Date: May 24^th - 27^th, 2002

Author: Jvantheterrible

Category: Sk/M

Rating: NC-17 for M/M relations/sexual situations, angst, and stuff!

Disclaimer: Well, despite the fact that the X-Files is over, I can only hope and pray that Chris Carter doesn't forget about our favorite guys…hope to see them soon on the BIG screen. I miss them already…

Summary: Takes place the night that Skinner killed a certain rat-bastard…

Author's Notes: I haven't written Sk/M in AGES. My muse has been snoozing. I suppose I have the FX channel to thank, due to the damn Memorial Day Marathon, and also because I've decided that it's just not much fun cheating on Sk/M with The Sentinel. LOL. I'm back to my roots, and hopefully, there will be at LEAST a couple more stories before my muse goes back into hibernation. Thanks for surfing here.

One. One shot from a Sig Sauer…that's how many my lover put into Alex Krycek's sorry excuse for a head earlier this afternoon. Right between the fucking eyes, no less. I can't say that I blame him, of course. How could I? For Christ's sake, Walter's been abused and coerced and blackmailed more times than I can count on all of my fingers AND toes over the last several years. 'Set Mulder up to fail? No problem, Alex. I'll get right on it.' 'Kill Scully's baby? (I'm SO sure…) Right, Alex, I'm on it, you rat bastard you'. The shot to his one remaining arm just wasn't enough to keep Krycek from instructing Walter to kill me, and Skinner had had enough. Enough of the lies, and the deceit, and the fucking nanocytes, and double agents, and especially enough of double-talking (and timing) Syndicates.

Skinner is sitting on the sofa in the living room of our now-shared condo, tossing back God-only knows how many scotches, and I'm going to let him. It's been one hell of a rough road to hoe, and Walt deserves every bit of relaxation and celebration that's coming to him. Me? I'm in the kitchen, doing a little celebrating of my own. Stolichnaya and orange juice - nectar from the Gods, as far as I'm concerned. I need a little time to inebriate on my own as well after tonight.

I can hear him out there every so often, getting up and pacing with his glass, downing another shot after so many minutes, then plopping down on the sofa to pour himself another, then getting back up and pacing again. It's fucking exhausting to listen to, and I'm glad I've been banished to the kitchen so I don't have to watch. So I'll sit here, with my handy dandy Screwdriver in hand, waiting until he's smashed enough to call out for me (or not) so I can help him up to bed (or carry him). Our nifty California-King where I'll curl up next to him (tonight, or tomorrow morning if he's too smashed when he's done this evening) and hold him until he's stopped sobbing and cursing and blaming and berating himself for something that he should've done YEARS ago.

It's only a matter of time now, I reassure myself as I finish off my third drink and prepare another. I can feel the weight of that godforsaken palm pilot in my pocket, smacking silently against my thigh with each step I take. He has no idea that I managed to snag the instrument of his intended destruction before the cops got to the scene. When the time is right, I'll give it to him…right now it's time for another drink.

All right, this is enough. I'm barely able to get up from the kitchen table, having finished my fourth screwdriver of the night, and I'm sure that Walter is more than ready to be done with whatever damage he's managed to do to himself the past couple of hours. It's been quite a while since I heard him pacing, and with any luck he's managed to knock himself down and out for the count. What better way to finish off this day than to pass out in blessed oblivion on the sofa?

As I manage to stagger into the living room, I see that Walter has indeed managed to leave the day's stresses behind - finally. I smile a bit as I drop to my knees beside the sofa where he's now resting comfortably, glass fallen from his hand beside me. The last of the bottle of scotch soaked into the carpet at least an hour ago; that must have been the muffled thump I heard. I reach out with my right hand and use my fingertips to caress his forehead, marvelling over the disappearance of lines there as he rests. I trace lightly over his eyebrows before indulging myself as I let my fingers tickle up his head to stroke his bald crown gently.

"I love you, Walter Sergei Skinner," I whisper to him as I lean forward drunkenly and press a feather-light kiss to his forehead. I can't carry him up to bed, so I manage to make my way to the hall closet to pull out a blanket, and return to cover him and tuck him into the couch where he's now snoring, glasses perched oh-so precariously on his nose. I barely manage to stifle a drunken snort as I reach down and carefully remove the wirerims from my beloved's face, setting them on the coffee table before I head upstairs to put myself to bed. The emptiness of the California King is lost on me as I tumble down onto it, barely able to keep my eyes open long enough to roll over and clutch his pillow to my chest as I fall into a deep, snore-filled sleep of my own.

Jee-ZUS…just made the grave mistake of opening my eyes. Not only is everything way too dark and blurry, but it's spinning as well - despite my apparent horizontal position on…where am I, in the living room? Shit, nice of Fox to put me to bed, I think briefly before I attempt to sit up. BIG mistake, that. Okay, lying down is good. On my back with my eyes closed while I take very deep breaths is even better. How could he let me do this to myself? Oh, yeah, I remember now…I told him, verbatim, to get his "fucking sorry ass out of my fucking face for as long as it fucking takes for me to get well and fucking drunk and forget every horrible fucking thing that's happened for the last two fucking weeks". Shit. And since when does he listen to me, anyway?

Double shit and triple fuck. Yeah, if I were him, I'd probably keep my damn distance too, if my lover had just shot an already handicaped man to death in front of me. I groan as quietly as I can while I roll onto my side, struggling to see anything in the darkened living room and failing quite miserably. I pull the blanket that he must have thrown over me up and across my shoulders, shivering a bit despite the warmth of the condo; where is Fox, anyway?

I listen intently for a few moments to the sounds in our darkened home, and breathe a sigh of relief when his snoring greets my attentive hearing; guess I should get myself up and go upstairs. Unfortunately, that's a bit harder than it seems at the moment; I'm still not sure how much scotch I managed to get down my throat tonight, and where the fuck are my glasses? Reaching out blindly to the coffee table alongside the sofa, I find my prize, though I'm still in the dark…and way more nauseous than I should be. Oh shit…I stumble off the couch and make my way to the 1/2 bathroom just up the hall, barely able to flick on the light and blind myself once more before losing just about everything I've imbibed for the past several hours. The only thing I'm glad for is that my hangover will be less severe in the morning. Well, I'm hoping, anyway.

Once I've managed to reclaim my dignity after kissing the porcelain God for almost half an hour, I get up and take off my wirerims, setting them on the countertop so I can flush my face freely with ice-cold tap water. Adjusted to the light, I grab a hand towel and blot the remainder of my drunkenness off bit by bit, until I can manage a grimace at my reflection in the mirror and flick the light off. I head upstairs by learned memory more than anything else, not wanting to wake my lover as I make my way to where I belong. I should be wrapped protectively around Fox in our big shared bed, dreaming of happier days and times where double-agents aren't trying to persuade us to kill one another or our beloved partners (his partner being Scully, mine being…well, him).

I kick off my shoes and fall onto the bed alongside Mulder, still fully-clothed myself, too exhausted to do much more than pull his lanky form into my embrace and nuzzle into his hair. I drift into a natural sleep as he murmurs unintelligibly and presses his back closer against my chest and his ass further into my groin, finding myself smiling despite the unthinkable act that I committed today. Tomorrow will be fine for recriminations and self-loathing…for now, I'm where I belong. With Fox William Mulder, my one and only. My one and only care, and my one and only concern in this fucked-up situation that has become our lives…well, except for Scully, but that's another chapter in some other life that has yet to be written (and lived). For now, it's just Fox and me, and that's enough.

The End? Probably not, knowing me <G>!