From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 2 Apr 2006 14:04:26 -0000 Subject: NEW: "Sokol: Terminus Post Quem" (1/1) by Khyber Source: direct Reply To: khyber@khyberfic.net TITLE: Terminus Post Quem AUTHOR: Khyber E-MAIL: khyber@khyberfic.net DISTRIBUTION: Ephemeral, Gossamer, please ask for anywhere else. RATING: PG-13 for mature content CATEGORIES: V, AU KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully romance, Skinner, Frohike, post-XF SPOILERS: Spoilers for "Sokol" by Khyber SUMMARY: Whatever happened to...? Takes place in summer 2002, four years after "Reach" and "Sokol," by the same author. Disclaimer: The final part of my evil plan to destroy 1013 and cost them ONE MILLION DOLLARS in revenue. Author's note: You will almost certainly want to read "Sokol" and "Dancing Skeleton Day" before reading this. * * * Hooters Restaurant Richmond, VA July 20, 2002 "Yankees playing?" Frohike glanced over at him. The little man looked thinner, slightly less scruffy. He'd gone mostly gray, and had cropped his hair close. He had a healthy tan, competing with the restaurant's cheerfully exploited staff. "Arizona Diamondbacks versus Florida Marlins," Frohike replied without relish. "The planet is shifting, the centers of gravity moving." To his eyes, Skinner had lost weight too, giving the impression of a huge frame missing needed bulk. The Saturday golf shirt and khakis didn't suit him. "Tell me about it." Skinner replied. "Pull up a barstool, my good man." Frohike offered the neck of his bottle, and they clicked them automatically, eyes drawn to the screen. "Chicken wing?" Frohike noticed the warm glow of gold on Skinner's left hand. "You have that before?" he asked, gesturing with his beer. "No, not... then." Skinner said. "Someone from work," he explained shorthand. "Chicago office, last year." "Congratulations." Frohike made a small motion of a toast. "Must be something in the water at the Hoover Building. I gotta check that out." He took a short drink, lowered his voice slightly. "They're wearing rings now too." "Did you see them?" "I did indeed." "Where?" Skinner's voice had a careful intensity. "South," Frohike replied, still watching the television. "Way south." The other man nodded, picked at the label of his beer with a thumbnail. "How are they?" he asked after a few seconds. Frohike looked as if he were considering his response, started with almost a sigh. "Weird... weirdness. Dana's gone kind of hippie, if you can believe it. Her hair's long," he gestured over his shoulder, "mostly blonde. She's all freckles." He smiled. "Ahhh, she's beautiful, she doesn't look a day over thirty. Mulder looks like a drug dealer, got this crazy Seventies pornstar beard and he speaks Spanish all the time." "What are they doing?" "They work with some local human rights organization. There's a national reconciliation commission, trying to locate and identify people killed in one of Reagan's dirty wars. Been doing it for a couple years, digging up literal and figurative skeletons. Sounds like they enjoy it." Skinner's brows knitted slightly. "Isn't that a little high-profile?" Frohike contemplated a chicken wing, nodded his head side to side in a motion of equivocation. "Couple of norteamericano yuppies decide to drop out, cash in the mutual funds, sell the Lexus, do something that makes them feel good about themselves. It's all en espanol, so I imagine no one here will ever notice." "They're safe?" "Wouldn't you know better than me?" Frohike asked without meeting Skinner's eyes. "I got the impression they had a run-in or two back in the early days. I know there was something in Argentina. I think that was kind of rock bottom. They seem pretty comfortable now." "Agent Scu... Dana's never contacted her mother." Frohike looked slightly pained for a moment, as though he felt responsible for her behavior. "I wish I could say that surprises me." "How do you mean?" "They're different. It was good to see them. We hung out. Much less uptight than they were, Dana especially. But they are... they're living in the now. It's not that they're trying to forget, but we didn't swap back in the day stories, either." Frohike paused to watch a waitress, his expression of mildly lecherous appreciation oddly sincere. "Or, maybe it is. Maybe they are forgetting, or trying to. Besides, you probably remember how it was going. Once they got around to it, they built a very, very small love nest, if you know what I mean." "They could probably come back if they wanted. Everything's changed. The X-Files are closed, obviously. I'm on counter-terrorism now. " Skinner studied his bottle. "Everybody's on counter-terrorism now." Frohike took a sip of his beer. "I don't think the FBI would be any more interested in Mulder's theories about 9/11 than they were in his theories about flying saucers," he observed quietly. Skinner grimaced, imagining. The pause was uncomfortable. "Look, the warrants on you and Langly have been closed for a while," Skinner began. "I don't know what your situation is..." Frohike chuckled. "Get the band back together? It wouldn't be the same. John's gone a little too legit, and Langly... even I don't know where he is. I appreciate the news, though." They watched the game out of vague obligation for a few minutes. Skinner rose, set his empty beer on the bar, left a few dollars beside it. "Have you got any way to get in touch with them?" he asked quietly. "Why?" * * * finis Feedback gratefully accepted at: khyber@khyberfic.net Author's note: This is the end.