I Find No Peace
I find no peace, and all my war is done;
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health;
Skinner pushed his glasses up on his forehead, rubbing
his eyes tiredly. It had been a long day--he was
probably the last one in the J. Edgar Hoover building,
except for the housekeeping crew. *Why do I do this
to myself? I didn't have to stay over to finish this
paperwork--it could have waited till tomorrow. I
should have gone home hours ago.*
He knew why he had stayed--it had been a stressful
day, too. He'd assigned Mulder and Scully to a field
operation--one that required them to leave almost
immediately. They had only about an hour to get
packed for the trip and get on the road. When they'd
left his office, he'd found that a vital list of
contacts had somehow slipped out of the folder he'd
given them. Their phone was busy, and he had been
worried that they would leave before he could place
another call, so he had decided to simply bring the
paper down to the basement office. When he had opened
the door only Fox was there, and he had been slumped
in his chair, turned toward the back wall as he spoke
on the phone.
"No, I won't be home for dinner. No. Look, I'm
sorry, too. I was really looking forward to this
weekend. Yeah. Scully will bring me by the apartment
just long enough for me to throw a couple of things in
a bag, and I do mean throw. No time for neat packing.
What? Alex, don't you dare be waiting for me when I
get there." He had chuckled, a rich sound that had
given Skinner a sense of warmth. "No, I won't even
have time for that, you pervert. You know, if the FBI
had one of those sexual spying departments like the
movies are always going on about, you would have been
a star agent."
Alex Krycek. The warmth had seeped away, replaced by
icy anger. "Mulder."
Mulder had flinched, turning so sharply that his long
legs had gotten in the way, and he had banged his
knee. "Damn! No, I'm okay." His voice had been
suddenly strained. "Look, I have to go. Yeah. Me,
too. What? Of course I do." He had paused, his eyes
flicking to Skinner, then had said quietly, "Look,
Alex, we'll talk about it later, okay? Bye." He had
hung up. "Sir?"
"Personal calls on department time, Mulder?"
"You didn't say this assignment was hush-hush, sir. I
had plans I needed to cancel."
"With Krycek?"
His eyes had hardened. "That isn't any of your
business, sir. Did you have something to tell me?"
Skinner had gone over and laid the paper on his desk.
"You dropped this. You'll need it." He had watched
as Mulder folded the paper and tucked it in his jacket
pocket. "Mulder, I don't want to pry into your
private life..."
"Then don't."
Walter had had a lot of experience at concealing his
emotions--he hadn't winced at Mulder's clipped tone.
Instead he had scowled. "Try not to lose your cell
phone this time."
The phone had begun ringing as he exited. After he
had closed the door he stood there in the hall for a
moment, listening. The doors in the basement were
those flimsy, hollow core kind, and he had been able
to hear Fox. "Mulder." His voice had softened.
"Hey, babe. I didn't mean to cut you off like that.
Hm? Yeah, Walter. I don't know, I guess he's having
a hard time... Look, I told him it was none of his
business, okay? I'm fine, forget about it." There
had been a pause. Skinner could almost hear the smile
in Mulder's voice. "That's why I couldn't say
it--because he was here. Okay, I owe you one, so I'll
say it twice. I love you. I love you."
Skinner had turned and quickly gone back to the
elevator.
He tried to forget the tenderness in those final words
as he rolled his shoulders, muscles bunching and
flowing under his plain white shirt. He jerked
impatiently at his tie, loosening it, and thought,
*Hell, I could have taken my shoes off. It isn't as
if someone is going to come in here and catch me.*
The universe proved it had a sense of irony by
choosing that moment to have Alex Krycek walk into
Skinner's office.
Walter jerked open his desk drawer and had his gun
trained on Krycek before the younger man took his hand
off the doorknob. Alex stood very still, a small
smile playing across his lips, and said, "Being office
bound hasn't slowed your reflexes."
"Stay still, Krycek. I don't want to shoot you unless
I have to." He got up and went to the other man,
patting him down carefully.
"Nice of you to care."
Walter didn't find any weapon. "It takes too damn
long for housekeeping to scrub up blood. What do you
want?"
"Right now? I want that fucking gun put away. I
don't like having conversations while someone has a
bead on me."
Walter waved Krycek over to the chair in front of his
desk. As Alex sat, Skinner shut the door, then went
to sit behind the desk, never lowering his weapon.
"Give me a compelling reason why I should trust you
enough to put this away."
Krycek's voice was matter-of-fact. "If I wanted you
dead I would have just shot you as I came through the
door. Better yet, I'd have picked you off when you
walked to your car, taken your briefcase and wallet,
and they would have called it a robbery/homicide. Do
the math, Skinner. I don't want you dead--I want to
talk to you."
Skinner considered him. Alex was dressed casually in
boots, tight jeans, and a soft, black sweater.
Against the dark colors, his skin was pale, and his
eyes looked impossibly green. If Skinner hadn't known
him for a pathologically devious sociopathic
killer-for-hire he might have mistaken him for an ivy
league grad student dressed to visit some upscale pub.
Skinner laid the gun on the desktop, but he kept it
within easy reach and he did not put the safety back
on. "About what, Krycek? I've already told your
handlers that I'm not interested in working for them."
His smile was cold. "They don't handle me as much as
they think they do, and this is strictly personal. I
want to talk to you about my boyfriend, and the shit
you've been giving him."
Now Skinner did wince. *Boyfriend.*
Krycek, long trained to read the nuances of
expression, caught it. "What's wrong, Skinner? Don't
like boyfriend? What would you prefer--significant
other, partner, main squeeze?" He smiled. "Lover?"
Skinner's expression didn't change, but Alex saw the
steely light in his eyes, and his smile broadened.
"Oh, you don't like that one at all, do you? What's
your problem? Even Red has eased off on the
bitchiness level a little."
"Say what you have to say, Krycek."
The smile became a smirk. "Hardass all the way, eh,
Skinner? All right. I want you to ease up on Mulder
about our relationship."
"I haven't said anything to him about it. It's none
of my business..." his voice was sour, "as he told
me."
"Well, now, he wouldn't have had to tell you that if
you hadn't been after him somehow, now would he? It
isn't the first time, either. I've come over more
than once after you've spoken to him and found him
tighter and more charged up than a power line. He
didn't want to talk about it, but I'm good on picking
up hints. You've been harping at him about seeing
me."
"You're dangerous, Krycek."
"I know that, asshole. Look, I'm breaking away from
the Old Men--I've finally stashed away enough on them
to guarantee that they won't be able to force me back
into their plots. I'm going straight." This time the
smile was ironic. "Mostly. You don't have to worry
about me interfering in any precious Bureau interests.
The only thing about the Bureau that I'm interested
in now is Fox."
"Mulder is an agent under my supervision. I'm
responsible for his welfare--if I see him walking into
a dangerous situation, I'm obligated to call him on
it."
"Bullshit." Alex's eyes narrowed. "Don't try to lay
this off on professional duties, Skinman. This is
personal, and you fucking well know it. Mulder isn't
just an agent to you, same as he was never just a
partner to me."
Walter felt cold. "You don't know what you're talking
about."
"I know more than you might think. I've been through
it, too, but I came through the other side. You ever
heard of Tom Wyatt?"
Walter blinked at the abrupt change of subject. "Is
he some sort of country-western singer?"
There was the faintest hint of condescention in
Krycek's voice, and Walter had to force himself to
resist the urge to hit him. "No, Sir Thomas Wyatt.
He was a poet. He wrote a poem called I Find No
Peace. It's you, Walter."
"I'm not a poetic soul, Krycek. I deal with reality."
"The best poetry is a reflection of reality, and
sometimes you run into one that states a situation
perfectly. That poem could have been written about
how you feel about Fox."
He could hear the strain in his own voice. "I'm
worried about a friend throwing himself away, putting
himself in danger..."
"I find no peace, and all my war is done. Bet you
thought you were through with war when you left the
jarheads, huh? But the hardest wars are fought
inside, and you still haven't found any peace, have
you? You thought that in the Bureau things would be
safe--everything bound by rules, everything ordered.
It would have to be peaceful, right? Then along came
Fox Mulder, and you haven't had a moment's peace since
then."
No, no peace. There was always something going on
with Fox--some new crusade that was likely to get him
disgraced (if he was lucky), or killed. There was
always some situation to be straightened out or
covered up, some improbable tale to be believed or
(more likely) dismissed. No, life was not peaceful
with Fox around.
"I fear, and hope. I know that's how it was when I
first met him. I wanted so badly for him to know how
I felt about him, but I was nervous about how he'd
react when he did know." His voice became soft. "He
never has figured it out about you, Walter."
"What are you implying?"
"I burn, and freeze like ice. I fly above the wind,
yet can I not arise. He can do it all. He can make
you feel like your bones are melting, then freeze you
solid with his sarcasm. When he smiles, you
soar--when he frowns, you sink."
"You're crazy. He's a friend and colleague--nothing
more."
"And naught I have, and all the world I seize on.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison. That's
irritating for you, isn't it, Skinner? The fact that
he isn't trying to seduce you, never has, and yet he
has you. He doesn't want you, but he has you, anyway.
And holdeth me not, yet can I 'scape nowise. Fuck,
Skinner, I don't blame you--he's almost inevitable."
He leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the desk
as he studied the older man. "How far has it gone
with you? How deep?"
They stared at each other silently. Seconds ticked
by. Alex searched Skinner's eyes, and his own gaze
softened marginally. *Is that... pity?* Skinner
thought. *God, I may have to shoot him after all.*
Alex's voice was quiet. "Oh, you have it bad. Nor
letteth me live nor die at my devise, and yet of death
it giveth me occasion. I bet... I bet there's been
at least one time that you've sat in the dark, holding
that gun, and the reason you didn't use it was because
you might see him the next day." Walter closed his
eyes. "And you haven't said anything, and you never
will. Without eyen I see, and without tongue I
plain. I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
You hide it well, Skinner, but he's going to figure it
out if you keep this up."
"You're wrong, Krycek."
"I love another, and thus I hate myself. You can't
stand it. Marines don't desire other men, and if
they do, they don't love them, right?"
Alex stood, straightening. "I feed me in sorrow, and
laugh at all my pain. It's eating you alive.
Likewise displeaseth me both death and life. Hard
to tell which would be darker and emptier--death, or
life without Fox. And my delight is causer of this
strife. It isn't his fault, Walter--he can't help
it. He didn't make you love him on purpose. He isn't
loving me just to torment you. Neither one of us can
help this, either."
Alex walked toward the office door and opened it. He
paused and looked back at the silent, still man.
There was no hostility in his voice. "I understand,
Skinner--really I do, but it has to stop. Let it go,
Skinner. You can't have him, and you don't need to be
so pissed with me, man. All I did was hold up a
mirror for you."
Walter finally spoke. "Because he's yours?"
"No, because I'm his. I'm what he wants. Deal with
it." He hesitated, then said, "We're a lot alike,
Skinner." The older man snorted. "No, we are--but
there's one major difference between us." He smiled
softly. "I've found my peace."
The door closed. Skinner stared at it for a long
time, then picked up the report he'd been working on.
He stared at it for almost three minutes before
realizing that he wasn't really seeing it. The paper
slipped from his fingers, drifting lazily to the floor
as Walter Skinner, eyes still slightly unfocused,
slowly straightened his tie.
Skinner couldn't believe how right and at the same time how wrong Krycek
was. It weren't the hazel eyes of his subordinate that were keeping him
awake at night, it were the green eyes of a traitor.
Sir Thomas Wyatt
I fear, and hope. I burn, and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise.
And naught I have, and all the world I seize on.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison,
And holdeth me not, yet can I 'scape nowise;
Nor letteth me live nor die at my devise,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen [eyes] I see, and without tongue I plain;
I love another, and thus I hate myself;
I feed me in sorrow, and laugh at all my pain.
Likewise displeaseth me both death and life,
And my delight is causer of this strife.
