A
Home On The Range
Date:
February 14th, 2006
Author:
Jvantheterrible – please ignore whomever STOLE my old email account on
Yahoo!
Pairing:
Sk/M (Skinner’s POV)
Rating:
NC-17 eventually – got to get the boys
re-acquainted after all this time…
Summary: Walter
Skinner has left everything behind him for the past couple of years. There’s
only one problem; not everything fades with time.
Author’s
Notes: We’re BAAAAAAAAAACK!!!!!! Thank whatever
Gods rule the release of DVD to make it affordable for a change;
of course ‘Brokeback Mountain’ has inspired me, and I hope to bring much more
fic here very soon. Thanks for surfing here…all feedback is vehemently welcomed
to Jvantheterrible at duranjaxter@comcast.net…even
flames – just nice to know that SOMEONE is still out there reading!
It’s
hot in the desert in June – damn hot, and summer’s not even really here yet.
I’ve lived out here in what nearly passes for the middle of nowhere for the
last year and a half and despite the heat I’ve come to love the scenery. The
wide-open never-ending sky, the thorny yet delicate nature of everything
fauna-related and especially the mountain ranges scattered in any direction you
look are enough to take your breath away daily…it sure as hell took mine away
the first time I set foot out here. It took me a long time to stop mistaking
distant saguaros for illegal immigrants or lost hikers, and even longer to
realize that there truly are very few cloudy days here in my new paradise. So
much for crowded days in the park across the street from the J. Edgar Hoover
Building, ready-made food of any kind, snow, traffic, rain, smog, syndicates,
government bullshit…all of that seems forever ago. Now I carry a gun (of the
double-barreled variety, no more Sig Sauers thank you very much) for entirely
different reasons. God forbid I’d be out working on my new perimeter fence and
some rattlesnake sneaks up on me, or angry javelinas, or a hungry cougar that’s
come down from the mountains looking for an easy mark. I’ve never been an easy
mark for anything or anyone in my life and I’m not about to start a new trend now.
Eighteen months ago, the Federal Bureau of Investigation thanked me profusely for my tenure in office as AD Walter S. Skinner by offering me the deal of a lifetime; never figured I’d reap the benefits of a government payoff, but by God there it was and far be it from me to continue pushing papers for another ten years or so when the gift horse came knocking. What initially appeared to be several counts of blackmail eventually came to fruition in “settlement” form of one hefty severance package (still including my pension and full benefits, of course) courtesy of ‘The Powers That Be’ in Washington. It was the proverbial offer I couldn’t refuse and I would have been an ass to turn them down. For all the shit I’d put up with for years on end, it made the deal pretty goddamn sweet when it actually hit my desk in paper form.
It took me two full days to read it all; 48 hours may not seem like a very long time to assess and re-assess your lifetime career in government work, but it made all kinds of sense when I realized that “they” were planning on restarting some things that had no business being renewed or renovated or re-‘thunk’-up in any way, shape, or form. I truly wanted nothing more to do with it…with any of it…so I signed on the dotted lines and I did what they were truly asking me to do, big fat check and luggage in hand – I disappeared. It didn’t matter to them anymore that I knew where all the bodies were buried. I no longer held any importance to them whatsoever, even with those fucking nanocytes still in my bloodstream (to this day, the fuckers). Krycek and the rest of his cronies were dead and gone, and almost no one was around anymore that gave a shit so they sent me on my way. There was only really one condition to the receipt of my last ‘reward’ and it was the one thing “they” knew would put the final nail in the proverbial coffin of my career…simply disappear. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going, don’t tell anyone where you’ve been, don’t tell anyone you might meet in the future where you’ve been, don’t ever speak or think or listen to or even dream of any X-Files related material, creatures or…agents.
Hey, far be it from me to grouse over not being able to
kiss Mulder and Scully and Reyes and Doggett goodbye, right? I mean, all they’d managed to do was end my
lifelong pursuit of truth and justice by enabling the Syndicate’s implanting me
with some fucking alien technology and write me off as some useless old fogey
that no longer mattered in the big picture, right? Why should I care what
became of those other people? I was getting out, and by God I was getting out
now. Today. ASAP, Mr. Former-AD Skinner. Thank You, Here’s Your Check, Don’t
Bother To Call, Write, Fax Or Email. I boxed up the meager belongings in my
office the very morning I signed, and half an hour later I left the JEH
forever. Good riddance, except…except…Goddammit, I did want to say goodbye. I was going to miss Mul…I was going to miss them
and didn’t I owe them that final farewell? Unfortunately the gift horse was
waiting for me – complete with an armed guard – and I did the only thing I
could or, truth be told wanted to at that point …I walked away.
Walked off the
elevator in the lobby, out the doors with my armed escort (stupid bastard), got
in a cab and headed home with my sorry-ass little box. Once back in Crystal
City (after depositing the little gift which was all that remained of my life’s
work in the bank, of course) I got online and decided where I was going to
“retire”…Southern Arizona had some property for sale that looked just right –
especially if the topographic map attached was any indication of what exactly I
was buying; 30 acres of untouched, unimpeded and most importantly uninhabited
desert that backed right up to some also-uninhabited mountains. All the hiking,
farming, horseback and motorcycle and ATV riding property that a newly retired
man could ask for, I thought. I called the agent and had him fax me the papers
that evening and by the next day, I was a fucking cowboy without…well, without
a damn thing save for some land and a small mountain range. Yee-haw, I was
moving to Arizona. A week later I’d sold my condo, all my furniture, donated
most of my clothes and earthly belongings to the Veterans or Big Brothers, made
some minimal arrangements for my arrival in AZ, and I did just what “they” had
intended; I well and truly disappeared.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO
There
wasn’t much here when I arrived; just a single-wide trailer that I’d purchased
ahead of my move (to live in until I could hire some help and build my ranch)
along with a new Ford F150 Hemi (my one all-new concession), plus 30 acres of
land fenced amateurishly in barbed wire and rotting posts; it was more
important to me in the beginning to know just how much space I had to
claim as my own. Once I actually got here and looked around, I simply stepped
out of the cab, dropped my 2 suitcases to the dirt beneath my feet and paid the
driver, then watched him drive off. When he was out of sight, I turned back to
my home…my so-called “spread”…the culmination of my life’s work…my past…my
present…my future.
I
still remember that day so clearly; I recall it often, watching the cloud of
dust from that cab as it raised with the turn of the tires, then wafted around
and changed shapes for a few minutes in the wind before it resettled on the
hot, hard ground beneath me. It was the final farewell to the life I had lived
before, and I realized then…moreso than at any other time in my personal
history…I was well and truly alone. All those that I’d known, all that I’d experienced
in my past was just that – past – and it all swirled in the boiling breeze
before it finally settled back into the burning sands of it’s final resting
place…just like me.
It
didn’t take me long to assemble a building crew; Arizonans are quite pleasant
people and didn’t seem to mind my aversion to communicating much, so all I
basically had to do was grunt and attempt a grimace every so often, then
procure a (rather primitive if I say so myself) basic outlay of what I wanted
and several months later, I had a real home. My own little oasis in the
desert, with a small 4-stalled barn out back to boot so that I could acquire
the other half of my retirement dream in the not-too-distant future – a steed
or two worthy of a former-AD of the FBI. Due to the lack of available water in
the desert, a stocked fishing pond was most likely out of the question, but I
did manage to get some assistance from the county as far as tapping into
natural well water; not the best for everyday human consumption, but with a pseudo-pond
dug out a couple of miles from the nearby mountain range, the horses I hoped to
obtain would enjoy the occasional splashing and/or treat of “natural water” to
drink…luckily, my settlement from the Bureau would provide me with supplies of
any and all kinds for at least as long as I lived; it’s not like I’d
ever have anyone to will this place to, but by God I was going to be
comfortable as long as I was here, as would any beasts I might choose to keep
me company in my so-called ‘Golden Years’.
If
the first year I lived out here was any indication, the Monsoon would replenish
any needed reserves for my ‘pond’ during the most brutal months, and very
little groundwater was actually required at all. The nearest stores were all
about an hour South of where I lived and I made all attempts to put off
shopping of any kind as long as humanly possible. Tucson was the closest big
city and even that was an additional half hour past the local ‘Quickie
Mart’ gas station or town store I might visit to pick up the barest
necessities. I stocked up on bread, powdered milk, coffee, bottled water,
potatoes, meat, soup, beans, rice and whatever else I could think of that I
might want so that I had it down to one trip to town a month. I thanked my
military training (and the new deep-freezer I’d purchased a month ago) for my
resourcefulness and thanked the Bureau for financially enabling me to live my
now-secret life in a manner that was still comfortable. Truth be told, this was
ever so much more ‘home’ than DC had ever been, but that nagging feeling of
something (or someone…Goddammit, let it… let him go!) missing
persisted no matter how hard I tried to settle.
Home
Depot supplied me with ample materials to build my new and more-permanent
fencing, so I had everything I’d need for the entire project delivered and
dumped quite unceremoniously in several huge piles just behind my house. Along
with the pilings and tools, I’d purchased a heavy duty ATV along with a trailer
so I could tow all the raw fencing I’d need to where I’d need it on any
given day. I was pretty certain I’d be able to finish the entire North side of
the fence by nightfall, seeing as how I’d managed to spend 10 hours a day the
entire past week and a half digging holes in the unforgiving cracked ground and
pounding the posts in one by one.
It was great stress relief; not that I had much stress, but there was still that niggling at the back of my brain that I tried everything – to no avail – to abate. No matter how blistered my hands became despite the thick leather work gloves I wore…no matter how harshly I pounded with the oversized mallet to get the posts into the ground…no matter the clenching of my teeth against the sweltering heat of the day…there was no real escape from the hazel eyes and nearly-black spiky hair that haunted me every moment of every hour of every day. Goddamn you, Fox Mulder…this is supposed to be my retirement…why can’t you let me be?
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO
It’s funny; no matter how much time I spend out here working away, wiping the sweat from my brow and burning my muscles with the rigor of ranch work, I always seem to find myself maudlin over my abrupt exit from DC and my inability to bid farewell to those that meant a damn to me in the end. 19 months and counting and I look up and close my eyes and clench my jaw against the blistering sun, wondering if today is the day that I’ll finally be able to let the past go…let them go…all of them.
I shake off that train of thought and get back to the job at hand; standing here gazing up into the big blue and daydreaming with my wrists resting on this fencepost is most certainly not going to get the North side done by Dusk! I take a healthy swig of water from my gallon jug and check my watch – 11AM – been at it for 5 hours so far and only have about 20 or so more posts to pound in before I hit the Foothill mark…I think I’m well on my way. I decided a while back to fence just to the “grass line” that leads up to the mountains (Desert Broom, Cholla, Prickly Pear and Agave, but it’ll all flourish with the Monsoon rains and I want my horses – when I get them – away from that stuff), keeping most of that spiny shit out of the corral area I’m building.
The way I’ve been building so far seems to make sense; it’s one hell of a lot easier to lay the horizontal slats across and into the slots in the vertical posts, so I pound in as many posts as I can stand – usually eight or ten – then “rest” while I lay the slats in. I afford myself a short lunch break and then ease back into the job, completing the next seven sets of slats between posts. I see the mail truck pull up out in front of the house out of the corner of my eye, not stopping for a second to catch my breath even though it’s been days since I received any kind of postal correspondence, bills or otherwise. A brief glance at my watch tells me I’ve got at least another four hours of daylight and I’m pleased; I’ll actually be ahead of schedule since there’s only another eleven posts to be pounded in to reach the grass line. Feeling empowered, I manage to hammer all of the remaining wood into its final resting place in the unforgiving dirt, thereby treating myself for the last two hours of my self-imposed workday to merely laying slats into slots, dropping to my ass atop a large rock outside the still gaping South and East perimeter with a loud, “Oomph!” once I’d finished the final set.
For the first time, this morning I actually took the time to load up the ATV with a heavily-iced cooler, knowing that once I’d finished my work today that I’d have made extreme progress…this of course called for several cold, malted beverages in celebration. Just my luck, I note as I open the cooler and reach in from my ass-roasting rocky perch, sitting back up with one damn fine cold can of Budweiser. I pop the ring and drink half of it down in one greedy gulp, letting loose with a loud belch and a tired grin as I allow myself to truly relax for the first time today, my back hunching and shoulders drooping in welcome relief. I pull off my work gloves and let them fall to the ground, then divest myself of my stinky light denim shirt and faded straw cowboy hat, lifting my chin and tipping back the rest of my beer while I also ingest the beginning of this evening’s sunset. It’s going to be another beauty, this one; the lack of clouds does nothing more than invite solid swatches of orange-gold and sweeping slashes of indigo and dark pink hues across the horizon, bidding the sun a fond farewell as it sinks down behind the mountains, yet another desert day drawing to a close.
Christ, at what point exactly did I become so poetic? I suppose it’s the years spent chasing after and attempting to relieve my agents from the evils and horrors of the world in general that makes me appreciate a desert sunset so much. Hell, in DC all you could ever see was the smog blocking what passed for a hazy gray afternoon before sinking into complete blackness that sometimes even the streetlights couldn’t lighten. Out here, life is so different; there’s so much to see, hear, smell and even breathe in…so much openness, so much air, so much…life! Dear God, I truly have become a sap I think to myself as I open the cooler lid and toss my empty beer in, only to retrieve another one and pop it open, the condensation dripping down into my salt and pepper chest hair, winding its way oh-so-slowly down into and beyond the waistband of my filthy dusty jeans. All my muscles immediately tense as I realize what exactly I’m thinking…exactly what that unimpeded drip means…exactly whom I’d like to have come relieve me of said drip, along with so many other lonely thoughts…I think I’ll just hop on the ATV and drive to the mailbox.
I pick up my gloves, hat and shirt and toss them into the cooler, slam the lid shut and mount my cycle. As though it would piss anyone else other than myself off, I chug the rest of the beer in my hand and toss the can back over my shoulder as I drive off – I can pick it up in the morning, right? I mean, there’s still the Eastern and Southern bordering fences to build. Goddamn bastard fence is all I have to do now anyway and when that’s done what the fuck am I going to do? Doesn’t matter, I think to myself as I floor the pedal with my workboot heel and kick up the dirt in my wake as I head to the mailbox, where I’m certain all that’s waiting for me is this month’s reclaimed water bill – and maybe some deep desert discounts.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO
Postmark: Washington, DC
Sender: Fox
Mulder, FBI
I’d always hoped he’d find me…especially if I made no attempt to contact him after I left. I wasn’t sure how much time it would take – on either end – but I suppose he wins for being the first to break the silence. The plain fact that I’m holding his cheesy Washington D.C. touristy postcard in my hand is proof enough…it has to be, and I didn’t even realize how much I missed the Monument…
Dear Sir:
Just dropping you a line to…drop you a line.
All was not what it seemed when you left.
Hope you receive this, been looking far & wide.
Typically cryptically yours,
Mulder
Son of a fucking bitch…and not so much as a hint of anything else in the godforsaken silver box with its red flag practically permanently at ease. FUCK. Goddamn you, Fox Mulder…Goddamn you to Hell and back. I’m too tired to deal with this right now, actually; I tuck the postcard into the waistband of my Wranglers and park the ATV, then stomp up the five steps to my front porch. I turn around and stomp back down the stairs, retrieve a third iced beer from my cooler, stomp back up the stairs especially loudly – makes me feel better – and come to rest in my front porch swing.
Shirtless and hatless, I pop the top of my beer and hold it up to the stars that are just now starting to appear in the endless desert sky. “Here’s to you Mulder,” I shout and allow a short, sharp laugh to escape my lips before I swig it down to join the others in my empty belly. Come to think of it, my belly’s not the only thing that’s going to bed empty tonight. Goddamn you Fox Mulder…and then some, I think as I toss back the rest of my beer and swing to and fro on my porch, the lack of both breeze and moon making me feel more alone out here than ever. This doesn’t matter; his card doesn’t matter, his words don’t matter, the FBI doesn’t fucking matter anymore. I’m free and that is all that matters, isn’t it? I swing back and forth a few more times before I force myself up and off the bench, navigating half-naked through my front door and slamming it behind me as I make my way into my so-called safe little desert haven, content for yet another night to take a quick shower and drop into my all-too-empty bed. I hope it’s empty, anyway…those scorpions sure do pack a nasty fucking bite.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO