The Warfare of Perishing Beasts
by Kyllikki (kyllikki8@hotmail.com)
Classification: VA
Rating: R, Sk/D, sexual situations
Spoilers: S8 through DeadAlive; set mid-DeadAlive.
Disclaimer: Skinner and Doggett belong to CC and 1013. If I
owned them,
there would be a whole lot more manly love going on.
Summary: "The words rang hollow in my ears; all my energies were
concentrated
on reading the man beside me as I rose to leave, but his gaze and manner remained
impenetrable."
Notes at the end.
**************************
The Warfare of Perishing Beasts
**************************
The ringing of the phone claws its way into my consciousness. I
roll over,
groaning. Twenty-four years in the service of Uncle Sam has taught me
that
late-night phone calls are rarely good news -- and it feels pretty damn late.
I
fumble for the switch of the bedside lamp and grab the receiver.
"Yeah," I mumble, still groggy.
"It's Skinner," comes the terse voice on the other end. "I want you
to meet me
at the Bureau in about twenty minutes."
His tone of voice jolts me to full consciousness. This is not a
personal call;
something is up. However, I have little patience at this hour, especially
considering the circumstances. "For what?" I ask. I know my tone
is sullen,
but I don't care.
"I got a call from the police. Pathologist down in Wilmington, North
Carolina.
Fishermen pulled in a dead body fifty miles offshore which they've now
ID'd as
Billy Miles."
Shit.
"Billy Miles?" I ask, not quite believing my ears.
Skinner must chalk up my temporary stupidity to the late hour, because
he
replies with only the barest hint of irritation. "Kid from Oregon.
He was
abducted same time Mulder was last May."
This recitation of facts I already know is getting old, especially in the
middle
of the night.
"So what's the big hurry now?" I ask.
"Now he's alive."
Shitshitshitshitshit. Fuck. Not good.
"I'll be right there," I growl into the phone, but Skinner has already hung up.
Less than ten minutes later I'm wearing yesterday's suit and breaking every
speed limit between my house and the Hoover building. Not exactly the
late-night rendezvous I'd had in mind with the Assistant Director, but
considering how things have been going lately, it shouldn't come as a surprise.
Nothing like the surprise I found waiting for me this morning.
***
Transfer.
The word still puts an acrid taste in the back of my throat. Oh,
sure, they
called it a promotion, but there was no diguising its true intent. Kersh
wanted
to transfer me out of the X-Files, and good ol' Walter Sergei Skinner, A.D.,
had
gone along with it. For the good of his career, probably. Because
he feels the
need to minimize his losses. Because the Marine inside of him won't
let him
disobey the direct orders of his superior. Because he stands to lose
too much
if Kersh decides he's not worth indulging anymore.
Because he's afraid of me.
That was what was in his eyes in Kersh's office this morning. Fear.
It was in
his posture from the moment I walked into the room. I saw it in how
he refused
to look at me, in the clench of his jaw. I heard it in his voice as
he recited
the words Kersh wanted him to say: "Deputy Director Kersh spoke to
me at length
before you came up. He thanked me and asked me to write you a letter,
too --
officially transferring you off the X-Files to a division more suited to
your
talents."
I heard the words, but I didn't believe them. He wouldn't sell me
down the
river out of fear, would he? So I gave him a chance to set things right,
to
prove that I was just misunderstanding his intent. "Thank you for your
support,
sir," I told Kersh. "But all things being equal, I, uh ... would like
to give
any transfer some thought." The words rang hollow in my ears; all my
energies
were concentrated on reading the man beside me as I rose to leave, but his
gaze
and manner remained impenetrable.
I left that meeting assuming that his actions in Kersh's office had been
coerced, at the very least. Yeah, right. I should know by now
what assuming
does to people. Assuming leads to me practically knocking Skinner's
office door
off the hinges when I realize he truly believes that my transfer is the right
thing for him.
And he almost won. After leaving his office yesterday afternoon,
I was ready to
throw in the towel. It didn't seem to matter where they assigned me;
I just
stopped caring.
When I skulked back down to the office to lick my wounds, though, Scully
noticed. She never said a word, but the compassion in her eyes was
clear. She
gave me the courtesy of keeping my problems to myself, and we returned to
work.
Her presence calmed me. The silence stretched out for the afternoon,
becoming
comfortable instead of constricting.
On the way out the door for the evening she stopped and put her hand on
my
shoulder. "I know what I told you earlier today, John -- that you should
get
out while you still can. But make sure it's on your terms, not theirs."
Her
voice was quiet, and her eyes focused somewhere past my head on points unknown.
I looked up at her, not quite understanding what she was trying to tell me.
Then her eyes met mine, flashing a deep blue with the weight of what she
was
saying. For a brief moment, I had a vision of what it must be like to be
loved
by this woman. "If you quit now, they win," she murmured, her voice
barely
above a whisper. Then she walked out the door, leaving me to ponder what
the
hell I was going to do next.
***
I still haven't figured it out nine hours later when I pull into the parking
garage of the Hoover building to meet him. No idea what to do with
my
professional *or* personal life -- and Walter Skinner is absolutely the last
person I want to see. So much for that; he pulls up right on time.
But judging
by his reaction, he doesn't exactly want to be sharing space with me, either.
When I get in the car, he turns to avoid my eyes. Even after I stare
at him for
a few seconds, he keeps his gaze studiously on the road and away from me.
So I
switch to the matter at hand, putting my
"IDon'tCareAboutAnythingBecauseI'mAToughCop" mask firmly in place.
"You told Agent Scully any of what you told me?" I ask, doubting he'd had
the
courage to wake her.
"No."
Not doing so well in the courage department today, are we? Fine,
then. I'll
give you an excuse. "My strong recommendation, sir: don't." I
lean on the
"sir" a bit for emphasis. Just so we know that we're two professionals,
nothing
more. "This thing pans out or not, you're going to reopen wounds that still
need
a lot of healing. Not to mention the fact that she's had a difficult
pregnancy.
You know that as well as anybody." As if that's not the understatement
of the
year.
His reply, though, is icy. "I appreciate your concern, Agent Doggett,"
-- he,
too, leans on the title -- "but I wouldn't have told her anyway. Certainly
not
where we're going."
Curiouser and curiouser. "Where *are* we going?"
For the first time since I've been in the car, he looks at me. His
eyes are
dark, and the look on his face is even darker. Words become unnecessary;
only
one thing could affect him this way.
We speed on into the night, heading for a plane to North Carolina and an
appointment with a dead man.
***
Two airplanes and a rental car later, we pull into the cemetery where Mulder
is
buried. Skinner hasn't said a word to me since we left D.C. when, just
prior to
boarding the plane, I made one more plea to his rationality, muttering something
to the effect of digging up Mulder's months-old body being a wild goose chase;
he continued avoiding my eyes but snapped, "*Agent* Doggett, I would think
you
would want to make sure your biggest case was, in fact, closed." He
made no
attempt to mask the bitterness in his voice.
He spent a lot of time on the airphone on the way down, but when he wasn't
navigating the sticky business of disinterring a body with the Raleigh locals,
the silence hung oppressively between us. It was more than a blanket;
it was as
though all the air had been sucked out of the cabin, taking the possibility
of
small talk with it.
He continues the silent treatment even as we drive slowly through the cemetery,
but the car only magnifies the tension; there is no way of distracting ourselves
from the fact that we are alone together in a very confined space. I
can feel
his presence prickling along the left side of my body, and the slight scent
of
his aftershave tickles my nostrils. The last time we got this
close over was
three months ago.
***
It was the day Teresa Hoese was found. "Circling the drain," as the
ER doctor
ever-so-tactfully pointed out. Seven years on the NYPD and I had never
witnessed brutality like that. It hit much closer to home for Scully;
I saw her
superimpose every mark, every injury onto Mulder. The resulting picture
wasn't
pretty.
I couldn't bear to see her cling to a battered hope that Mulder was still
alive;
better that she should expect the worst so she was prepared for it when the
time
came. Lord knows, she wasn't getting reality checks from anyone else
at that
point. Skinner was too intimidated by her to burst the bubble. Besides,
I don't
think he really wanted to believe that Mulder might not be coming back either.
So I told her.
"Bad as you want to find Mulder, you're afraid to find him, too," I said.
I
knew it hurt. Hell, it hurt me to say it. But it felt right.
She spent the
rest of the day in a near-stupor, answering questions when asked directly
but
not engaging either Skinner or me in unnecessary conversation. After
we checked
into the hotel, she drifted to her room and disappeared inside without another
word.
Obviously, Skinner noticed. And somehow, he got her to tell him what
had
happened -- because at about nine o'clock that night, I had a very angry
AD on
the other end of my phone line.
"Agent Doggett, please come down to my room. There's something I
need to
discuss with you." Skinner's voice was as tight as I'd ever heard it.
Then the
line went dead.
I'm not sure what I was expecting when I knocked on his door, but it certainly
wasn't a solicitous Skinner at the door saying quietly, "John. Come
on in." He
stepped back and ushered me into his room. Not surprisingly, it looked
almost
exactly like mine. He had not yet changed out of his work clothes, though
his
jacket lay crumpled over the back of a chair and his tie was nowhere in sight.
I sat down gingerly on the end of the bed, waiting for the axe to fall.
"Want a beer?" he asked over his shoulder as he opened the fridge.
"Sure," I replied warily.
He rescued two Coronas from the tiny refrigerator, opened them, and handed
one
to me on his way to the chair. He collapsed into the chair and stared
into his
bottle. I looked at him, curious. "We gonna toast something or
what?"
He heaved a deep sigh. "To ... hope," he said mirthlessly.
Yeah, he'd definitely talked to Scully. "Hope," I echoed. The
beer was cold,
and I relished its bitter taste in my mouth before I swallowed. We
sat in
silence, staring at the floor and drinking our beer. When I finished,
he
fetched another from the refrigerator and handed it to me. I nodded
my thanks.
Still no axe. By the time he was nearing the end of his third bottle,
I was
downright antsy.
"Sir, what am I doing here?" I asked, breaking the silence.
Skinner sighed again, drained the rest of his beer, and grimaced.
For the first
time since we had started drinking, he met my eyes. "John, we're not
going to
find him alive, are we?" I'd never heard his voice so flat. It was
as if all
the will to live had just been sucked out of him.
I opened my mouth to protest, but the words died on my lips. I was
honest with
Scully; I should be honest with him. I respected him too much to do
otherwise.
He noticed my lack of protest. "What you told Scully today ... you're
right."
His voice cracked, and his eyes were back on the floor. "John, I keep
thinking
I've failed them. Both of them."
He looked up at me with pain etched all over his face. "I just--
I can't
believe-- It wasn't supposed to--" And with that, sobs overtook him, possibly
for the first time since Mulder had disappeared.
No one should have to suffer grief like this alone. We'd both seen
our share of
pain in the line of duty, and I knew what it meant to have the support of
a
comrade in times of pain. I crossed to where he was sitting, drew him
up out of
the chair, and put my arms around him. He clung to me in all those
cliched ways
people cling to one another when they're hurting, body still shaking with
sobs.
Even after the sobs quieted, I allowed him to stay wrapped around me, giving
him
all the comfort and support I could.
How long we stayed that way, I'm not sure. All I know is, one minute
I was
comforting my boss with a manly hug, and the next minute it turned into
something entirely different. Tension crackled between us. His
breathing had
slowed, but now I could feel his heart racing. Or maybe it was my heart.
But
before I knew what was what, Walter Skinner was running his hands up and
down my
back and nibbling on my neck. And I was returning the favor.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world. Before I knew it,
we had
collapsed into a tangle on the bed. His hands were all over me, but
what
captured my interest was his mouth. I leaned over and kissed him deeply,
relishing the difference between the softness of lips and the roughness of
stubble. He tasted of beer and tears and something deeper, more essentially
male. As I pushed my tongue between his lips, he ran his hands along
the
waistband of my jeans, tugging my shirt loose.
Well. Two could play this game. Moving quickly, I pulled both
his hands above
his head and pushed him back on the bed so I straddled him. His eyes
sparkled
in surprise, but he didn't seem to mind the position he was in -- the evidence
of his growing arousal pressed against my leg.
"Well, Agent Doggett, now that you've got me here, what do you plan to
do with
me?" he asked, his voice rough.
I grinned -- really grinned. "Gee, I don't know, Walter," I replied,
emphasizing his first name. "What would you like me to do?"
"It looks as though I'm not in a position to make any demands," he observed,
arching up into me. I groaned from the sensation.
"Mmm. I dunno, maybe we could negotiate something," I replied.
Then I kissed
him again, allowing my hands free reign over that magnificent body.
While our
tongues explored our dental work, I ran my hands over his well-muscled arms
and
torso -- a torso shamefully still hidden behind two layers of shirts.
His
muscles rippled, and I wondered how his skin would feel under my touch.
I began unbuttoning his dress shirt, only to rediscover how difficult it
is to
multitask something like that. So much blood had flowed south of my
waist in
the past few minutes that there was precious little left in my brain to manage
both kissing the hell out of my boss *and* undressing him. So I temporarily
gave up on the former task for the sake of the latter, and began working the
buttons in earnest.
The instant I was no longer restraining his arms, Skinner moved his hands
to
grip my waist. The feel of his cock pressing up against me and his
hands
clenching my ass sent pulses of excitement shooting through my body, and
I
closed my eyes to ride out the sensation. He growled with pleasure,
and I think
I joined him. Now he wasn't the only one growing hard; my jeans were
becoming
more than a little uncomfortable. He managed to wrestle my henley off
and
trailed paths of fire across my chest with his fingers.
But despite those marvelous hands, I would not be deterred from my objective:
to
rid him of that damned dress shirt. And several seconds later, my mission
was
accomplished; only his white t-shirt stood between me and Skinner's exquisite
chest. I leaned forward to kiss him again, staring into his deep brown
eyes
and--
A knock at the door. An *insistent* knock at the door.
I groaned. A shadow crossed his face. "Don't answer it," I said.
"I have to," he said. "It could be important."
Reluctantly, I rolled off of him, wondering what would have happened had
we not
been interrupted. He answered the door in his t-shirt and work pants.
He stood
protectively in the entry, blocking the view of the room from whomever stood
outside. Then I heard Scully's voice.
Shit.
"Let me get some clothes on," he said. He closed the door and turned
to face
me. The despondent look in his eyes had returned, but his expression
was blank.
"She just had a bad dream," he said by way of explanation. "I'm
going to go
talk to her."
"Want me to wait for you?" I asked.
He flinched. "Stay as long as you like," he replied, putting his
shirt and
shoes on. I could tell he didn't mean it. His voice shook, as
though he was
suddenly uncertain about the path we had been about to take. He shot me one
more
inscrutable glance and then left.
I snuck out of his room like a thief, except the things I gathered were
my own.
As I quietly made the return trip to my room, I could see the two of them
standing in the parking lot, looking up at the sky. I wondered what
they were
talking about. I wondered if Skinner and I would ever get a chance to
finish
what we had started.
I kept on wondering, too, because for nearly three months he acted as though
that night never happened.
***
Now, as we creep along the cemetery road toward Mulder's grave, I still
wonder.
I wonder how much of our antagonism over Mulder's forced resurrection is
professional and how much is personal. I wonder why the hell I'm thinking
that
-- after all, I'm the sane one. I'm not the one who wants to dig up
the body of
a man who's been dead three months on the off chance he might still be alive.
Having gotten as close to the gravesite as the road will take us, Skinner
stops
the car. As we get out, the utter ridiculousness of the situation --
both
digging up the grave and Skinner's support of my expected "promotion" --
hits me
one more time.
I just can't stay quiet any longer, and my anger suddenly bursts forth.
"I'll
say it again," I spit. "We're opening up more than a grave here."
I think he
realizes I'm not just talking about Mulder.
"I respect that, Agent Doggett," Skinner bites back, "but under the
circumstances I think not digging it up would be far more regrettable, don't
you?" His tone is aloof, patronizing -- which, ironically, only fuels
my
fervor.
"No," I snap. "I think this is insanity." The subtext is really cooking
now; I
see a glimmer of recongition in his eyes.
His eyes turn steely. "Yeah, well, personally, *I* couldn't live
with the
doubt."
"That what? That we buried a man alive? We found Mulder, you
and me together."
I lean slightly on "together" and pause to let it sink in before continuing.
"We saw the same body. Mulder wasn't just dead, he'd been dead for days.
Had to
have a closed casket. For crying out loud, the body was too far gone
and that
was three months ago." I glare at him. Three fucking months in
limbo, for
crying out loud.
He flinches almost imperceptibly, then ignores the deeper level of the
conversation and spouts some jargon about the ME's findings. I can't
bring
myself to listen closely -- I'm too angry about his willful ignorance of
the
deeper underpinnings here.
"... it's a fluke the doctor even noticed," he concludes.
Waves of disgust overwhelm me. Disgust with him for not having the
strength of
belief to follow through with this thing, and disgust with myself for ever
believing he *would* follow through with it. "I don't believe it,"
I growl. "I
don't believe I'm even standing here." I shoot him a scathing look
before
dropping my eyes to the ground, watching the backhoe peel dirt from Mulder's
gaping grave.
Searching for the undead. Somehow it seems appropriate.
***end***
Thanks to jael for long-ago beta and handholding. :)
The title is drawn from Pablo Neruda:
You, my antagonist, in that splintering dream
like the bristling glass of gardens, like a menace
of ruinous bells, volleys
of blackening ivy at the perfume's center,
enemy of the great hipbones that have touched my skin
with a harrowing dew, with a tongue of water --
whatever the mute winter of your teeth or the hate of your eyes,
whatever the warfare of perishing beasts who guard our oblivion,
in some dominion of the summer, we are one,
ambushed with lips, in a cannonade of thirst . . .
kyllikki8@hotmail.com
http://hamsandwich.topcities.com
