January Sun 3/7 Christley by Dawn Pares and Justin Glasser *** Crystal City Apartments Washington D.C. Normally, the phone ringing at five til midnight would have woken him up, but Skinner hadn't been normal for a while. He'd taken to going to bed later and later, hoping to sleep through until morning. It wasn't working--all he seemed to be doing was cutting into his sleep time even further--but he refused to give up. To do so would mean that this was something he couldn't master. The last time had been worse in so many ways. The dreams, the old woman, and that poor . . . the woman he'd found dead beside him. He hadn't known if he'd killed her or not: there were nights he knew he was responsible for her death, regardless of whose hand had wrung her neck. He'd woken up with he body still cooling beside him, and for the next two or three days he'd done nothing but try to forget her, forget all of them: the prostitute, Mulder, Scully, Sharon. The last time had been like a short trip to hell. This time it was just a couple of nightmares, just a little sleep deprivation. Nothing he couldn't handle. He was standing in the fluorescent light of the bathroom considering a box of Nytol when the phone rang. "Skinner." The voice on the other end was unfamiliar and irate, a Southern voice made nearly incomprehensible by its rapid annoyance. Not surprisingly, it was talking about Mulder. Skinner should have known better, the voice said. What was he trying to do, derail a flawless investigation? Skinner looked at his watch. Ten hours. Mulder had pissed off the field office in ten hours. That had to be a record. He let the voice run on and on, finally tuning back in when the pitch and speed told him that the agent on the line was almost done. "--and what are you going to do about it?" What was he going to do about it? He looked around his apartment, at the sterile light, too bright in the surrounding darkness, and the dented cushions of his armchair. He thought of the immaculate expanse of his kitchen and the too-familiar heat of his bed. He thought of the darkness in the dream and he thought of Mulder's cool implacable gaze. "I'm on my way," he said, and hung up before he heard an answer. *** FBI Branch Office Bent, North Carolina 2:33 am "I don't understand what the problem is!" Mulder shouted, slamming his hand down on the conference table. "You need a viable suspect; we're telling you how to get one." "You're not tellin' me *shit,* Agent Mulder! These are defense wounds, pure and simple." "Robertson?" Mulder demanded, but Robertson just shrugged. "I told you--they could go either way." "LOOK AT THESE!" The photos he threw arced up and out, a fan of blood and pale skin. Several of them hit Robertson in the chest. Scully grabbed Mulder's wrist in a loose grip. "Mulder," she murmured. He panted with rage, glaring at them all. He wanted to take a swing a Christley's smug face, but the moment had passed, leaving him with just the dregs of anger, draining away rapidly. The phone on the table beeped. "Christley." Agent Christley listened for a moment, then raised his head and gave Mulder a vulpine smile. "Send him in." The door opened, and Mulder leaned over the table toward Agent Christley, palms flat, gritting his teeth. "You unbelievable pussy," he murmured. Christley beamed at him. "You mind telling me what's going on here, Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked. He sounded calm and mildly interested, the same way he sounded in his office in D.C., a fact that reassured Mulder. Skinner may have been called to rein them in, but apparently he wasn't going to do it with an iron hand. He took in a deep breath. "I was just explaining to Agent Christley that our guy is marking the victims in a way that may help us i.d. him." "And I was just--" Christley began, but Skinner held up his hand, palm out, directing the flow of words the way a cop directs traffic. "Mulder," he said. "He's marking them on the palms . . . " Mulder began, turning to accept the photos scooped off of the floor by the ever-amiable Agent Robertson. He leaned over the table, almost inclined on it, pointing out the details to Skinner who came to the edge of the table and stood over him, hands on his hips. Mulder finished with a flourish, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. Take that, you fuck, he thought, watching Christley's face. "Scully?" Skinner asked. "I agree with Agent Mulder's analysis, sir. I was the one who questioned the marks as defense wounds in the first place." Mulder noticed Christley's fish face of astonishment with genuine pleasure. He smiled. For once, he and Scully were on the same page, and it had to happen in front of Agent "this is my case though I can't investigate my way out of a wet paper bag" Christley. Sometimes, life was too kind. Skinner, in the meantime, was eliciting Robertson's opinion. Again, Robertson shrugged. "Besides this, we've got nothing," he said. "I'm not entirely certain, but if Mulder thinks it's right, I'm willing to go with it." "I see," Skinner said. "Agent Christley, may I have a word with you in the hallway please?" He held the door open with one arm, his gaze as serene and objective as a clear pane of glass. Christley slunk out into the hall. The door eased shut, and Robertson let out a low whistle. "Guess who's about to get his ass chewed," he said, almost laughing. "Think he'll ever recover?" "Not unless he's wearing Kevlar underwear," Scully answered, and Mulder, surprised, choked on his cold coffee. *** Motel 6 Bent, North Carolina 3:41 am The only thing Skinner wanted was a nice quiet room of his own and a solid night's sleep. He knew he probably wouldn't get the latter-he didn't figure that this night would be any different from any of the last two weeks-but he hadn't thought the former was too much to ask. The motel office wasn't open. They stood there, three agents of the federal government, outside a locked screen door, dumbfounded by a simple hand-lettered sign. "Please call again," it said. Skinner scowled at it. "You can share my room, sir," Mulder offered. Skinner nodded, knowing he should be grateful, knowing that the idea of sharing a room with Mulder should be value-neutral, neither exciting or troubling. He was dismayed to find it was both. He watched the hem of Mulder's coat swaying as the younger man walked. He would have to know. Somehow, Skinner was going to have to come up with some segue into the fact that he would not be sleeping the night through. He sighed, stepping past Mulder into the orange and yellow hotel room. He laid his coat over the threadbare lounge chair in the corner, and shrugged out of his suit jacket, draping it neatly over the top of the overcoat. Mulder still stood in the doorway, keys jangling in his hand. Skinner heard the t.v. come on in the next room and looked up at the connecting door that hung slightly ajar. "Convenient," he said, precisely at the same moment as Mulder blurted "Sir-" They stared at each other in awkward silence for a second. The keys had stopped moving in Mulder's hands. "Sir . . . " he said again. "I . . . what does that mean?" Skinner saw anger flaring up in Mulder, and realized he had made a mistake. "I'm sorry, Mulder. You were saying?" Mulder pushed the door shut with his foot and removed his coat, apparently freed from paralysis by Skinner's apology. "Sir," he began. Skinner turned his back to the agent and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Sir, Agent Scully and I app--" "Can it, Mulder," Skinner interrupted, glancing over his shoulder. "I was told you were going off the deep end again. It's not Christley's fault he couldn't recognize a lead if it bit him in the ass." "Yessir." "I'm only sorry I didn't get here in time to prevent you from acting like an idiot, " Skinner remarked. "The next time you feel like going off half-cocked, I expect to hear from you first. Is that clear?" "Yessir." Mulder nodded. His swearing of obedience was a ritual, a form. They both knew it was also a lie. Skinner went into the mildewed bathroom and poured a glass of water, letting the faucet run for a second to clear the tap. The noise of Scully's television drifted through the open door: Mulder must have re-opened it. Skinner recognized that for what it was--a signal that she was awake and willing to talk. She'd want to know how badly he'd chewed Mulder's ass after flying all the way down here and catching him in the aftermath of an assault on a fellow agent. He stepped out of the bathroom and approached the side of the bed closest to the bathroom door. "You always do this?" he asked, waving his hand at the open door. Mulder, who had taken a seat at the pressboard table by the window, glared at him. "It's not like-" "I'm sure there's a perfectly rational explanation I'm not interested in hearing, Mulder. Will she come in?" "Sir?" The look on his face was openly hostile. "Never mind. I'm going to get some sleep," Skinner said, shucking his shoes and pants in one smooth motion. "I suggest you do the same." "I'll be up for a while. Will the t.v. bother you?" "I doubt it. Good night, Agent Mulder," he said, setting his glasses on the formica nightstand. Mulder became nothing but a white and fleshy blur on a field of orange. He lay down and turned on his side away from the light. For a long time he heard nothing but the click of Mulder's fingers on the keys of his laptop, and the faint reassuring hiss of the television turned down low. He knew that Mulder sometimes stopped typing and looked at him: he could feel eyes on his back as surely as he could feel the scratch of the sheets. He was considering giving up for the night, just sitting up and opening up the files and admitting to himself if not Mulder that there would be no rest for him tonight when he heard the words. "Good night, sir." It was a murmur, almost a whisper, accompanied by the hush of movement: Mulder collecting some papers, shucking his shoes, and slipping through the adjoining door. Skinner didn't fall asleep for a long time after that, wondering what he was doing in a motel far from his own bed. For awhile he'd heard low conversation back and forth, unintelligible, Mulder's low mumbles and Scully's slightly higher responses. That had stopped, but Skinner was certain that if he burst in on them now he would find two mildly shocked agents gazing up at him from at least three feet apart: Mulder's reaction to his inappropriate comments had told him that no matter what the rumors, Mulder and Scully's behavior was totally within FBI guidelines. The thought almost disappointed him. He had wondered about Mulder and Scully's relationship. Skinner may have been a man with secrets, but he was also a man with ears, and office gossip had been circulating about the two agents almost since they'd been partnered. He would almost envy Mulder if he'd somehow convinced Scully to share his bed. He would almost envy Scully for the same reason. It would be nice to have someone there, any someone, and as close as they were he couldn't see-- Nice. The last time he'd entertained the idea of that kind of comfort, he'd woken up at the heart of a murder investigation. He was surprised to find the murmur of CNN soothing, the consistent hum of the announcer's voice, the intermittent commercial jingle, the polite interruptions of the correspondents . . . It was comforting in its predictability. He wondered how many times Mulder had fallen asleep with the television on. He wondered how many nights Mulder had fallen asleep with someone in his bed. With Scully's door open, probably not many. Empirically, Mulder was certainly attractive, and even his pariah status didn't keep the newer agents from throwing the man admiring glances. Skinner had even witnessed Kim flutter a time or two, on one of the few occasions Mulder was in the office for reasons other than to be called on the carpet yet again. That wasn't why he was here, though, because of the way Mulder looked. He had stood in his apartment with the phone receiver in hand and . . . he was here because there was a job to be done. Nothing else. This wasn't a productive track of thought. Skinner punched the pillow twice and ordered himself to sleep. Surprisingly, it came when he called it, but it brought dreams in its mouth. ***end 3/7**