Work Text:
A Sight of... (Skinner)
by JiM
Mulder is talking to himself again. I hear him as I turn off the shower.
That has been one of the many surprises that we have given each other in these past weeks. Mulder talks to himself when he thinks he's alone. He has conversations with people who are not there; he claims it's a dress rehearsal for some upcoming meeting. But I know that some of the people he talks to are dead. Or gone.
I wonder what revelations I have missed while the hot water pounded on the back of my neck, soothing away the pounding I took in the budget meetings this afternoon. I miss being a field agent. At least I sometimes got to shoot the bad guys; now, I have to get them to sign off on my expense reports.
Stepping out of the shower, I stand dripping for a moment. I feel clean again, like I can give myself to him and not pass on the gray residue of the moral compromises, betrayals and tainted dealings that pass for daily functioning in my world.
- Mulder! Where the hell are all the towels?
He mumbles something as I look around trying to find anything to wipe the steam off my glasses. The door opens and a towel comes flying at me. But no lover. That's a disappointment; his usual M.O. is to sneak in at the end of my shower, seize my towel and run it over every inch of my body with singular concentration. Once I got over the embarrassment of being pampered, I started to enjoy it. I realize that this is one of the ways he tells me of his love. We do not say the words.
There is another mumble, then I hear clearly, - No.
- ' No' what? Who are you talking to, Mulder?
I wrap my towel around my waist and wander out of the bathroom, sliding my glasses onto my face. The answer to my question is standing there, holding Mulder at bay with something lethal and high-calibre. Mulder is on my right, Krycek to my left. I step in between them. To get to Mulder, Krycek will have to go through me. The poisonous look in his eyes tells me he is planning to do just that.
- Krycek.
- Skinner.
The world has not been kind to Alex Krycek recently, I note. Besides the obvious, he is gaunt and underfed-looking. He always had a plaintive charm, spread thick about him, like concealer. Now, there is no more charm; now, there is precious little left of the man but his bright-eyed hunger. He has the half-starved look of a lone wolf and I am standing between him and his prey.
Mulder tries to get around me in the narrow hallway. This hall used to irritate me; my shoulders brush against it on both sides when I walk down it. Now I am grateful to it as I brace my arms and lock Mulder behind me. There is nothing he can do in this situation. I know where his weapon is -- right beside mine, hanging in the living room, a lifetime away. There is a fire escape outside the bedroom window behind us, however.
- Mulder. Get out of here.
Which one of us said that?
- No.
Of course he won't leave. I knew that. He is the most stubborn, idiotic person I have ever loved. When someone points a gun at you, Mulder, you leave. I make a mental note to point this out to him later, in satisfyingly loud detail. Krycek and I almost smile at one another, recognizing a common irritant. Then I remember. I feel a snarl start to rise in my throat.
He's mine. You will not hurt him.
But Mulder is not entirely defenseless. He says gently,
- Alex. Don't do this. Please.
- It was always going to come to this, Mulder.
- It doesn't have to be this way.
- No. You could come with me. Step around him and come here. Leave with me.
- No, Alex.
- Then here we are.
I can take him. If I can just get that pistol out of play, Krycek will be a one-armed corpse in my hallway. I take one breath.
- Don't.
Krycek's voice is a snake's hiss.
- These are armor-piercing loads, Skinner. .45 Hardballs. They can tear through a Kevlar vest like it was tissue. And you don't seem to be wearing that much.
He's right. I retreat to that quiet, cold place in my mind where all my final acts have been planned. There is no time in that place and I have the leisure to choose my tactics. It takes only a second of real time to make my decision.
If I can dive towards Krycek, forward and down, his hand should automatically track my movement away from Mulder. When he fires, the bullets will miss Mulder, giving him time to escape. It should work.
Of course, I will be dead. But I have been dead before; it isn't so bad. At least I won't take Mulder with me. He will have the time he needs to get away.
There is a curious kind of peace to the knowledge that I will be dead very soon. And it is something worth dying for. That makes this moment almost sweet to me. A soldier wants nothing more than to die for a right cause.
I fix my eyes on Krycek and I see that he knows what will happen here. I take one deep breath, then another. I am ready now.
Then Mulder screws it up and I want to howl in grief and rage. His arms lock around my chest and I feel him rub his cheek against mine, then he rests his chin on my shoulder as he has so many times in the past month.
No.
Now my body is no protection at all for him; those loads will tear through us both. He has no defenses against Krycek and it will all be for nothing. His arms tighten and I feel the brush of his lips against my ear.
He is so affectionate, this private man, and he has been teaching me to be so, too, to show my love for him in simple touches, gentle embraces. This is the last lesson he will give me and the pain is more than I can take. I have to close my eyes to hold back tears that have not fallen in 25 years.
- Please. Go.
Don't let the last thing I ever know be the feeling of you dying against me because you tried to protect me. Oh, Fox.
There is the whisper of his voice in my ear.
- I won't let you leave me.
No, I guess he wouldn't. Stupid maniac. I love you, I think, then there is nothing and I wait for Krycek's gunpowder kiss. One breath. Then two. How many last breaths can a man take?
After a time, I open my eyes. Krycek is gone. I let out a long breath and say the first thing that comes into my head.
- Jesus, Mulder. Would you be more careful who you flirt with next time?
Mulder makes an appalled noise of protest against my skin. Then I feel him shaking with laughter, still leaning against my back. I turn in the circle of his arms and hold him tightly. Mine. His.
I have died and live again and he is in my arms, tucked under my chin. I can smell him, taste him, hear him, touch him -- all but see him. My eyes refuse to work for me now. Tears are burning down my face, soaking into his hair and he is still laughing. Why not? It's as good as any reaction I can think of.
- I love you.
- Oh. Good. I'd hate to think you do this for all of your dates.
- Shut up.
His laughter keeps sparkling against my chest for a long time afterward.
end