From feaeap@ibm.net Fri Feb 28 21:39:31 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW(fixed): Unrequited (1/1) by Loligo (Post-Episode) From: feaeap@ibm.net (Loligo Opalescens) Date: Sat, 01 Mar 1997 03:39:31 GMT -------- Imagine my horror when I checked up on my very first fiction post ever, and found that blank lines had been inserted here and there! This should take care of the problem. So here we go again... This story has no relation to "Unrequited" by Danielle Culverson. I apologize for reusing the title, but given the post-episode nature of this story, it really was the best choice. This story takes place post-"Unrequited", but there are only the mildest of spoilers. Or maybe it takes place 17 years before "Unrequited". It depends how you look at it. It was inspired by Mulder's words, "It could have been you, sir." It's a very unconventional *slash* love story, and a pretty tame rated "R". I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it! L.O. (Sister EP, OBSSE) feaeap@ibm.net or romanac@hotmail.com Feedback *always* welcome -- it's the only way I'll learn. :) ************************************************ Archivist info: Story, Romance, Slash, rated R for violence, language, some angst, and male/male sexuality (nothing graphic) Description: Skinner ponders, after Mulder's "It could have been you, sir." Disclaimers: The characters Fox Mulder and Walter Skinner are the property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. No infringement is intended in writing and posting this story. Also, I want to add that in choosing the setting and events of this story, I mean no offence or disrespect to anyone who served in Vietnam. ************************************************ April, 1979 Somewhere in Laos "What are you going to do, just sit here and do what they tell you until they kill you? Eat fucking rice every meal for the rest of your short life?! I can't believe you're letting yourself trust them. Even you couldn't be that stupid." Mulder's voice was low in the pitch darkness of the hut, but the contempt in his voice was clear. "Well maybe he's got a point." This came from Berg. "This is nothing like the hell in those camps back in the south. They feed us pretty good. They give us medicine. Seems like they're trying to keep us alive. *I'm* trying to keep me alive. So maybe we need to give this escape thing a rest, just for a while -- seven men have died so far, and more came close." "You're pathetic." "Fuck you, man." Mulder stumbled across the hut to the spot where he usually slept, and started pacing. "And could you stop pacing?" another voice added. "No, I couldn't." Skinner was silent during this exchange. So was Navarro, the man against whom the tirade had been directed. Skinner leaned over toward Navarro, for his turn. He and Mulder usually ended up playing good cop, bad cop. He was glad he didn't have to be the bad cop. Some of the men didn't like Mulder very much. "California is still there, you know." He kept his voice even quieter than Mulder's, and calmer and warmer. "This isn't the entire world. You're not a prisoner. That's not who you are. You're a soldier." "I'm a soldier who's been in prison for seven fuckin' years!" Navarro finally spoke, and his voice sounded kind of strangled. Not surprising -- the man hadn't spoken to anyone in several days, and from the looks of him earlier Skinner had been worried that they guy was slipping away. "Exactly. You're a soldier who's been in prison for seven years. That's seven years too long." "What the fuck ever." He sighed, and his voice was a little more normal. "Can we drop this?" "Yeah, for now. Not for good." "Yeah, yeah, you win, I'm a soldier. Could you just shut up now?" he muttered and curled tighter under his thin blanket. "Yeah, I guess I could," Skinner replied, letting some humor into his voice. Mulder had stopped pacing, and everyone in the hut seemed content to sleep. ********************************************************************* The next morning, the guards unbarred the doors of the three huts as usual. Everyone lined up for the latrine. Someone in charge had finally found another shipment of Chinese toothpaste, so everyone got to brush their teeth. The morning meal was the standard rice and eggs. After eating, there was nothing else to do. The eighteen men scattered around the barren yard of the prison camp, some walking, some sitting in the shade. It was a tricky thing, trying not to get on each other's nerves. Hard to know when someone wanted someone to talk to, or when they would start screaming at you if you sat too close. It was better when they were on the trail, even if the work was backbreaking. But it would be probably another week before they were needed to haul supplies up to the camp one week's march to the north. That was how it worked -- haul mysterious bundles (probably drugs) to the south, then supplies to the north. "That's impossible. You could not have gotten those warts from those frogs we ate last month." "Why not? I handled 'em more than any of you, that's why I have the warts and you don't!" Skinner was sitting against the wall of the stockade. The debate was taking place between the two guys sitting across from him. "Frogs don't give you warts, dipshit..." "He's absolutely right, you know. It's toads that give you warts." This was Mulder's helpful interjection into the debate, as he sat down beside them. "Yeah, what he said! Toads are the ones with the bumpy skin..." The wart debate went on unheard, as Skinner caught Mulder's eye and tried really hard not to laugh. Mulder was successfully not smiling, but his eyes danced in his somewhat craggy face, framed by ill-trimmed hair and beard. The two of them had reached the conclusion several years ago that many of their fellow prisoners were not rocket scientists. In fact, that conversation had been one of the first links in the deep and unexpressed friendship between himself and the other man. But still, it wasn't nice to tease. Well, okay, maybe it wasn't nice, but there was absolutely nothing else to do. He grinned at Mulder, who was sitting leaning against the wall of the hut, lean but muscular arms resting on his knees. Mulder grinned back, and they returned their attention to the debaters, prepared to mess with their minds a little more. ******************************************************************* "Mulder, you don't know that..." "The hell I don't!" he interrupted, getting furious now. "The government knows we're here, and they've sold us out! How could they not know? We were all taken here from other camps in '73, people knew us in those camps, our names have got to be on a list somewhere -- and nobody gives a damn that we're unaccounted for! Why can't you face the facts!" "Mulder..." he tried to grab the other man's arm, but Mulder jerked away wildly, his expression verging on crazed. This was the scene Skinner had been dreading all week. His humor of that earlier morning notwithstanding, Mulder had been mostly edgy and bitter that week, and now it had come to this. The man was too sensitive, too bright to live like this, and Skinner ached to think what could happen to him if their captivity continued too much longer. "Let's say you're right. This isn't helping any." Skinner was both worried and angry. The two combined to make his voice low and stern. "If you don't shut up, the guards will be all over..." "I'll tell you what's not helping!" Mulder interrupted again still shouting -- "Mulder!!" Skinner's yelled warning alerted his friend, but not in time. The guard's rifle butt cracked against the back of his head and Mulder went down. Without thinking Skinner grabbed for the guard, clawing at his face, but he was suddenly restrained by two others, as two guards set to work on Mulder. The guards were smaller men, and Skinner bucked and fought against them until he felt a gun against his neck. Then all he could do was sob out curses and watch as they kicked and beat the other man into a bloody, broken mess. ******************************************************************** Skinner mechanically ate the evening meal of rice, preserved fish, and greens. It was like sand in his mouth. Then the "medic" from the village left the hut that was reserved for the sick and injured. Mulder was its only tenant -- no one had dysentery or malaria at the moment. He managed to explain to the guards that he wanted to bring Mulder some food. They all knew a few words of Laotian by now. Or maybe it was Vietnamese. It was hard to know who spoke what. He opened the door, and closed it behind him. Light filtered in through some holes high in the wall. Mulder lay curled on a blanket on the floor, his back to the door. Skinner wasn't sure whether to disturb him; he put the rice down and sat down next to the other man, leaning against the wall, waiting. "Hey." Mulder spoke. It was a few minutes later. "Hey yourself. You OK?" He looked the other man over; in the dim light he could see the stain of iodine on abrasions, and too many bandages. "Yeah. I guess. Nothing's broken. Except my wrist. And I lost a tooth." His voice was thick and choked, and Skinner wondered if maybe his windpipe was bruised. But then he looked closer and saw that the man's shoulders were shaking. Skinner flushed. He felt as if he too had been kicked in the stomach. He ought to leave. Privacy was the only gift any of them could give each other, and if someone was going to cry he wanted to do it in privacy. But he stayed. Because suddenly he was contemplating an impossibility. What would happen if... What would happen if he touched his hair. His head swam with the thought. It was only a reach of a couple inches. He was afraid -- almost the same sort of fear he had felt when he saw his friend fall to the ground -- but he reached. He rested his hand lightly against the other man's head, on his tangled hair. Mulder didn't flinch. He didn't say anything. His shoulders gradually stopped their motion. And so they sat there. The other man's back to him was unreadable, but Skinner felt such strength in the connection. Such peace. ****************************************************************** Skinner stared out the door at the fitful rain, the end of the first storm of the rainy season. He hated the rainy season. Almost as much as the dry season. Conversation washed over him, the not uncommon topic of food: "I'll bet they don't even have tacos in Ohio." "Yeah. They do. Ohio has Mexican restaurants, you know..." "Yeah? Like where?" "Like, there's three in Cincinnati, and that's only an hour from my house..." He looked out of the corner of his eye at Mulder. The other man sat, staring absently, tracing patterns on the dusty floor with a twig. Skinner was worried; in the month since the beating, Mulder had been so quiet. Not quiet in the way of someone who was getting ready to go off the deep end. Mulder didn't avoid people. He didn't avoid eye contact. In fact, he seemed to seek it out. Sometimes he would catch Mulder's gaze, and the look in his eyes was so intense, as if he were trying to communicate something. Or was searching for something. He suspected that Mulder had become completely absorbed in devising their next plan for escape. Sometimes he imagined that he could see pieces falling into place as subtle expressions crossed over the man's face. But then again, Mulder was unique. Who's to say that his going off the deep end would look like anyone else's? Skinner was worried. Berg stood up, and stepped toward the door, but Navarro stopped him. "Hey, if you're heading to the latrine, you might get a nice surprise. I think I saw Pascalo go there." "And Summers?" "I dunno. You wanna risk it?" There was laughter from a few men at this. "Goddamn faggots," Berg muttered and sat down. And suddenly, Skinner could not take any more of these men. The close, humid air inside the room seemed to choke him. He exited quickly, before he could hear any comments, and walked out into the mud of the yard. The sky above was a patchwork of dark clouds and dark evening. The rain had almost stopped, but not the wind. No one knew for sure if this was true of Pascalo and Summers. No one wanted to question too closely. But now for the first time Skinner hoped that it was true. Hoped that someone was salvaging some happiness out of the obscene, brutal joke of their lives. Anger welled up, made him sick to his stomach. The feeling thundered to escape, trying to force him to weep, or curse, or hit someone. He tried to stifle the rage; that was his way. His mind slipped past images, refusing to look at them: the wounded and the dead, the hopeless, the wasted futures, Pascalo and Summers.... It was disbelief that saved him. A small voice of disbelief, maybe the voice of the youth he had been when he enlisted, who couldn't believe that the thing that had finally pushed him over the edge was the fact that two men were not allowed to fuck with dignity. So he focused on the disbelief. Explored it. It took some time. For the first time, he saw the disjuctions clearly, the gaps and alterations, between who he had been nine years ago, who he had thought he still was, and who he had become. The clarity was breathtaking. That there was a Walter Skinner who did not exist any longer... was an entirely new thought for him. But it was a right thought. It couldn't make him unhappy. And he wasn't. The final tethers that had held the connection all this time loosened, and the old self slipped away for good. And he was glad. And so he just stood there, breathing the cooler air that lasted for a little while after a storm, not really thinking anything.... Eventually, he came to, realizing that he probably looked like an idiot standing out there in the yard gaping up at the sky. He turned back toward the hut where he usually slept; the guards would be herding them in and barring the doors soon. And Mulder was standing in the doorway, leaning with his arm across the doorway. It was getting dark, but not so dark that he couldn't see the other man's eyes, meet his gaze. For once, for the first time, he wouldn't let his mind slide past *those* images. He faced them. And desire, and love, curled through his body like a snake, leaving an ache in the pit of his stomach and settling lower. And he was glad. **************************************************************** The rains, the storms, grew heavier. A week later, one had felled a tree, which ripped the corner off the roof of a storehouse in the guards' half of the compound. The rain had found its way in, swelling the rice in its burlap bags until some of the sacks had exploded. Mulder and Skinner were tapped to clean up the mess and sort out all the other sacks that were waterlogged. Right now Mulder was arguing with the guard; not surprisingly, he had picked up the language quicker than anyone else had. He was trying to get permission to wash off the bamboo spades and baskets that they were supposed to use to shovel out the mess. Damn right they wanted those things clean; Skinner knew who was going to end up eating the spoiled rice, and it wasn't the guards, and it wasn't the villagers' chickens, either. Half-Ear (named so by them for his obvious scar) eventually relented and waved them over to a water barrel, then they headed back to the storehouse and set to work. At first they shovelled out the sodden rice, leaving the baskets of it out in the sun. They worked without speaking. Then it was time for them to rearrange the rest of the supplies, checking each bag for damage, and repair the roof. It was at this point that Mulder closed the door to the storehouse, and blocked it with a few bags. He motioned Skinner over to him, and moving bags from one area to another to make it sound like they were still working, Mulder began to whisper his plans for escape. "We'll have our best chance if we move just before they get some new guards -- the ones who are leaving always get lazy..." "We don't have advanced warning of that even a quarter of the time. Is there anyone besides who you could pick up that information even if it was spoken right in front of them?" "Maybe not, but I'll make it my business to listen. I'm not saying it has to be *this* time. But soon." He continued to outline his plans, Skinner raising objections, asking for clarifications. He could sense that this was frustrating the other man, but he was caught by surprise when Mulder whirled around and grabbed him by his shoulders, almost shaking him. "Don't tell me you're one of them," he hissed, his face close to Skinner's. "I'm getting out. I'm getting out alone if I have to. Fine, if you can't see the truth, you can't, but I won't die for your blindness!" He was still trying to whisper, but a note of panic was entering his voice, and his face was beseeching. He looked down, at his hands on Skinner's shoulders, and released his hold. He opened his mouth but before he could speak again, Skinner had grabbed his shoulders in turn, pulling him even closer, speaking directly into his ear, their faces side by side. "Listen to me," he said, trying to slow his racing pulse, trying to choose his words carefully. It was so important that Mulder understand, that he realize that he was not alone. "We will get out of here. We will not die for blindness. But we will not die for impatience, either. We will get out of here. But we will explore every avenue, plan for every contingency, and be alert for possibilities. You are not alone in this." It took the space of two breaths before the two men realized that no one was speaking any longer. That they were just standing there together. Mulder was the first to step back. He turned half away. After a moment, he murmured, "I know why you're reluctant to leave." It was a flat, simple statement. It was another blow to the stomach for Skinner. He stepped back, too, his back to the wall. He knew why he was reluctant, didn't he? Hadn't he given up denying things? He was reluctant because he would go back to Indiana to his family and his home and his church and there was nothing there for him now. He would be picking up a life that didn't exist. He would be dead. Dead inside, and hollow. Because the only real thing that he had ever known, that had ever meant anything to him, was this man. Here. Now. The sentence replayed itself in his mind, an accusation: "I know why you're reluctant to leave." Before he looked up, he steeled himself for what he would see. The suppressed disgust on Mulder's face. His mind at war with itself about whether to trust this man any longer. But a motion near him brought his eyes up. Mulder had moved to the wall, leaned against it, not far away. He too was staring down. His hands dangled limp at his sides, and then he moved them, turning them over, inspecting them as if they belonged to someone else. And then he looked up. The raw emotion on his face was indescribable. Their eyes met, and the contact didn't waver. All the things that they had been trying to tell each other, for months maybe, were as clear as if they'd been spoken. But then Skinner did break the contact, to memorize the rest of the man's face, the lines, the bones, the angles.... As if he hadn't already. Skinner turned, and reached out, resting his hand on the other man's shoulder, feeling the muscles alive through the thin shirt. The ferocity of the kiss that followed stunned him. It happened so swiftly that he wasn't even clear on all the details. But now Mulder's hand clutched his arm roughly, his other hand at Skinner's neck, tangled in his hair, his lips pressed against his own in a fierce attack. And suddenly he feared that it was an attack. A hoax. A cruel prelude to hatred. He wrenched himself away, ready to defend himself if he had to, but he heard the gasp that came from Mulder as they parted, felt the way the man's hands lingered on him. Their eyes met again and the same blazing emotion was still there. And so Skinner closed the gap again, but slowly. It took a few heartbeats for them to fall into the next kiss. For arms to arrange themselves, wrapped around bodies that were too thin, just muscle and bone. For lips to meet, to appreciate the silk of flesh and the rasp of a beard. For taste and scent to meld and overwhelm. The intense reality of it, the almost unreality, was too much to bear. The men sank down, slumped against the wall, long limbs awkwardly intertwined. Curled together, foreheads inclined together, simply breathing each other's breath. ****************************************************************** November 25, 1996 Walter Skinner stumbled through the sliding door onto the balcony of his Crystal City apartment. The cold night air stung him, and then numbed him, seeping into him through his bare feet, and through his thin t-shirt. He went to the railing, gripped it, and the cold flowed in through his tightly clenched hands. It could have been him. But it hadn't been. He had returned when the war ended. Had gone to college, and been married. Had found a role to play in this life, a position of some power. He was not a man of uncertain name and missing history, a misplaced ghost from an age of war. But like that man, he was unrequited. *********************************** (end part 1/1 Unrequited)