ORDINARY MEN IV: ALL FLESH IS GRASS
By Halrloprillalar
 
Intro Info
Category: Slash, R for M/M stuff.
Spoilers: Up to and including Three of a Kind (season 6).
Summary: Skinner/Byers. Three of a Kind post-ep, in which the 
author twists everything to fit her own little slashworld.
Disclaimer: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not 
me.
The first three stories in this series are 
They Also Serve 
The Lunatic Is In My Head 
and Fahrenheit 451.
 
May 1999
 
Us, and them.
And after all we're only ordinary men.
Me, and you.
God only knows it's not what we would choose to do.
-- Pink Floyd
 
Ordinary Men IV: All Flesh is Grass
by Halrloprillalar
 
A groundskeeper is cutting the grass and I breathe deeply, 
trying to suck down the essence of spring through that smell. It 
makes me sneeze. Damn hay fever. I guess that is the essence 
of spring. Like I needed a reminder of the difference between 
fantasy and reality.
There's a park bench nearby, paint peeling after the winter 
weather. I've spent a lot of hours not sitting on that bench, 
imagining it from across town. And I don't sit there now, just 
stand and watch people passing on the trail.
According to our intell, he should be by soon. I've read his file 
often these past few months, though I haven't contributed to it. 
But from what's in it, I think he might understand the loss. The 
dream.
I think the dream is gone now. It's been a week and that picture 
out of Better Homes and Gardens magazine has not yet 
reappeared in my sleep. I can hardly see it now, when I'm 
awake. I don't know if that's good or not. But I miss it. Miss her.
The pollen in the air is getting to me a bit. Pulling out my 
handkerchief, I can't help but think of the tie coiled in the drawer 
beside the neatly folded squares, just where my fingers will 
brush it every time I reach in. God, but you're a sentimental 
fool, John. Am I here looking for closure or an opening?
Then I see him coming over the rise, jogging. Skinner. 10:22, 
Saturday morning, just like the file says. Hands in my pockets, I 
stand by the trail and watch him. I don't have to call out -- he 
sees me, slows down, doesn't stop. "Walk with me," he says 
and I do.
We stay to one side to let the runners past. Sometimes I have to 
step off the path a little and the ground is soft there. What are 
you going to do now, John? Didn't you have a plan? A speech? 
But no, I didn't. So we walk together and our shoulders touch 
now and again.
"Did you have something for me?" His voice is low.
"No." His face shines with sweat and without his glasses, his 
eyes are very dark. There's nothing new to give him. Frohike 
already told him all we could find out about the nanocytes and 
we didn't learn anything at the conference. Anything about 
them.
"Then what did you want?"
I look away, at the trees, the grass, the other people. "To see 
you."
He doesn't respond. We keep walking. I will not panic. I will not. 
The path takes us to the edge of the park, near the street. From 
the file, the map, I recognise the location. He still doesn't speak, 
but a gesture indicates I should follow and so we walk the few 
blocks to his building.
The air is close in the elevator but the windows in his apartment 
are open and it's breezy, colder than outside. It's much as I 
remember it from that last brief glance -- spare but not Spartan. 
Clean but not gleaming. Nice. Not like my mother's place, with 
plastic on the furniture and Pine-Sol in the air. Not like the 
cluttered rooms I live in now.
We stand in the living room, awkward and still, looking at each 
other. A slow dissolve starts in me, turning my bones to water.
"It's too early to offer you a drink." He looks away for a 
moment, then back. "Coffee?"
"Thank you, no." Oh God, I want...but will he? After last time? I 
know now the nanocytes aren't in me and he knows that the 
possibility of contamination is very low. And I suspect I'd be 
here anyway. But will he? Come on, John. Reach out and pluck 
the day.
I can't bring the words to my lips, so I rest one hand on his 
chest, on the dark, damp stain over his heart. There I feel the 
indrawn breath, the hold, the long sigh as he covers my hand 
with his.
We go upstairs. There's a chair in the bedroom and I hang my 
clothes over the back. Then we're together. He's bigger, he's 
stronger, but there's a black ferocity in me today. We grapple, 
struggle, test each other. Nothing chivalric about this fuck. 
Losing myself in the earthy stink of his sweat, I leave a mark on 
his chest that won't soon fade. His hands are hard, harder than I 
remember. His mouth is strong, but curiously sweet. It's 
overwhelming, a consummation devoutly to be wished, and 
when I come, I open my eyes so I see only his face.
No wonder people like to smoke after sex -- it gives you 
something to do to get through those awkward moments while 
you lie there, waiting for your pulse rate to drop. We're still 
touching a little, calf and knee. Breathing. "Do you want first 
shower?" he asks. That must bring the total of spoken words to 
just above fifty. Not that I've been counting.
I roll off the bed, stubbornly ignoring the self-consciousness that 
returns with a vengeance, and head into the ensuite. This isn't 
the kind of fuck where you shower together. When I come out, 
he walks past me and gives me a hint of a smile.
Dressing quickly, I finish before he's even out. My hair and 
beard are still wet, but that can't be helped. Did I get what I 
came for? Catharsis? Orgasm? Is it good manners to leave 
now or to wait for him?
Light streams in through the window and I go over to breathe 
the fresh air. I hear the door open, him walking across the 
carpet, but I don't turn. Standing just behind me, he puts one 
hand on my shoulder. "Coffee now?"
"Please." He doesn't go just yet, though, and we look out the 
window together.
Far below, on the apartment lawn, someone is cutting the grass.
 
F I N I S
 
Feedback? You can email me at prillalar@yahoo.com