JiM :: Dog in the Night
Title: Dog in the Night Author: JiM Author's E-mail: [email protected] Author's URL: http://www.geocities.com/coffeeslash/jim Fandom: X-Files Category: Slash Pairing: Mulder/Skinner, Krycek/other Rating: R Summary: Sam Hamilton meets a man…who just happens to be shot and bloody on Skinner's front porch. Romance blossoms. (What, you were expecting this to make SENSE?) Thanks: Karen, MT, MJ, Dawn, Leila and Ness. |
The first thing Skinner noticed when he got home that wet evening was that the front porch light was out. The second thing was that his garage door opener didn't work. He parked his car next to Hamilton's with a prickle of unease. Half-convinced that he was a paranoid fool, he unholstered his gun and moved carefully up the rainsoaked front walk. When he found the grayish smear of blood and the splintered holes in the door, he went on the offensive. The door was locked; he opened it carefully, quietly. He catfooted through the darkened front room, heard noises, some conversation in the den.
He spun around the doorframe, dropping into a professional crouch and found himself staring down the muzzle of Sam Hamilton's weapon. After a second of shock, they both put their weapons up, hands opened peaceably. Skinner blew out a relieved breath.
"I saw the bullet holes…I thought…what happened?"
Hamilton was sitting on the coffee table, a wet washcloth in his hand. "Where the fuck have you been? I've been calling your cellphone for the past 10 minutes."
"I left it at the office…" Skinner's voice trailed off as he realized that there was a body on the sofa. "Who the hell is that?"
"He followed me home, Walt. Can I keep him?" Hamilton had that sharp grin on his face that Skinner recognized from the aftermaths of a dozen firefights. He was wired and jittering now and would crack jokes until dawn if not forcibly restrained. Hamilton stood up and Skinner could see the man clearly for the first time.
"Only if you get him neutered first, Hamilton." Alex Krycek was lying unconscious on his sofa and suddenly, all Walter Skinner wanted was a very large drink.
"Let me get this straight. Alex Krycek jumped you outside the door?"
"No, Walt. I said he tackled me to get me out of the line of fire. You saw where those bullets hit the door. I was standing right there; if he hadn't taken me down, I'd be dead."
It was the second time he'd heard the story and Skinner still couldn't quite grasp it. "Ham, level with me; which of us is stoned?"
Hamilton just grinned at him and left, carrying the washcloth which was stained a nasty shade of pink, and a bowl of the same colored water. Krycek still lay on the sofa, pale and unmoving. He had a shallow scrape on his forehead and a minor bullet crease in his left shoulder, just enough to bleed all over Skinner's upholstery. The unconscious man's breathing was labored and harsh, though. The redness around his nose and mouth, his cracked lips and the sickly hue of skin suggested that Krycek was ill as well as wounded. Skinner hoped that would explain his continued oblivion.
Ham came back in carrying the first aid kit Skinner kept in the bathroom. "I think he's in shock, Walt. Looks sick as a dog besides being shot."
Skinner helped strip away Krycek's soaked leather jacket, deftly removing no less than three guns and a small throwing knife from various holsters and sheaths on Krycek's body. He touched the prosthetic arm, grimacing with distaste at its chill. Hamilton merely looked interested but did not comment. Then Skinner watched Ham efficiently tear away the dirty T-shirt and clean and bandage the shallow wound. "Got any smelling salts in that kit?"
"Let's leave him out for a while longer, Ham. I need a drink and there's a couple of things you should know about this guy."
Hamilton nodded, packed up the kit and stood up. Then he shook out a blanket over the unconscious man and tucked it carefully around him. His thick fingers brushed across Krycek's forehead, then trailed down to his throat and lingered. It took Skinner a moment to realize that he was taking Krycek's pulse. Ham shook his head and then followed his friend into the kitchen.
Skinner poured two moderate glasses of scotch and they silently toasted one another before sitting down at the kitchen table. "Tell me again," Skinner said.
So Hamilton told it again. He'd come home, the house was dark, all the lights off. The garage door wouldn't work, so he'd gone up to the front door. The hair on the back of his neck had prickled and something had flickered in the darkness. He had just been reaching for his weapon when a voice had hissed, "Skinner—get down!" Then something hit him hard and low and he'd gone down, someone sprawling on top of him. There was the whuff! and thud of silenced rounds hitting the door behind him and he'd stopped fighting his assailant. The man on top of him had returned fire and several more silenced rounds had cut the air around them before a car screeched off down the street. Hamilton had struggled out from under the weight of his unlikely savior and found him mumbling desperately and incoherently. Krycek had grabbed his jacket front with one hand, the other scrabbling uselessly against his chest before he'd slipped into unconsciousness. So Hamilton had brought him inside, made certain he wasn't dying and then tried to contact Skinner to warn him.
"Did you call the police?"
Hamilton shook his head. "I had a feeling you might not want them involved."
The good FBI man inside him shook his head at that, but Hamilton was right. Until he knew why Krycek was here, the fewer people who knew about it, the better. "No one noticed?"
"Doesn't seem like it, Walt. They were using silencers and our boy here only got off two shots before they took off. Most folks around here probably figured it was a TV on too loud."
Hamilton poured them both another splash of scotch. "OK, Walt. Now, who'd want to kill you? And why is that pretty boy in there trying to protect you?" He got up and put the kettle on, setting up a pot of tea.
Skinner snorted at that description of Krycek; maybe scorpions were pretty to other scorpions, but they were just as deadly. "I have no idea, Sam. He's a hired gun and he's got no special reason to want me alive."
Skinner ground his teeth, remembering all those times he had done Krycek's bidding; first, because Krycek held his very life in a palm top computer, then because Krycek was fighting with them to save the world and Skinner had had to let go his private vendetta for the greater good. Krycek had disappeared as soon as the aliens had been defeated; the mop up of Consortium members hadn't included Krycek and Skinner had gradually given up on his dreams of revenge. And now Krycek lay wounded and insensible on his sofa and Skinner had no idea why.
"There's something about him," Hamilton said meditatively, pouring boiling water into the tea pot. "Something a little lost and sw…"
"Don't you say it, Hamilton. I swear, if you do, I'll shoot you myself. He is not sweet."
"Damn right, I'm not sweet," a new voice snarled weakly. Krycek stood propped in the doorway, paler than wallpaper paste, eyes burning as his lip curled. His filthy T-shirt hung from his undamaged shoulder; there were streaks of blood from his now-bandaged wound and the pale pink of his prosthetic made the greenish shade of Krycek's skin look all the more sickly.
"Boy, you don't look so good," Hamilton said, unperturbed, as he got up and moved swiftly to support Krycek under his undamaged shoulder. Skinner noticed that, even though Krycek sneered at Hamilton's concern, he leaned almost gratefully into the taller man's warmth. He sighed as he was let carefully down into a kitchen chair.
"I'm not some stray," he growled as Hamilton pressed a mug of hot, sweet tea into his hands.
"No," Ham agreed calmly, checking for fever with the backs of his fingers.
"Stop that," Krycek said irritably as Hamilton brushed the damp hair away from his eyes and peered at the blackening scrape on his brow, then looked deeply into the glassy green eyes to check for concussion.
"Sure," Hamilton said, pointing to the untouched mug of tea. "Drink that, then we'll get you into a tub."
Skinner wanted to groan. Sam Hamilton had a domestic streak a mile wide -completely wasted on the military. He ought to have been running an Animal Rescue shelter. Instead, he was coddling a half-drowned, obviously ill, semi-battered ex-assassin. It was insane. Skinner wondered when Mulder would arrive and start the carnage.
"I don't need a bath! Just give me my jacket and my guns and let me get the hell out of here." Krycek staggered to his feet, only to overbalance and be caught by Hamilton in the next instant.
"Now, boy, I don't mean to be personal here, but trust me…you need a bath."
Skinner watched in bemusement as Krycek weakly shoved at the hands that supported him, then appeared to simply give up and hang in Hamilton's arms. He was propped against the big chest, then Ham turned and looked at Skinner.
"Walt?" The single word, a wealth of entreaty behind it, undid him.
"Shit," he muttered, then got up and led the way to the bathroom. "Don't make me regret this, Krycek."
Hamilton propped the semi-conscious man on the toilet as Skinner ran the bath. "So tell me the story, Walt. It's obvious there's some history here."
When Skinner looked over his shoulder at Hamilton, he was relieved to see his friend looking clear-eyed and sharp. Maybe his brain wasn't completely fogged with lust and whatever weird rescue impulse he appeared to have been seized by?
"Krycek used to work for the FBI. And the Consortium. Later on, we found out he was working for the Resistance and was something of a triple agent. But not before he'd betrayed all of us, killed some of our loved ones and…" he stopped.
"Tell him the rest, Skinner," Krycek said quietly, words only slurring a little as Hamilton worked to get his waterlogged boots off.
Skinner shook his head, standing up suddenly, fists clenched. The water roared behind him. Misty green eyes fixed on nothing, Krycek said flatly, "I infected him with nanocytes in order to control him, to get to Mulder and to make it look like we had them under control of the Consortium. I killed him once, to convince him to do as he was told. I killed Mulder's father. I betrayed every single damned oath I ever took, every friend I ever had, everything I ever believed in. I'm not much better than the people I fought against. That's what he's trying not to say, Hamilton."
"Walt?" Hamilton said softly.
Skinner nodded, not looking at either man. He leaned over and turned off the tap. "It's true."
"So what was he doing outside your house tonight, trying to keep you from catching a bullet?"
Skinner shrugged. "Ask him," he said tightly.
"Krycek?" Hamilton said firmly. There was no way to ignore the order in that voice.
"I owe him. I heard about the hit and I figured that…it's all over now. You deserve something good…I heard about you and Mulder. I owe Mulder, too." Krycek stopped, looking faintly surprised at himself.
"Walt?" That same soft voice again, asking Skinner what he wanted to do.
"Let's get him into the tub."
Working together, they soon had Krycek stripped and lowered into the warm water. Careful not to get the bandages wet, Hamilton ran a washcloth over Krycek's battered torso. "You've seen some action, haven't you, boy?" Hamilton asked softly, washing the truncation of Krycek's arm matter-of-factly. Krycek had insisted on removing his prosthesis himself and it sat on the side of the sink, a miracle of plastic, steel and hardwiring for the complex software that helped Krycek control the artificial limb. The metal interfaces gleamed dully against his skin but Hamilton showed nothing more than gentle interest.
"Don't call me 'boy'," Krycek tried to growl. The warmth of the water and the residual shock was making it hard for him stay alert, which was fine as far as Skinner was concerned. "Skinner, you're not safe. They're just gonna keep coming after you."
"Who, Krycek?"
The other man just shook his head and started coughing, deep wracking coughs that seemed to steal his voice, leaving it weaker than before. "I'm not sure. I need time to track down the client. I just heard about it today."
"Why are you doing this, Krycek?"
Krycek wouldn't look at him. Hamilton stayed silent, just running more hot water into the bath. "I owe you," he repeated softly.
The rush of fury burning through him shocked Skinner; it had been so long since he'd even allowed himself to feel it. "Tell you what, Krycek, let me kill you. Then maybe we'll be even."
Krycek just started coughing again, then he shook his head as he tried to catch his breath. "You kill me, they kill you, Skinner. You choose."
"Walt, let's get him into a bed, then figure out what to do about this."
They worked silently to lever Krycek out of the water. He seemed no more than half-aware as Hamilton efficiently toweled him down, then wrapped him in his own robe. They half-carried him down the hall to the guest room and maneuvered him into bed. Hamilton took his pulse again, this time from Krycek's lax wrist. His fingers brushed the hair back from Krycek's forehead. Fever bright green eyes fixed on Hamilton with a confused frown. "Be alert tonight. They probably won't come back, but…"
"I know, boy. I got it covered, all right? Sleep now," and Hamilton brushed a hand over Krycek eyes, forcing them to flicker shut. Then he turned to Skinner and said, "Maybe you'd better tell me the whole story."
So Skinner did.
Skinner was awakened by the rumble of Hamilton's voice about a foot from his ear. "This isn't what it looks like, Mulder."
"Actually, Sam, it's exactly what it looks like," Mulder said pleasantly.
Skinner kept his eyes closed and wondered if Mulder was armed and whether he'd have a chance to explain to his lover of only a month what he was doing in bed with another man. He and Ham had both refused to let the other one sack out on his too-short couch, so they were splitting the bed, just like old times. Hell, they even had their guns out and ready to hand. They had been talking over possible contingency plans when they'd just plain fallen asleep, adrenaline and willpower running out.
"Mulder," Hamilton said weakly, his legendary glib failing him entirely.
"Frankly, Sam, I'm a hell of a lot more interested in why there's blood on the front door and why Alex Krycek is unconscious in your bed.
"Mulder?" Skinner said softly, finally opening his eyes to fuzzily look at his lover leaning in the doorway, weapon drawn, an anxious smile on his face. His hair was plastered to his head, water dripped from his nose and he had never looked more wonderful to Skinner than when he said,
"Come on, Walt, give me some credit here. If you and Hamilton haven't gotten together in the last 25 years, my being out of town for one week isn't going to do it, either. Besides, you're both still dressed."
"And I worked too damn hard to get you two together," Ham added smugly.
Blessing Mulder's sharp eye and ignoring Hamilton, Skinner sat up and reached for his glasses. "Fox, we've got a problem."
"Yeah, Walt, I'd guessed. Would someone please explain to me about the bloodstains and Krycek?"
Mulder's main talent was an ability to easily grasp the strangest information and Skinner had never been so grateful for it before. Within 20 minutes, Mulder had approved their roughed out plan of action, added his own sensible modifications, called Scully and arranged a meet back out at the airport. Watching Mulder's face as he made the call, Skinner could imagine exactly how happy she was to hear that she would be driving back out to Dulles only three hours after she had left it.
"She's pissed, Walt. She might even be pissed enough to rent us a Gremlin."
But she had not failed them. They found her at the car rental lot, standing in the lurid orange nimbus thrown by cold autumn rain and 4 am lighting. Beside her was a large 4x4, her medical bag on the seat. When Hamilton manhandled the barely conscious Krycek onto the backseat of the rental vehicle, her mouth thinned but she said nothing as she examined the wound. Mulder started talking to her, explaining, and Skinner let him do it, tired enough to simply let the words wash over him as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Hamilton.
"Your life is a lot more interesting than you told me, Walt." Faintly reproachful look.
"Not really, Ham. There're just these moments, you know?"
"Yeah, well, who doesn't have a few skeletons in his closet?" Skinner had told him everything, trying to give Hamilton as clear a picture as he could. "What gets me, though, is that Mulder still trusts you."
"Trusts me again," Skinner corrected tiredly. "Sometimes I think Mulder is a little too forgiving."
"You afraid that's what he's doing with Krycek?"
"Hell, no. I'm afraid that's what I'm doing."
"Well, a guy saves your life, it's bound to make you look at him a little different."
"Is that what's happening with you, Ham?"
"Maybe," Hamilton said grudgingly, a small grin curling his lip in the rain.
"He's not…" Skinner stopped. If he tried to list all the things that Krycek was not, they would be there until long past dawn.
"I know, Walt," Hamilton said softly. "He's not Todd. But I'm not looking for Todd."
Before Skinner could say anything, Scully called them over. "He's got bronchitis and is heading for walking pneumonia. The head wound isn't serious, the shoulder wound is minor; it's mostly the exhaustion we need to worry about."
"We?" Krycek asked hoarsely. Scully ignored him.
"I gave him a dose of antibiotics and something for the pain. But he's going to need several days of complete bed rest before we can even figure out what to do with him."
"OK. Then that's what we'll do. We'll find a place to hole up in West Virginia, let him get back on his feet, then let him start pumping his contacts." Skinner started grabbing the hastily packed duffel bags and tossing them into the back of the 4x4. "Mulder, you and Scully get back to D.C. and stay there. We'll…"
"No."
"There's no reason for you to…"
"No."
"As your supervisor…"
"I quit."
"You're being an ass…"
"Yes," Mulder grinned, then turned and took the keys from Scully. "Thanks, Scully. I owe you."
"Tell me about it," his red-haired partner sighed. "Just take care of him," she nodded at Skinner, who was still standing and glaring. "And him," she nodded toward Krycek. "I can't believe I just said that, but he's really sick, Mulder. Get where you're going fast, then stay there."
"What about me?" Hamilton loomed over her, grinning.
Scully smiled back, actually dimpling. "It's too big a job, Ham. You're like Mulder. The only way to take care of you is to get you to watch out for someone else."
She left while they were all still blinking over the truth of her words.
Darkesville, WV had almost nothing to recommend it, which made it perfect. They found a campground not yet closed for the season and rented a two-bedroom cabin. Mulder claimed to have investigated a Bigfoot sighting nearby and the owner actually seemed to remember him. Skinner just shook his head and paid cash, including a hefty deposit for the cable hook-up. It was barely ten in the morning by the time the four men were settled in. Mulder had insisted on driving the entire way, a determined light in his eye that quickly turned mulish every time Skinner or Hamilton tried to remonstrate. By the time they made a ten minute stop at a grocery store, Skinner hadn't even tried to rein in Mulder's junk food habit the way he did at home, just watched in horrified silence as Mulder bought enough empty calories to fuel a platoon, along with more sensible foodstuffs and a host of over-the-counter drugs for Krycek.
Later on, lying in bed with Mulder a tense weight at the other edge, gray light slinking around the edges of the faded curtains, Skinner sighed. "I feel like a vampire," he offered.
Somehow, Mulder heard the apology hidden in his words. He rolled toward him and lay his head on Skinner's shoulder. "Undead? Or wanting to drink someone's blood?"
Skinner nuzzled Mulder's hair, stale with cigarette smoke and the recirculated air of airplanes and rain water and he didn't reply. Mulder's hand came up to rub the tense muscles at the base of Skinner's neck and he groaned quietly as they started to relax.
"Don't mix up the AD and the lover again, Walt," Mulder said quietly.
"It's just…"
"I know."
Skinner fell asleep with Mulder's knowledge blanketing him.
When he awoke midafternoon, Skinner heard Mulder and Hamilton talking softly in the kitchen. He wandered out to find Mulder in jeans and a sweatshirt, stirring a pot of soup while Hamilton munched a handful of crackers and supervised. If not for Hamilton's shoulder holster and Mulder's weapon clipped to his belt, they might have looked like any two buddies up for a weekend of hunting. Skinner felt his own weapon tucked into the small of his back and sighed.
"How's our patient?"
"Fever's up," Hamilton said. "Not too bad, though. Dana said it probably would go up for a day or so." He took down a tin mug with a cracked ceramic rim. Mulder filled it for him, then handed him a bottle of Gatorade and the box of crackers. "Lemme see if I can wake him up enough to eat something."
Skinner and Mulder ate in comfortable silence, sitting at the battered pine table, knees touching. Hamilton didn't come back, although they heard the easy rise and fall of his voice talking to Krycek. After a time, Mulder said carefully,
"Sam seems to like taking care of…I mean, he's…Krycek…"
"He's always been like that," Skinner sighed. "Any goddamned stray dog or wounded bird or fucked up human being he could find. He used to hook up with the most unbelievable losers."
"What was Todd like? From what Sam said, he was a pretty together guy."
"Todd was the exception to the rule, Fox. Todd just showed up and eclipsed everything and everyone in Sam's life. He was actually a normal, stable guy with a career and not a single major neurosis in sight. He took care of Sam for a change and the novelty of that must have carried them for five years at least. He didn't even mind staying closeted for Hamilton's career."
"And now?"
"Krycek would appeal to a lot of Ham's old instincts."
"He saved Sam's life, Walt. He was trying to save yours. Frankly, I find that pretty damned appealing myself, right now."
Skinner rubbed his hands over his face, feeling the stubble rasp his palms. "I know. If I could just reconcile that with the man I promised I'd kill very slowly one day…It was a lot easier when we were still fighting the war, wasn't it? It all made more sense."
"No, nothing made sense, then. That's what made it easier," Mulder said softly but with certainty.
"I guess you're right. The whole forgiveness/redemption thing kind of escapes me," Skinner admitted. "Hatred and revenge is much simpler."
"No philosophy at the breakfast table!" Hamilton said as he came into the kitchen. He took a mug of soup for himself and dropped into a chair next to Mulder. "Krycek's asleep again," he said between mouthfuls. "Seems pretty worried about you, Walt."
Skinner sighed. "It used to make more sense than this," he complained to Mulder, who merely grinned and handed him a cookie.
It was an odd, disjointed time for them all.
It took three days for Krycek to recover enough to stay awake for longer than the time it took to drink some broth or stagger to the bathroom. Hamilton took the other bed in the sickroom and elected himself chief nurse. He medicated Krycek, fed him, rebandaged his wounds and ignored Skinner's worried looks.
He knew what Walt was afraid of; hell, Walt had good reason to fear that Hamilton was getting all starry-eyed over another lowlife scum. Hamilton smiled to himself as he filled a dishpan with warm soapy water and grabbed a threadbare but clean washcloth and a bath towel. It wasn't like it hadn't happened before, time and again. But this was different and he couldn't say why. Maybe it was that Krycek so clearly did not want rescuing. He snarled and snapped, in between coughing and gasping for breath, or moaning in his sleep. He tried to resist all efforts to aid him and gave in only when his body failed him again and again.
Hamilton crossed through the living room carrying his bath supplies and smiled at the sight of Walter Skinner curled up like a small boy, his head on Fox Mulder's lap, both of them fast asleep on the couch. The TV was muttering away to itself and the rain was spitting down outside. Hamilton's latest restoration project was sitting up and watching the drops skid down the glass.
Krycek scowled at the idea of being bathed, but didn't protest as the colonel started sponging away the sticky residue of three days of fever. He turned his face away as Hamilton worked with detached absorption, gently stroking the damp washcloth over his scarred torso, then rubbing him dry with the towel.
"You've been beat up some, boy."
Krycek shrugged and kept watching the rain. "It happens in my line of work."
"Mine, too." Hamilton skimmed the cloth down the line of Krycek's spine, noting a long, thin scar down one shoulder blade. "So why don't you get out of the business?"
"Nothing else to do. My last employers forgot to give me letters of recommendation before they…left."
"Smart boy like you can't figure out anything else to do with your time?" Hamilton had pulled back the covers and was washing Krycek's long legs, stopping at the edge of the flannel boxers Mulder had lent him.
A weary snarl curled Krycek's lip but he began coughing before he could lash out. Hamilton kept a warm hand in the middle of his back, supporting him until the worst of the spasms were over. His hand gripped Krycek's, giving him an anchor to clutch as he gasped for breath.
Finally, Krycek said, "Why the hell are you doing this?"
Hamilton didn't try to misunderstand. "Because I want to. Nothing more than that."
"Everyone wants something," Krycek said bitterly.
Hamilton shrugged. "Maybe." Then he asked seriously, "What do you want, Krycek?"
But Krycek had begun shivering again and would not answer. So Hamilton tucked the blankets back up around him and left, feeling those fever-bright and confused eyes follow him out of the room.
Mulder sometimes spelled Hamilton in looking after Krycek. One of those times, while Hamilton was out taking a hike, Skinner had overheard Mulder shouting at Krycek and Krycek's pitiful attempt to respond in kind. By the time Skinner caught himself in the doorway of the sickroom, Mulder was holding Krycek's head and bracing his shoulder as he coughed, deep, wracking noises that Skinner expected to produce a lung. Mulder was murmuring apologetic noises as he helped Krycek sit back against the headboard and Skinner went away before he could be seen.
The next day, Skinner had passed by the open door and seen Mulder standing, staring out the window, hands gripping the window frame until they were white-knuckled. Krycek sat, head bowed, staring at his own knees. The silence in the room felt thick and silty with whatever had just been said. That time, too, Skinner left without a word.
Late at night, when he and Mulder lay wrapped together in the too-small bed in their room, he could hear Hamilton's low Texas drawl rumbling through the wall. Sometimes, he could hear Krycek's voice, at times quieter, sometimes raised in anger. Sometimes, Skinner heard nothing more than the rolling rhythms of Hamilton reading long verses from a dog-eared copy of Dylan Thomas that someone had left behind.
He swore to himself, sometimes, in the dark, as he listened to the sound of Sam Hamilton falling for a man who had once tried to kill him and once tried to save him.
The afternoon of the fourth day, Skinner looked up to find Krycek standing beside him. "Give me a cell phone; I think I may know how to figure out who's after you."
Without a word, Mulder handed over his phone and they spent the next hour listening to Krycek speak abrupt sentences in three languages. He hung up after the longest call, no more than four minutes, and coughed again, swearing weakly when he had finished. Hamilton handed him the bottle of cough syrup Scully had included and they watched him as he swigged a mouthful of the dark cherry liquid.
"Now what?"
"Now, we wait," Krycek wheezed. "I call Rico back at 6 p.m., he tells me who hired the Maliazzis."
"You know the hitmen?"
"I know of them. They're street scum. Whoever has it in for you, Skinner, never learned that quality costs."
"Which is all to the good," Mulder said dryly. "Otherwise, Walt and Sam would be sharing a slab at the coroner's office."
Krycek nodded. "I think we can rule out any ex-Consortium members on this one, Skinner. This sounds personal."
"That's a real comfort, thanks, Krycek."
The bruising over his eye made Krycek's grin that much sharper in his pale face. He was wearing an amalgam of all of their clothing, and had borrowed Skinner's razor to shave for the first time in days. A few nicks testified that he was not yet back to snuff.
Scully had called only once. She had given Hamilton some medical advice after listening to his report on Krycek, then she had spoken to Skinner. Her voice was calm and steady, telling him that there were no outstanding warrants on Krycek.
"What do you want me to do, Scully?"
"Whatever feels right, sir."
Skinner looked at Mulder, who stood out on the porch watching the late autumn rain fall. Then he looked at Hamilton, who was never more than a few feet away from Krycek, despite the younger man's nervous irritation with such solicitous treatment. "Damn," he said softly.
"Everything has to have an end, sir."
He hung up without a word.
At 5:30, Krycek had roused himself and asked politely but firmly, to be taken to a payphone on the interstate. Hamilton had objected immediately. "Forget it, boy, you can barely stand."
"Rico won't talk to any of you and we can't risk making that call from a cellphone. There's an even chance that he might have sold me out and if he traces the call, they'll know what area to start looking in. A payphone on the highway isn't worth tracing." Krycek stood up defiantly straight.
"Unless you plan on spending the rest of your life playing cards and reading old mystery novels in backwoods West Virginia, you'd better let me make that call." His expression turned curiously pleading. "Once we know who's got it in for Skinner, we can start planning how to neutralize the threat and then we can all go home."
"You late for a hot date, Krycek?" Mulder teased.
"I've got a life, Mulder," but the words sounded curiously hollow.
There was a brief silence, then Hamilton said, "I'll take him to a phone. You two rest up and get some dinner going. We'll be back in an hour."
Grumbling and ruffled, Skinner handed over the keys. He pulled Hamilton aside. "Ham, keep an eye on this one, will you? Don't trust the pretty face."
Hamilton had surprised him, saying seriously, "I don't trust him, Walt. Not at all." Then he had grinned, "But I do like him. He's…uncomplicated."
"So is a knife, Ham."
"Exactly." Hamilton had slapped him on the shoulder and gone out into the dusk and the rain with Krycek, walking slowly beside the assassin.
The two men had not returned within the hour. They were not back in three. Mulder and Skinner spent the time trying not to stare at Mulder's cellphone on the kitchen table. They spoke little. At ten, Mulder called Scully and asked her to monitor the police reports from their area. At midnight, Skinner put a fist through the plasterboard wall in the hallway; Mulder bandaged it silently. At 1 am, Hamilton and Krycek stumbled through the door, soaking wet and eyes quick and wide with adrenaline.
They only grinned at Mulder and Skinner's drawn weapons, standing shoulder to shoulder, although Krycek was rocking a little on his feet. Skinner, knowing Hamilton as he did, growled, "You son of a bitch. You went out and dealt with it by yourselves, didn't you?"
Hamilton grinned and shrugged and Skinner wanted to put him through a wall. Krycek said in a low voice, "It's done, Skinner. No mess, no fuss and no connection to you."
"Krycek! I wanted justice, not another body in an alley!"
"Sometimes that is the only justice, Skinner."
"I didn't ask you to fight my battles, Krycek."
"I know. It was his idea," and Krycek hooked a thumb at Hamilton who was suddenly very interested in the new hole in the wall.
"It was the same old story—you put his brother in jail fifteen years ago, the brother just died, he sends hitmen after you. I think he'd been reading too many bad novels," Hamilton offered with an attempt at a grin.
"Hamilton, for crissakes, we can't just go around killing people…"
"I don't, Walt, except when they shoot at me or my friends. Law of the Jungle, man."
Mulder heated some soup and he and Krycek ate it silently, listening to Skinner and Hamilton wrangle and bitch. Mulder rinsed off the dishes and stacked them in the sink, then said, "Walter. Shut up. Sam, you shut up, too." He looked like he wanted to grin at the startled silence. "Everyone go to bed. We can argue about it on the way back to D.C. in the morning."
But as Hamilton passed him on the way to bed, Mulder made him give up the car keys. "No more joyriding, Sam. Who knows what you and Krycek could get up to?"
Anger and fright and relief were a heady mix and the addition of a hungry lover made it burn brighter still. Their lovemaking was short and sharp and bright and Skinner knew that it had to carry through the thin walls. When the sounds of their own harsh breathing had subsided, when their desperate whispers were all exhausted, Skinner laid there beside Mulder and let himself be petted and soothed. "The idiots," he grumbled.
"Shh," Mulder said for the fifth time. "Nothing happened to them. It's all right." So they were lying there in silence, perfectly able to hear a long, rich moan, then a flurry of coughing and some hastily smothered chuckles from the next room.
"Hell!" Skinner whispered furiously. "'Nothing' happened to them, huh?"
"What was the strange thing the dog did in the night?" Mulder quoted ruefully. It took him another half hour before he was able to calm Skinner enough to sleep.
In the morning, they said nothing about it. Hamilton smiled serenely at the world and Krycek was withdrawn and tended to jump at unexpected noises. He stood as far from Hamilton as possible and spoke in single word sentences when a grunt or cough wasn't enough.
When they reached Dulles, Krycek slipped out of the car and vanished into the crowd without a word, without a backward glance. Hamilton stared after him with a half-smile on his face and said nothing.
It was a week after their return from West Virginia that Hamilton said one evening, "I think I'll be moving out, Walt."
A little surprised, a little hurt, Skinner could only say, "Oh?"
"I think it's time. You've been damned good to me and I won't forget it. But I should probably get a place of my own."
"You're staying in Washington?" Skinner smiled a little. He'd gotten so used to having Hamilton around.
"I'll be around, Walt. Don't worry about the weekly poker game. Besides, this'll give you room enough, in case you've been thinking about inviting someone else to move in."
"I—uh, haven't…"
"Jeez, Walt, what is your problem? He loves you, you love him, let's get it together, marine!"
He had only gotten to the daydreaming phase, wondering whether or not he might be able, in a year or two, to convince Mulder to move in with him. Or let him move in with Mulder. Anywhere he could get truly used to finding Mulder beside him every morning, where he could take for granted the arm that held him close every night. Where he could bitch about Mulder's papers everywhere and get really aggravated by the way he drank milk from the carton.
"Ham…"
"It's time, Walt."
"And…?
"And what, Walt?" Hamilton's patented innocent expression gave him away every time.
"Just make sure he doesn't bring his work home with him, Ham," Skinner sighed. "Better yet, get him to retire."
Hamilton only grinned like an idiot.
Colonel Samuel Hamilton, USA (ret.) sat alone in his brand new apartment. He sat in the dark and he waited. Eventually, the sound he'd been waiting to hear for over a week came. Someone was picking the lock of his front door.
The door swung open slowly and a shadow flowed through it.
"Nice to see you again, Alex."
The shadow jumped and started badly. There was a small crash and when Hamilton turned on the light, he saw a stack of books that had been beside the door now spilled out across the floor.
Krycek glared at him, eyes crackling with nervousness and adrenaline. He looked far better than he had a month before; healthy, tanned, weight back up where it should be, hair and clothing both fashionable and unremarkable.
"Close the door." Hamilton gestured with his weapon, nodding toward the concealed holsters Krycek wore. "You could have knocked, you know," he said as Krycek slowly emptied both holsters and the sheath at his back, placing the weapons on the bookcase next to the door.
"I didn't want to interrupt, in case you had a guest," Krycek said, hands in the air.
Hamilton smiled gently at the clumsiness of the probe. He had learned a lot about Alex Krycek on their rainy night raid together. He had seen him in action, judged him as a professional. This kind of mental and physical clumsiness on Krycek's part echoed his own recent distraction and he hoped it had the same cause.
He got up and walked slowly toward Krycek, watching as the other man started and fidgeted but held his ground. Hamilton pushed Krycek up against the door, liking the grunt of surprise that he gave, then the catch in his breath as Hamilton's weight pinned him.
"No guests, boy. I've been waiting for you."
"Sorry I was late," Krycek grinned cockily, then gasped as Hamilton ground against him a little. His head rolled against the door and he arched into Hamilton's arms as they came around his body. Hamilton removed the small hold-out .38 from the holster in the small of Krycek's back and placed it, along with his own weapon, on the bookcase next to the others.
"Now," he said, leaning in very close, "let's get some ground rules established, shall we?"
"I'm not a stray," Krycek said breathlessly, squirming as Hamilton's hands stroked up beneath his sweater.
"No," Hamilton stared into the green eyes for a moment, then reached out and very delicately licked at Krycek's upper lip.
"I'm not a pet." He moaned as those wandering hands slid around to his chest and teased at his nipples.
"No," Hamilton agreed, smiling a little as his hands flowed down the warm skin to rest on the strong hipbones.
"I'm not sweet," Krycek gasped, just as Hamilton's mouth closed over his. Long, slow moments later, Hamilton released Krycek's mouth and smiled into the hazy eyes.
"Yes," he disagreed gently.
Boneless and stupid with lust and something else for which he had no name yet, Krycek just stared back at him and said softly, "Yes."
Hamilton wondered if Krycek knew all the things to which he had just agreed, then decided he would take his time explaining it to the younger man. A lot of time. Years. He grinned and leaned in for another kiss.