DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer, do not archive this version. Elsewhere by permission. Email forwarding is OK. SPOILERS: Up to and including S.R. 819 (season 6). RATING: R for M/M stuff. SUMMARY: S.R.Slash. At the point in the series, I think I can admit to Skinner/Byers right here in the summary. Some thoughts about hospitals and missing scenes. DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not me. This only became a series with this story, so the first two pieces were not tagged with the series name. They are available at my website: http://members.tripod.com/~prillalar/fic/fic.html Currently the Ordinary Men series consists of: They Also Serve The Lunatic Is In My Head FAHRENHEIT 451 January 1999 ORDINARY MEN III: FAHRENHEIT 451 by Halrloprillalar prillalar@yahoo.com The smell of paper is all around me, musty, yellowing paper and the smudged prints of a thousand pairs of hands. The shelves and racks maze me in and I turn corners until I'm dizzy. Hmm, Jeffrey Archer -- "As the Crow Flies." Rags to riches, not bad. Or "The Far Side Gallery." Humour is good, but not everybody really appreciates Larson. I'm not sure I always do. Keep looking. For all I do my work on computers, I often vaguely feel as if I'd spent hours and hours poring over old books, dusty reams of tedious paper, until my hands were dry with chalky dirt. My mind too. Bodice rippers -- no thank you, not even Fabio. Girls' mystery series -- where are the Hardy Boys? Literature -- no to Conrad, no to Dickens, no to the biographies of Elvis, Elvis, Elvis. He's in the hospital. Him. Skinner. Mulder called Frohike, after the panic was all over. Of course. Like Tootles, I've missed the excitement again. Dammit, Mulder. Dammit, Mulder. Some oversize books -- Richard Scarry, "What Do People Do All Day?" Somehow, I don't think any of our jobs are in here. But sometimes it would be nice just to be Able Baker Charlie or Huckle the Cat, hanging out with Lowly Worm. Come on, John, have to keep looking. Westerns, mysteries, science fiction... I ought to go see him. I'm not sure whether or not I really want to and so I've been procrastinating. But I have to go. There's no such thing as coincidence and we're connected somehow... Mulder...hospitals... "A Barnstormer in Oz" by Philip Jose Farmer. No such thing as coincidence. It's a strange book, but a good one. There's a manual cash register, so I pay with bills. With my gloves on, I fumble my change, but don't drop it. No line up, so no-one to annoy. Outside, the dark-roasted smells of a nearby coffee house tickle at me and I'm tempted to stay for a while. Have a latte and look at this book while I still own it. Put this off. Why am I even going? But suddenly I find I'm on the sidewalk, heading down the street. Just a few blocks, an elevator ride, another maze of halls and smells and corners and blood humming in my ears. There it is. His room. Right there. Get a grip, John. Stuff your gloves in your pocket and go in. Don't just stand out in the hall. Deep breath, through the door. Skinner's there, standing by the bed in a bathrobe. Dark blue. He looks...for a man who went through what he did, he looks amazingly good. But compared to what I've seen before, he looks wrung out and tired. No glasses to hide weary eyes. Embers. He doesn't hear me come in. "Hi." Now he looks up and catches my eye. My anxiety goes down as the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. "I'm sorry I didn't come before." "That's OK." He remains standing; I'm not sure why. "In fact, I just discharged myself." My God, and he looks like he's going to fall over any minute. "Are you sure--" "I'm sure. I have to get out of here." I don't know why I expected anything different. I still don't know why I'm here at all, why I thought he'd want to see me or I him. I become aware of the book in my hand. It seems silly now. But still... "I brought you this." Three steps closer and I hold it out. "Sorry, it's second hand." Taking it from me, he looks at it and runs one hand across the cover. Oh. His hand. Oh. I'm feeling something now, something from deep inside me running hot and cold along my nerves and through my veins. A moment, the sight of his palm sliding over the book, and now I want him. I want him. So simple and at the same time so hideously complex. John, I didn't know you cared. John, when are you ever going to want someone you can actually have? His eyes are on me. I hope I'm not blushing. Am I blushing? Why the hell would I be blushing? "It looks interesting, thank you. I suppose I was expecting 'Catcher in the Rye' or something. I'll read it while I'm recuperating at home." Thank God he's not planning to go right back to work. But I'm keeping him standing. Maybe I can... "Do you need a ride home?" His eyes again. Why doesn't he say something? "I was going to get a cab." Dark eyes, shuttered, flicking off to the left. Let me. "It's no bother." Please. "OK, then. Thank you." He still almost stares at me. Do I have a stain on my jacket? Picking up his glasses, he puts them on, cutting the intensity of his gaze. "I'll be ready in about fifteen minutes." "I'll go get the car. Do you have anything you'd like me to carry down now?" I wish he'd stay here and let them look after him. "No, I don't have much here. I'm fine." Sure. "I'll wait out front then." He nods and goes towards his locker. I leave, attempting to retrace my steps and find the same elevator I took up here. Riding down and walking to the car, I try to ignore the turmoil of my mind and body. After all, it's nothing new, just a different object for my unrequited love. Behind the steering wheel now; thank God I didn't take the Mystery Machine. Where was I? Unrequited love. Love? That doesn't seem the mot juste, somehow. But I don't really know what else to call it. Eros tosses his ball at me and it smacks me upside the head. I never was any good at dodgeball. I pull up into the loading zone and wait. There he is, wearing a suit and tie, God knows why, and I can see doesn't hang quite right. He's carrying two bags and one looks heavy. Books maybe. I jump out to unlock the trunk and take the heavy bag. Books. We're too close to the car for him to protest me carrying it. Buckled in and driving out, I ask for directions. He navigates for me, leaning back in the seat. There are so many questions I want to ask him about the technical side of what happened to him, but he won't talk unless he wants to. I think. And then we're there. I stop the car. Is he going to be OK? We both get out and I unlock the trunk, pull out his bag, hang on to it. I *will* carry it up. He must know that, since he just glances at it and leads the way in. Uneasy quiet in the elevator, jangle of keys dropped outside the apartment -- he bends to pick them up before I can. It's a mistake. He sways against the door for a moment, then he's fine. Unlock, inside. I carry the bag in a little way before I put it down, let the door close behind me. I want to steal a glance of his life before I go, to mull over during the white night that is sure to follow. The room is spare and not quite elegant. It's enough to live in, not enough to care about. So we stand awkward by the door. For all we've sat and talked and, dammit, kissed, we really don't know each other at all, do we? A fraction of a second before he'd have to offer me a drink, I start the goodbye. "Is there anything else I can do to help?" He pauses, looks me up and down a moment. Long enough for me to think how you can wear your heart on your sleeve or in your eyes, but mine seems lodged in the back of my throat. "You don't have to." His gaze shifts a little, like he's uneasy. Well, John, what will it be? There's no such thing as coincidence. Turn the page. "I want to." A few steps and he's there. Here. I remember the grip of those hard fingers, the heat of that fierce mouth. I remember the fire. This time, we let it blaze, licking up the dusty pages of my ennui, consuming whatever he still has left in him to burn. He's still a little unsteady but I wait until he initiates the move to the couch. Shedding our jackets, we drop to the leather. I know what this is, a way for him to prove he's still alive. I fuck, therefore I am. I don't care. I want to prove he's still alive too. He's not gentle, but he's not rushed either. Rationing his strength. Shirts, ties crumple to the floor and in the back of my mind the mess bothers me a little. Then nothing bothers me except the heat and my hands are tugging up his undershirt, reading his history in the braille of scars and ribs and muscle. He pulls back a little to skin it over his head. Then he stops. No. I close my eyes. Don't do this. "I can't, I can't," he says. "I'm sorry. I can't let you get involved." Dammit, don't close up on me. "I'm already involved." "No, this is more, it's...you don't understand. It's *in* me." His eyes are so tired. Ashes. "I'm a dead man." He looks away, his voice twists with bitterness. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to fuck a dead man?" "She just told me to always wear clean underwear." Did I just *say* that? But, fuck, John, he's right. This man has nanotech in his blood and you've just been sucking his face. How could you be so stupid? So fucking stupid. I think I'm going to throw up. Which would probably do no good at all. Oh God, he looks so strange. If he starts to laugh, he'll lose it, lose it completely. And so will I. It should be safe to put my hand on his shoulder. "There has to be something we can do." "No." Now he won't look at me. "Trust me. There's nothing. Just...go." But I can't go, at least until I get dressed. Could there be any moment in life more awkward? But I manage and as I button up I try again. "We have contacts. We can find things out. Even if I don't..." No response. But it filled in a few seconds. Stand up, John. Tie on, jacket on. To the door. Look back. Meet his eyes one more time. Say nothing. Tear out the page, close the book, walk out. Punch the elevator wall. I sit in the car and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. What now? We have to do something for him. Mulder will help. And, shit, what about me? I'll have to be careful until I can find out. I can't tell anyone. My stomach still churns, all my lust liquefied into fear. And rage. I haven't even started to feel rejected, but that will come soon enough. Tonight. Time to get out of here. But I can't go back home yet. So, I drive back to the coffee shop. It's cold but I sit outside and drink my latte with shaking hands and wait for the wind to numb me. Better check that I'm not too rumpled -- shirt tucked in, jacket straight. I stand up and look at myself in the window. I'm wearing his tie. F I N I S Sorry that was so depressing. You can vent at prillalar@yahoo.com.