ORDINARY MEN V: IN HIS ANGER AND HIS SHAME
By Halrloprillalar
 
Intro Info
Category: Slash, PG13 for M/M stuff.
Spoilers: Up to and including Biogenesis (season 6).
Summary: BioSlash. Skinner/Byers. Some thoughts about 
hospitals and doing what you don't want to do.
Disclaimer: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not 
me.
The first four stories in this series are 
They Also Serve 
The Lunatic Is In My Head 
Fahrenheit 451 
All Flesh Is Grass.
 
May 1999
 
Ordinary Men V: In His Anger and His Shame
by Halrloprillalar
 
Another day, another hospital. Another trip through the labyrinth, 
footsteps echoing off the flat white walls and floor. Another 
meeting with him at the centre of the maze. This is beyond deja 
vu -- I'm in the fucking Twilight Zone. I'm in the Special 
Psychiatric Unit. It smells like fear.
There he is, sitting in the hall, fingers twisting and untwisting. 
Skinner. Turning his head, he looks at me and I can almost see 
the rage streaming off him, a bruise-coloured aura. Rage not 
directed at me, but it scares me nonetheless.
Standing near him, I want to reach out and touch his shoulder, 
but I jam my hands in my pockets instead. We neither of us 
speak. His eyes burn like coals through the ashes of a long-
banked fire. I feel like tinder, like scraps of crumbling moss, like 
the dryer lint that caused my college dorm to burn down. I clean 
the trap after every load now.
Your move, John. "Can we see Mulder?" He shakes his head, 
almost imperceptibly. "Why not?"
"He's violent. Dangerous. Psychotic."
"You're sure we can't see him?"
"We can't, trust me," he says and looks away, flinching. At 
what, I'm not sure.
Why then? "You called me."
He stands now, in one swift surge, and faces me. I want to back 
away. He's too much right now. "I need a ride."
Anywhere. Just don't hurt me. Or yourself. So I nod and we go 
and mercifully there are others in the elevator on the way down.
In the car, we're quiet until I pull out onto the street, then he 
gives me directions. Not to his home, that much I can tell. In my 
peripheral vision, he's still except for his hands, lacing and 
unlacing his fingers. The despair behind his anger is so obvious 
to me. Maybe because I've felt it too. Maybe now he'll talk. "Will 
you tell me? The car -- we swept it. It's clean."
"Nothing is clean."
I let that sit for a minute, then try again. "Maybe I can help..." 
Silence. Glancing over, I see him staring out the window. He 
must have been a sullen child. Still, he did call. That's 
something.
After ten minutes or so, I realise where we're headed -- the 
gym. When we pull up, he turns to me. "Come in."
"Yes." And I park the car.
Inside, he hands me his phone and waves me to a bench. I slip 
the phone in my pocket, then sit and look around. It's dim and 
dank and dingy, the kind of place you'd expect to find Rocky 
Balboa sparring in the next ring over. What am I supposed to do 
here? Even if I had gym kit along, I don't...don't do whatever 
they do. Don't box. Don't push weights. Don't train. Maybe I 
should.
After a few -- ten? -- minutes reverie, I see him coming out of 
the locker room, in sweats now and a t-shirt. His hands are 
wrapped and he carries a pair of gloves. He moves a little 
differently like this -- lithe, coiled. He's upon me almost before I 
realise it, not stopping, just indicating I should follow. And, of 
course, I do.
He leads me to the far end of the gym, to where a row of 
punching bags hang from a beam, swinging gently. Picking one, 
he stands by it, just touching it with one white-bound fist. "Hold it 
for me." For the first time, there's a trace of a question in his 
tone, just a hint.
"OK." I look at the bag -- it's as grimy as the rest of the 
equipment here. So I take off my jacket, shirt, and tie, which 
seems pretty typical for my encounters with this man. There's a 
bench to lay them on, still not that clean, but better than nothing. 
Meanwhile, he's pulled on his gloves and dropped his towel next 
to my stuff.
We square off on either side of the bag, me holding on with both 
hands, him poised to swing. Without his glasses, his eyes burn 
stronger with that dull fire I saw before. He strikes. The force of 
it shudders up through my arms almost into my chest. Again. 
And again.
At first, his jabs are controlled, precise, but soon that dangerous 
anger makes its way into his fists and he begins to batter the 
bag in earnest. Sweat glistens and beads on his face. With each 
blow, he exhales sharply through his nose, snorting like an 
enraged bull.
He's violent but it doesn't scare me now. I hold hard and press 
close to the bag. I have the beat now, breathing out with him as 
each punch rocks through me. Closing my eyes, I smell the 
leather and the sweat, hear his breath turn to low panting, an 
elemental sound, deeper than language. Memory pounds 
through me, of being in this man's bed, of working out my own 
rage on this man's body. The rhythm is the same.
How long it's been, I don't know, but I feel like I've been in some 
sort of fugue state. My arms are aching now, my body is sore. 
He's still slamming away -- he must be fuguing too. He doesn't 
look so good. "Stop." I've got to get his attention. "You're done 
now. Stop." He looks at me, sees me. "Stop. You're done."
He stops, teetering on his heels, chest heaving. Letting go of the 
bag, I take his arm and push him back onto the bench. I'm not 
feeling so great myself. He's just sitting there, so I squat in front 
of him and pull off his gloves. Give him the towel. He wipes his 
face, then tries to unwrap his hands. His fingers shake, with 
exhaustion now, not anger, and he can't seem to get it started, 
so I take over and he lets me. Ripping open the Velcro, 
unwinding the cotton, I want to grip his hands in mine, want to 
tell him everything will be OK. Which it won't, of course, but 
these are the lies that keep us sane.
"You all right?"
Dumbly, he nods. Stands. "Gotta shower." Moves slowly 
towards the locker room. I don't want to let him -- he should get 
in the car now, shower at home. But you can't stop this man, at 
least I can't. So I watch him until he disappears inside, then 
dress, head back to my bench by the door, check my watch 
three times in two minutes.
"You FBI too?" It's an older man, grey hair.
"No, just a friend."
"Is he OK?"
No. He's not. "He had a bad day."
Nodding, he sinks down to the bench beside me and treats me 
to a, well, a blow-by-blow account of Skinner's last match here. 
I already got this story from Frohike. It's even more boring the 
second time around. By a huge effort of will, I refrain from 
looking at my watch again.
Finally, Skinner comes out again. He looks so tired, his eyes are 
dead again. Or maybe that's just the glasses. We stand and the 
old guy takes his arm.
"You OK, Slugger?"
Skinner gives him a half-smile. "Yeah, thanks."
"Take care of him," the man admonishes me and heads back 
out into the gym. We go to the car.
Skinner sits back in the passenger seat, eyes closed. I can find 
my way from here. It's not far. Even so, he's half asleep when I 
park by his building. He manages to get out, though, and I go in 
with him, watching him lean against the elevator wall as we ride 
up. Then we're in his apartment. He doesn't ask me to stay. I 
don't offer to leave.
Shrugging out of his jacket, he collapses on the couch while I go 
pull bottled water out of his refrigerator. When I return, his tie is 
off, his shirt unbuttoned, and there's a hockey game on. Sitting 
down beside him, I hand him the bottle and set his cell phone on 
the coffee table.
"Thank you," he says, looking at me. He takes a drink. "Thank 
you."
"You're welcome." And we watch the game, neither seeing it, 
I'm sure. I almost -- almost -- forget about Mulder, about 
everything. Skinner's knee is against mine and when he leans 
forward to put down the empty bottle, I rest my arm along the 
back of the couch, not quite where I'll touch his shoulders. His 
breathing is slow and measured and by the end of the second 
period, his head has rolled to the side. Carefully, I move it until it 
rests against my shoulder, brushing his cheek with my thumb, 
and, when he doesn't wince, pressing a guilty kiss onto the 
smooth skin of his scalp.
He's asleep. Loosening my tie, I take the remote from his hand 
and change the channel to A&E.
 
F I N I S
 
In the clearing stands a boxer,
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame,
"I am leaving, I am leaving."
But the fighter still remains.
-Paul Simon, "The Boxer"