A Sight of...
But its not the cold or the boredom that I hate most about
surveillance. Its how good I am at it. I watch a man long
enough, I know how he thinks, how he moves, what he likes to
eat. I find myself sugaring my coffee just because my mark
does.
If you watch a man long enough, you know his hopes, his
dreams, his nightmares. You know which way hell jump when
you press a gun against his side. I hate losing myself in
someone elses life. Its happened again. And the punchline is
that this isnt business, no one is paying me to watch this man.
Im doing it because I cant stop myself. I have been in his
apartment twice, just to check the lay of the land. Nice place,
well-kept; the man is not obsessive, but orderly. The walls are
bare, the furniture is sparse but of good quality. There are no
photos but there are books everywhere. No pets or plants. I
know all the possible exits and doors and which direction to turn
the locks now.
He is a man of regular habits. He rises early and follows the
same morning routine; early to work, stays late, brings
paperwork home, few calls, no visitors. Except one.
I have watched him for two weeks now and I know it all; how he
moves, what he eats, when he works out, how he thinks, what
he wants.
Sometimes, its on his face when he looks at Mulder.
He wants to wake up in the morning with Mulder's head on his
chest. To have Mulder call him from the side of some highway,
for no other reason than to hear his voice. To burn his steaks
and bitch about the phone bill. To feel him arch beneath my
hands, slide into my body like a man coming home, to hold his
head in my lap and soothe away the wounds of the world.
Walter Skinner wants the white picket fence, the barking dog,
the scent of bread baking and someone he loves to smile at him
when he comes home from chasing the bad guys.
It is a sick joke to discover that Walter Skinner and I want the
same things.
It is laughably easy to get inside his apartment building, even
for a one-armed man. It is less easy to get into his apartment;
the locks are better and I am no longer as agile with the picks
as I once was. Twice, I have to stop because the bunch of
picks rattles against the door. But the surveillance has paid off;
I know that he takes a shower every evening when he comes
home. It is as if he is washing away the scent and touch of the
FBI. He will not hear my fumbling over the sound of the water.
I ease the door open and am pleased to hear the shower
running. Good old dependable, regular, faithful Walter Skinner.
Consistency is a hobgoblin, Walter. In this case, it is death.
My gun is in my hand now. Few people appreciate how difficult
it is to screw a silencer onto the barrel of a pistol with only one
hand. It is a new skill, one I take pride in, just as I pride myself
on my ability to research carefully and finish a job without fuss. I
am moving quickly through the living room, down the hallway
toward the bathroom, when I discover just how badly I have
screwed up.
Fox Mulder comes striding out of the bedroom at the end of the
hallway, whistling and pulling a sweatshirt over his head,
carrying a towel.
My thoughts scatter like rabbits at the sight of him. When did he
get here? Skinner arrived alone. Mulder must have come in
earlier. Damn! Mulder has stopped, all movement frozen,
staring at me. I wonder why. Oh. I am pointing a silenced
automatic at him.
Jesus, he looks like a runner-up for the varsity squad, collecting
towels after the game for the bigger boys. His hair is rumpled
and his eyes are large and dark and they burn straight through
me. The memory of his scent, the taste of him on my lips, the
touch of his hands, the sound of his voice murmuring I know
what you want,—are all swirling around me, a tornado of
sensual images, shredding my thoughts. This was not what I
had planned on.
—"Krycek...
He shuts up. What the hell do I do now? The shower shuts off.
The silence is very loud now. I can almost see it rising like
poisoned smoke between us.
—"Mulder! Where the hell are all the towels?
Without taking his eyes from me, Mulder opens the door and
tosses the towel in.
—"Call him out here.
Mulders eyes never leave mine. He knows why I am here.
The bathroom door opens and Walter Skinner steps out, towel
wrapped around his waist, fumbling with his steamed glasses.
I checked out his prescription on one of my reconnaissance
visits; hes nearsighted. He can only see things that are close
to him. Like his lover, who has left his weapon in its holster on
the hook by the door. Or an assassin standing in his hallway,
weapon trained on his bare chest. Gotta give Skinner credit.
He sees me and freezes; in that long instant, he is watching,
assessing, judging distances, angles and caliber. Then his face
goes very still and he is stepping directly in front of me. No,
thats wrong. He is stepping in front of Fox Mulder.
—"Krycek.
There is water beaded on his broad chest and a bite mark over
Skinners left nipple. The cold fog that has been trailing me,
ever since that night by the river nearly a month ago, rises to
choke me now. Since the night when I fled from Fox Mulders
touch, pushing him away, leaving him to this man.
Mulder is trying to push Skinner out of the way. The ex-Marine
merely braces his forearms against the walls on either side of
the hall, becoming the immovable object. In a towel. I almost
laugh at the sight. Almost.
—"Mulder. Get out of here.
Which one of us said that?
—"No.
Skinner and I exchange a glance, almost-humor sparking
between us. We should have expected that response from the
man we love. Then Skinners gaze becomes something harder,
colder. Even though he is unarmed and nearly naked, he is a
cornered predator, therefore at his most dangerous now, in this
moment. I nod once and he returns it. Then I am caught by
Mulders eyes, staring desperately at me over Skinners hard
shoulder.
—"Alex. Dont do this. Please.
—"Dont.
He subsides and I say,
He is watching me, motionless. His eyes are cold and flat,
ready. Once, I shot a buck in the dead of winter. I looked up to
find a wolf staring at me, assessing its chances of getting me
away from that kill. I know that he will fight me to the death with
his bare hands and teeth.
There is an almost imperceptible movement, a nearly trivial
adjustment in our tableau. Skinner gasps, then his eyes close
and his stony features are suddenly etched with despair.
I watch Mulders arms close around his lovers chest and his
chin comes to rest on the mans right shoulder. He is pressed
in close behind Skinner. We all know what he has done. If I
shoot Skinner now, the bullets will rip right through both of them.
—"Please. Go.
Skinners whisper scrapes the walls of this too-narrow hallway.
He is not talking to me. Mulder doesnt answer. He just keeps
staring at me, his face beside the other mans. Skinners hands
slowly clench into fists against the wall, the knuckles bloodless
and white. His eyes are still closed and I know that he is not
afraid to look at his own death. He just doesnt want to see
Mulders.
I dont know how long I stand there, looking at them. Locked
together. Each one trying to protect the other. Each knowing
that he has failed and that there is nothing more to do but die
together.
That sight is burned behind my eyes forever.
It is the last thing I see at night, lying in another nameless hotel
and lapping at the memory like sweet poison. It touches my
mornings, before I have even opened my eyes, the sounds of
their harsh, frightened breathing rushing in my ears. It is the
last thing I see as I leave, my gun cool in its holster, my eyes
burning.
A sight of...
I dont know. Something had to give in that hallway and, for
once in my life, it was me.
No Common Senses V: Krycek's POV
by JiM
I hate surveillance work. Its boring, exhausting and its almost
always too cold or too hot. Tonight, its too cold as I sit on the
fire-escape across from his apartment. The iron treads are
burning cold stripes into my ass as I wait for the light to come
on, waiting for him to get upstairs. I saw him come home alone.
Tonight is the night.
—"Hi.
—"Krycek! What the hell are you doing?
—"Shut up.
—"Daddys calling, Mulder. Give him his towel. Slowly.
—"No.
—"No what? Who are you talking to, Mulder?
—"Skinner.
—"It was always going to come to this, Mulder.
—"It doesnt 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 point out pleasantly and make a mock-courtly gesture with my
gun hand. I catch sight of minute muscles beginning to ripple in
Skinners chest and arms.
—"These are armor-piercing loads, Skinner. .45 Hardballs. They
can tear through a Kevlar vest like it was tissue. And you dont
seem to be wearing that much.
