From: "Rachel-Sara Berkowitz" To: Subject: [XFNC17ff] Incoming! Date: Monday, January 28, 2002 8:36 PM Bourbon and Skin By Ganymede Fandom : X-Files Pairing : SLASH Skinner/Krycek Rating : NC-17 for gratuitous smut, drinking before happy hour and excessive abuse of pottery. Thanks to: DS, who inspired me with the word 'anathematize'. Josan, for kicking my muse in the ass. Polyanna, for coming up with a truly rock-n-roll idea like the dictionary wheel. Feedback: Rachel_Sara_B_B@hotmail.com. All flames will be fed to the dogs and later regurgitated on the rug. I want to take this opportunity to state one thing for the record. I. Was. Not. Drunk. Drinking, yes. Not drunk. I still remember vividly everything that happened that afternoon. Only electroshock therapy could erase some of those memories from my mind. Other memories are carefully wrapped in tissue paper and hidden in a safe place, to be taken out and savored, slowly. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Yes, I was drinking. At 2:30 in the afternoon. On a weekday. It seemed like a reasonable response to the morning I had. There are some days that can only be improved by diving headfirst into a bottle of scotch. My morning started out pathetically, sadly, amazingly normal. Alarm went off punctually at 5:30 AM. Fifty sit ups, fifty push ups. Shower. White starched shirt, shoes polished to a high shine, subtle pattern tie, bran muffin. Morning Edition on the radio. One cup of coffee, black, no cream or sugar, in the travel mug. On the road by 6:15 AM. Hit the Hoover parking garage by 6:50, and pass the threshold of my office door by the stroke of 7. I thought it was the only way to stay on top of the morass of paperwork that threatened to engulf my office. I thought it mattered. I thought someone gave a sh*t about dedication, about commitment to a job, about loyalty. I thought wrong. ((I thought my life meant something)) ((I thought wrong)) It was Tuesday. Tuesday meant meetings, followed by meetings, interspersed with more meetings. Human Resources at 8:00 A.M. Accounting at 10:00. Conference call with the Director at 12:30. Department heads at 3:00. Once upon a time I solved crimes. Now I do paperwork and have meetings with the supervisors and the people who sign checks for people who solve crimes. Once upon a time I liked my job. I got a charge walking into the building every morning. I was Doing Good Works with a capital D. I was helping people. Once upon a time, I was naïve enough to believe that. Now, work was an obligation. Something that you got up every morning, rain or shine, and did because….well, because people get up every morning and go to work, whether you want to or not It's just what people do. Still, I had made it this far. I was the Assistant F*cking Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. I thought my steady rise through the ranks meant something. I thought wrong. ((I thought my life meant something)) ((I thought wrong)) The mail arrived between Accounting and Conference call. I didn't pay attention. I don't usually pay attention to small details like that. That's what I have Kimberly for. That's what other people exist for. The box sat on my desk for a few minutes after Kimberly brought it in. I was busy wolfing down a turkey wrap and a bottle of iced tea, not tasting, just eating for nourishment. Eating to survive. Survive. That's what I did. Once I finally registered that there was a package on my desk and that the package was for me, it was quickly dispatched. Sliced open with a knife kept in my desk for that exact purpose. Perhaps I should have found a better purpose for said knife. Like battlefield amputations. Nothing. Special. Just a videotape, no note, no sender information, no nothing. Quickly tossed into the VCR, watched casually as I drained the last of the iced tea. As I watched my twenty-two year career hit the wall and go up in flames. "He isn't getting the hint." "Who?" "Skinner." "You assured me he wouldn't be a problem." "I didn't think he was smart enough to cause trouble. He's a sheep. A stupid f*cking ex-military sheep, that we wind up and point. He goes where we want him to go." "But he's not going there." "No. He's too stupid to take the hints." "Which hints are you dropping, and how hard are they hitting him?" "His career is winding down. It's time for him to move on. He's got his pension time in. He needs to put in his notice and get the f*ck out." "But he hasn't gotten the clue yet." "You see his retirement request sitting on your desk? Cuz I sure don't. I want him out. I have plans for that office, and they sure as sh*t don't involve him." "What are you going to do?" "Escalate. If he won't leave voluntarily, he most definitely can be removed, pending investigation." "For what?" Malicious chuckle. "Leave that one up to me, boss. I'll take care of our subordinate, the soon-to-be-ex-assistant director." The quality of the tape was poor, grainy, forties film black and white fading to gray. I didn't need clarity. I recognized the voices. Deputy Director Kersh. Director Stockard. My direct supervisor and the head of the whole shooting match. Conspiring to get me fired. Or killed. Or both. F*ck. I was so f*cked. I watched the tape over and over, from crackle to hum of before and after static and snow. The resolution didn't improve, but everything else became clear. It's that realization, that two by four to the back of the head, that sudden awareness that the bedrock had shifted. Everything I based my career, the past twenty plus years on, was a lie. ((I thought my life meant something)) ((I thought wrong)) The oxygen supply in the room was dangerously low. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't hear past the dull roar between my ears. I had to get out of there. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ I don't remember what I said to Kim, what exit I used, anything at all about leaving the building, driving to a small suburban out-of-the-way bar. I don't remember the first three glasses of bourbon. I do remember finding comfort in the condensation left behind on the cracked plastic countertop. There was some message left in the intricate design of interconnected circles. Maybe if I focused hard enough, it would sing to me the song of the universe. Maybe then I would understand. Maybe I needed another bourbon. At some point during the afternoon, I moved from the bar to a booth. At some point during the afternoon, I looked up from divining the cracks in the linoleum countertop, and found someone sitting across the booth from me. There was something…familiar about him. The back of my brain was whispering something, but the rest of my cerebrum was too busy trying to keep my body upright to pay much attention. It took me a few minutes, but I finally realized what was so strange about the booth, the man, and the situation. I looked up at my boothmate. "You're dead." Big smile, green eyes twinkling at me. "Ayup." Another whisper. I sat still and tried to listen. Hard to do when your hindbrain is trying to karaoke Frank Sinatra. "I shot you." That smile didn't waver. "Ayup." I looked up from the condensation circles, and studied the man sitting a few feet away. Nope, he didn't look dead. "You a ghost?" "Been called worse." A quiet clinking noise drew my attention down to his right hand and the glass clenched there. A chunky silver bracelet was clattering against the short tumbler. Another question I'd never considered before. Worthy of an X-File. "What do ghosts drink?" "This ghost is drinking vodka." "Oh." I thought about that for a few minutes. "I'm drinking bourbon." "I know. This is your sixth one in the last two hours – I've counted. What the *hell* are you doing in a bar in the middle of the afternoon, Skinner?" I was so pleased with myself – I knew the answer to that one. "Drin-kin." A self-satisfied smirk to rival his, and the return of my South Texas drawl. His only response was an eyebrow arch that would put Mr. Spock to shame. He obviously didn't find it as amusing as I did. "Why aren't you at the office, doing important governmental functions, or whatever it is you do?" "F*ck the office." I was surprised by the venom in my voice. By his expression, he was too. "F*ck the Federal Bureau of f*cking Investigations. F*ck the government. F*ck it all." Somebody spun the room. I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the wall for just a second, until the gyroscopes could counterstabilize. When I opened them again, my glass was gone. A cup of coffee was sitting in its place. He was still sitting in the same place. "What's going on, Skinner? This isn't like you." No sarcasm, just concern. I sighed. It had been a long day, and it was only….my watch face wouldn't sit still. Never mind. "Ghosts have security clearance, right?" "High enough. Tell me." I leaned across the table, supporting myself on my elbows, bracing my head in my hands to make it stop wobbling. "Can I tell you a secret?" Prison whisper. He leaned across until our faces were mere inches from each other. "Sure. Who would I tell? I'm dead." Whispering back. "They're trying to get me anathematized." I managed to get the word out without stumbling over it. Slurred, yes. Stumbled, no. I was very proud of myself. "They're trying to *what*?" "They're trying to f*cking excommunicate me from the Church of the Holy Bureau." I'm sure I put a few extra syllables into excommunicate, but the ghost seemed to understand it well enough. "They're trying to get rid of you." I could see the wheels spinning behind those green eyes. "They tried to get me to retire. Apparently I was too stupid to take the hint. Now they're trying to get me fired. Or killed. I don't think they care which." I was really pissed off by this point. "I sacrificed everything for the Bureau. My wife, my family, my ethics…all down the crapper for them. And this is how they repay me for twenty-two f*cking years of loyalty and dedication? F*ck 'em. F*ck 'em all. " I was yelling by then, standing up in the booth, attracting the attention of the bartender and the handful of other patrons. The ghost grabbed my arm, tried to get me to sit down. He seemed awfully solid for a ghost. Then again, maybe they're not all gauzy, like Casper. I tried to sit back down, but the room rotated again, and I slumped hard across the table, nearly ending up on top of him. "Time to get you home, big guy. I'm driving." Still holding on to my arm, he easily hauled me to my feet, and after tossing some bills on the table, started propelling me towards the door. "I. Am. Not. Drunk." Carefully enunciated. See – no slurring. "Of course you're not. Where did you put your car?" I once had a psychotic former barn cat for a pet. My ghost had exactly the same green eyes as my cat did – same color, same shape, same expression. I tried to explain this to my ghost, but I don't think he appreciated being compared to a barely domesticated feline. Or maybe he did. It's hard to tell with ghosts. The trip back to my condo is a little murky in my mind. I remember giggling as he fished through my pockets looking for my car keys. There was something important that I needed to ask him, but my bourbon-soaked brain couldn't seem to string the words together right. Oh, well. If it was important enough, I'd remember it later. I'm not sure how I got from the car to my apartment, into my bedroom. The next thing I remember clearly was lying on my bed, shoes and jacket off, swatting his hands away as my ghost tried to unbuckle my belt. "Hey….ow! Shit! Quit slapping me, you stupid drunk oaf!" "What…what you doin', Psycho?" Oops. I accidentally called him by my ex-psychotic-cat's name. My mouth wasn't quite functioning at 100%. I'm sure it had something to do with the marbles that had taken up residence there. Another flash of those green eyes, another one of those smirks….something about those smirks….something I need to ask my ghost. If I could only remember what it was… "I'm doing what I've wanted to do since the first time I laid eyes on you. We're gonna get naked, and I'm gonna make the top of your head explode." Oh. It took my brain a moment or two to process that one. My brain came up with a response right away, but it took a while for the nerve endings to pass the message along to my mouth. By the time the words got there, he was doing something else with his mouth. Jes*s f*ck. Oh Jes*s. Verbs failed me. Vowels were the next to go. Pfflffrggr. That mouth needs to be registered as a lethal weapon. My ghost wanted me dead? Oh, I was dead. Six bourbons on an empty stomach plus not getting any in more years than I want to count plus that amazing, talented mouth… Cause of death listed in the autopsy – the top of his head blew off. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is all he wrote. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The next morning was an exercise in pain. Mariachi band inside my skull. Tiny construction workers with miniature jackhammers between my eyebrows. A full sized axe buried in the back of my head. And will someone please remove the furry animal that crawled inside my mouth and died? Eyes open. Ow. Eyes closed again. What the hell happened to me? Oh. Sh*t. Trying to remember made my head throb even worse. Something about a videotape, and a lot of bourbon. And a ghost. With green eyes. And a mouth that… The alarm clock went off, and I nearly fell out of bed. That had to be a dream. Right? Just a bourbon-soaked hallucination. Nothing more than an afterimage found in the bottom of a bottle. It didn't happen. Repeat after me. It didn't happen… My arm made a funny sound on its way to turning off that shrill, annoying beep. It was clinking against the glass topped table as it groped for the alarm clock. I pried my eyelids open, and tried to focus on my hand. There was something shiny there. Shimmery. Alarm still buzzing furiously, I brought my right arm up close to my face. There was a chunky silver bracelet firmly attached to my right wrist. A gift from a green eyed ghost. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Post-orgasmic haze, sticky and spent, sprawled loose-limbed across my bed. Comforter reduced to a medusan tangle around our feet, air redolent of lubricant and sweat and body fluids staining the sheets. He is so beautiful. Even scarred, incomplete, he is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. And he knows it. He is a dark, dangerous force of nature that obeys no laws, follows no rules, has no master. He deigns to grace me with his presence in my bed, and in my life. It is a dance we do, he and I, as complicated as any quadrille or contra. During the day, I am a retired Assistant Director of the FBI, busy doing consulting for a handful of Washington think tanks and lobbying groups. At night, the darkness named Krycek takes over my life. The English language is not made of elastic. Words can only be stretched so far before they break. It would be too much of a stretch to call what we have a 'relationship', although it has gone on for many months now. A far better word would be 'enchantment'. He has enchanted me. Some days, I think I have conjured him - some half-demon mystical spirit turned flesh and blood. Other days I know better. He wasn't created for me. I was created for his amusement, to satisfy some whim. And that's good enough for me. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "You look like sh*t, Krycek." Another one of those dangerous, feline smiles, the kind that either led to seduction or murder. "I still get your dick hard." What could I say? He was right, as usual. Just the smell of him, leather and far away cigarette smoke and cordite, and my body responded. He did look like sh*t, though. Normally, he radiated menace. When I walked in the door and found him sprawled on my couch, inhaling leftovers he raided from my fridge, eyes red rimmed and dark circled, he radiated tired menace. Sitting down on the ottoman next to the couch, I knew better than to get too close. It was feeding time at the tiger cage, and I didn't want my fingers mistaken for the second course. He looked like he hadn't showered in days, and I didn't want to wager a week's salary on when the last time he ate or slept was. Giving voice to the questions would be an exercise in futility. I would ask, and he would obfuscate, ignore me, lie, or just look at me from under those lush lashes, a course of action that inevitably ended up with one of us dragging the other off towards the nearest bed. If we got that far. He finished devouring the bowl of cold beef stew, including the pattern on the bowl, and he slumped back against the couch's tan leather, closing his eyes. He looked…younger. Vulnerable. Almost human. This wasn't Krycek, the portable chaos generator, and terror of three continents. This was just Alex, starving, exhausted and in need of a shower. My Alex. How long had we been doing this now? How long had he been paying me nocturnal visits, showing up in my office, in my hotel room, in my bed? It wasn't marked in my day planner, but it was engraved in my head. It was spring, April to be exact. The cherry blossoms were in bloom, perfuming the air when he dragged me out of a local bar in the middle of the afternoon, tossed me on my back and made the top of my head explode. There had been so many times since then, evenings I walked in after work and found he had invaded my home in my absence, nights I woke up to his demanding mouth and greedy cock. Each one a treasured memory, wrapped in tissue paper, carefully stored to be unwrapped and enjoyed at leisure. While my brain reminisced, my body was busy, collecting the now-empty bowl, retrieving more beef stew from the fridge, punching the buttons on the microwave. Glasses were where they always lived, arranged neatly on the top shelf of the cabinet. Milk on the door of the fridge. Mind a million miles away. "What the f*ck do you think you're doing, Skinner?" Tiredness sapping the venom from his voice, lip curled in disgust. "I didn't come here to be *nurtured*." From his mouth, the word was an epithet. I didn't bother to turn around. "What did you come here for, Krycek?" "Same reason I always come – to f*ck you into the mattress." Dangerous purr, the one that turns my knees to jelly, the voice that has the power to keep me distracted for hours at work after a forty five second phone call. "Not in that condition, you're not." Carefully transferring the beef stew to a Tupperware container, returning the milk to its designated spot. "You come near my bed smelling like that, and I'll have to burn the sheets after you leave." Finally finished, I looked up at him, still sprawled across the couch, gaze scorching my skin. "You know where the shower is. Use it." "You'd better be ready for me when I get back." Not a request – a command that he knew would be obeyed. Lithe, catlike conservation of motion, he was on his feet and on the way down the hall. Most people have marriages, long term relationships with people similar to themselves, people with normal jobs, normal lives. I feel sorry for them. They don't know what they're missing. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Sleepy and sated, curled up next to me on the bed, too lazy to clean up right now. That's what mornings are for. Krycek wasn't a cuddler. Every once in a while, if I catch him in the right mood, he'll let me pull him into my arms, run my fingers through his hair, feel his heartbeat through my skin. Tonight seemed to be the right mood. Breathing his scent, enjoying the sensation of his dead weight across my chest, letting my fingertips trace the paths of scar tissue that pockmark his skin. Savoring this. Savoring him. "You're purring. Quit it." Voice coming from near my left shoulder. Laughter bubbled to the surface. "Forgive my presumptuousness. I will cease and desist immediately." "You'd better. Next thing I know, you'll be telling me I make you happy." Not looking at me. I couldn't tell, but I'd bet money his eyes weren't even open. "And that would be so dreadful." He propped himself up on his right elbow and looked at me, green eyes looking straight through me. All traces of fatigue gone. "I could kill you right now. I've killed you before." I knew. He could. He had. But right there, right then, it didn't mean anything. The only thing that mattered right there was the reality of his skin on mine. "Alex, why do you come here?" Those green eyes never wavered, but the dangerous smile was back. "'Cuz you're an easy lay, Skinner." That wasn't the truth. I knew it. He knew it. The truth lay in a dangerous three word combination that neither he or I would ever utter. Alex Krycek, force of nature more destructive than a hurricane, obeyer of no law save his own, needs me. He needs my predictability. He needs me to be exactly what I appear to be, unwavering, unchanging. He needs me to be here, whenever, however, whatever he does. And those unspoken words are as close to a declaration of love as we will ever get.