someone. Shaking, he pulled over to the curb and waited for the shock to wear off. He rested his head on his crossed arms over the steering wheel. Fuck. Alex was right.
At length, he looked up and recognized where he was. His gym. Perfect. He had stuff in a locker here and could probably talk somebody into a midnight spar. It would feel great to hit something, preferably something that hit back.
Alex never had. Hit back. Not in private, not like that. Over the following years even when things were at their worst, Alex would come to Skinner and take whatever the man gave him—warmth, affection, touch. Eventually bruises, welts, brutal sex.
In return Alex gave to his lover. He gave pleasure, guilt, pain, death, resurrection. And recognition of the fact that he had formed his own kind of foolhardy emotional attachment to another human being. According to Alex, emotional attachment was love. Maybe he never knew that love sometimes drove men to madness.
Inside the nearly-empty gym, Skinner finished his warm-up and put the jump rope back on the rack. He was glistening with sweat but breathing easily as he put on the boxing gloves and walked over to the heavy bag. Shuffling slightly back and forth he started to punch the bag. Jab. Jab. Hook. Jab. Jab. Hook. The bag began to dance with him as he started on combinations. Left jab, left hook, overhand right. Left jab, left jab, right hook. In a sudden fit of emotion, he stepped in close to the bag and began to pummel—short punches thrown from the shoulder, over and over and over. Finally, he stepped back breathing heavily.
"You're going to have to kill me," Alex had said.
He caught the heavy bag as it swung toward him and held on, chest heaving.
"Hey, Slugger—you okay?" said the voice in his ear. The old man put a hand on Skinner's shoulder and pulled him away from the bag. Skinner stepped back, blinking the sweat out of his eyes.
The old man looked closely at him, then nodded. "You got a little fight in you after the speed bag, I got a guy here wants a spar."
"Yeah, okay. Give me a minute."
The old man ambled off, and Skinner made a show of setting up the small bag and adjusting it to his height. When it was in place, he hit it for a few minutes. The familiar exercise helped him regain his composure and soon the bag was dancing rhythmically under his gloves.
"I want it to be you. When the time comes, we'll both know," he had said as he shifted Skinner's legs up to his shoulders. "And if you can't make it painless, you know I'll understand. Hell, I'll understand if you don't want to make it painless." He had thrust harshly into Skinner then had leaned down for a kiss before he said, "With any luck at all, we'll at least be face to face."
It occurred to Skinner that that should not have made sense to him. But it had, as twisted as everything had become. And when the moment had arrived, Skinner could not find any love for the man left in him—as Alex had known he would not.
Alex had known everything.
Skinner's hands kept up the rhythm on the speed bag and he felt himself slide into the groove—that groove that brought everything into focus. He thought about pulling the trigger on the demon Alex Krycek had become, and, for once, the pain was diminished.
As he varied his speed, he thought about Sharon and her tolerant affection for him and his for her. He thought about Alex as he had been in the beginning and the feeling of incredible joy the man had given him—bringing him love when he never thought he'd understand what that really was—even if Alex never let him use the L word.
Yes, Alex, I loved you. That's what I choose to remember about us, about you and me together. All that other shit was Krycek, not you. I will always love you, Alex. Deal with it.
With a clarity he hadn't experienced in weeks, he saw the red bag dancing under his gloves and his shadow on the wall in front of him. He felt the eyes of a future sparring partner boring into him, analyzing his form and style. He connected the dots in some of that case history he'd been trying to piece together before he left the office.
And he felt the ghost of Alex Krycek release the death grip on his heart and fade away into nothingness.
Song: Lucky To Be Me (Lyrics)
From On the Town
L. Bernstein/Comden and Greene
I used to think it might be fun to be
Anyone else but me.
I thought that it would be a pleasant surprise
To wake up as a couple of other guys.
But now that I've found you,
I've changed my point of view,
And now I wouldn't give a dime to be
Anyone else but me.
What a day,
Fortune smiled and came my way,
Bringing love I never thought I'd see,
I'm so lucky to be me.
What a night,
Suddenly you came in sight,
Looking just the way I'd hoped you'd be,
I'm so lucky to be me.
I am simply thunderstruck
At the change in my luck:
Knew at once I wanted you,
Never dreamed you'd want me, too.
I'm so proud
You chose me from all the crowd,
There's no other guy I'd rather be,
I could laugh out loud,
I'm so lucky to be me.
CHORUS:
What a day,
Fortune smiled and came my way,
Bringing love I never thought I'd see,
I'm so lucky to be me.
What a night,
Suddenly you came in sight,
Looking just the way I'd hoped you'd be,
I'm so lucky to be me.
I am simply thunderstruck
At the change in my luck:
Knew at once I wanted you,
Never dreamed you'd want me, too.
I'm so proud
You chose me from all the crowd,
CHORUS:
There's no other guy I'd rather be,
I could laugh out loud,
I'm so lucky to be me.
