Wreaths & Revelations

 by Mort

Mulder couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep.  

It seemed impossible that after two hours of frantic screaming, hollering and struggling futilely against the handcuffs, not only had his neighbors failed to call the police but, despite his terror over Krycek's threat to Skinner, he had actually dozed off.  Not that there had been anything restful about his sleep.  All he had done was surrender his conscious terrified dread of what Krycek was doing into a haunting nightmare in which he saw Skinner shot, garroted and stabbed in an endless cycle of blood-drenched scenarios.

And in each dream fragment the roses had been prominent witnesses to the carnage, scattered over Skinner's hospital bed like autumn leaves,  their white petals weeping blood tears. 

He knew that he hadn't deliberately chosen to give in to his physical exhaustion. His brain had simply shut down as the only way to cope with the terrible helplessness of his position.  Even so, he felt shamed and sickened by the knowledge that he had slept through Skinner's murder, as if he hadn't even given a damn. And, perhaps more shamefully still, he knew that a large proportion of his current distress was that he had also obviously slept through Krycek's triumphant return to the apartment.

Mulder had awoken to find that the handcuffs had been removed, the duvet had been carefully tucked around his body in what he could only assume was a bizarre gesture of affection and, at the foot of the bed, Krycek had left a grisly, blood splattered trophy.

At first he had doubted the reality of the roses. As though they had been snatched clear out of his nightmare, their stained heads were crushed by the weight of the blood that drenched their fragile petals. He had wanted to touch them, needing to wrap his fist around their savage thorns, needing them to bite into his numb, shivering flesh simply to assure him that they weren't simply a waking dream.

But they were evidence. Evidence of Skinner's murder. Evidence of Mulder's own culpability. 

He was crying so hard that he could barely see the clothes he was dragging over his shaking limbs. He felt so cold that he was almost too numb to fasten his shirt, but it wasn't a physical cold; it was the chill of shock that was making his nerveless fingers tremble and fumble. He knew he should be phoning Scully, or the hospital, or the police, or maybe just a psychiatrist to come and shoot him full of valium, but his cell phone was lying next to his weapon and he had the strangest feeling that if he approached it, he'd end up putting the gun to his ear instead of the phone.

Skinner was dead. Walter Skinner, tough hard-ass AD and star of Mulder's personal wet dreams for the last four years was lying in a hospital morgue and it was his fault.

From the foot of the bed the roses beckoned him, silently inviting him to mingle his own blood with that of the man he had killed.  It would be so easy to join Skinner, to lie down with him in death in a way that he had never had the courage to do in life. Now it took all of his courage *not* to give in to the urge to simply collapse under the weight of his guilt-ridden grief.

He had to go to the hospital morgue and say goodbye. Then he had to find Krycek and put a bullet through his insane, murderous heart.

Only then, when Krycek was dead, would Mulder turn his weapon upon himself and seek the peace of oblivion.

Arriving at the hospital and seeing the black and whites in the car park, Mulder felt so detached that simply the effort of walking past their flashing lights was like struggling through cloying treacle. The very air itself seemed too thick to pass through and certainly too thick to breathe.

His chest was screaming from lack of oxygen, as though he had simply lost the ability to breathe at all. Yet, despite the tight restricting bands of pain that felt as though an unbearable weight was crushing him and  the fact that he didn't remember drawing a breath since the moment he had seen the roses strewn across the foot of his bed, somehow Mulder still managed to force one foot in front of the other and his body accomplished the act of entering the hospital despite his mind's reluctance to follow.

It was like experiencing a waking dream, he decided, as he walked down the hospital corridor and saw the uniforms surging in and out of Skinner's room. Scully was hurrying towards him, her face taut with concern,  but she seemed very far away from him, seeming to recede away as the corridor elongated around him. He swayed off-balance as the tunnel vision made him stumble and almost fall.

Mulder halted and rubbed his face with his hands, feeling the rasping scrape of his stubble and focusing in on the sensation, wondering whether that small itching against his palms was evidence that he was truly awake rather than still lost in his nightmares.

"You've forgotten to shave," Scully pointed out lightly, although her eyes were dark with worry as she took in his uncharacteristically rumpled appearance.

"It's my fault," he blurted. 

He hadn't intended to admit it. He didn't want to involve Scully in this. Scully who would undoubtedly take *him* out before allowing him to hunt down Krycek and put him down like the rabid dog that he obviously was, but faced with her obvious concern something broke inside him.

"What's your fault?" Scully asked gently.

He couldn't say it. Not even to Scully. He knew he didn't deserve her compassion, but he couldn't face her disgust.  He just gestured helplessly in the direction of Skinner's room and rubbed furtively at the fresh tears that sprang into his eyes.

Scully frowned in confusion, then her eyes narrowed as she considered Mulder's untypical dishevelment and the dark patches under his eyes.

"It was you, wasn't it?" she accused.

Mulder's mouth gaped open in horror that she could even think such a thing. He tried to find the words to deny his guilt, but couldn't. In a way, she *was* right. He had done it. He'd aimed the gun at Skinner's head by his rejection of Krycek. It didn't really matter that it had been the assassin who had pulled the trigger. The blame lay fully at his own door.

"Yes," he choked. 

"I should have known it," Scully griped. "I'd better tell the police. They're not going to be happy about this, Mulder. They've spent the last two hours getting the blood-stains analyzed on the assumption it was the same perp who put Skinner in hospital in the first place. Go home, Mulder. Call in sick or something. You  certainly look sick to me."

"Home?" Mulder asked weakly, his eyes glazing with shock.

"It's going to be hard enough to come up with a believable explanation for your behavior. The last thing I need right now is you standing at my shoulder looking like a kicked puppy. Do you want *everyone* to know who you've been sleeping with?"

It was like being kicked in the balls. She knew. Scully knew and somehow the shame of that knowledge was almost as unbearable as his grief.

"Aren't you going to arrest me?" Mulder asked.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's going to be hard enough trying to smooth this whole thing over without you turning it into a personal drama. Just go home."

"But Skinner..."

"Is not going to want to talk to you under the circumstances, is he? I suggest you let him calm down a little before you try to apologize. I assume you *are* here to apologize?"

Mulder staggered backwards until he hit the wall, then his legs crumpled from under him and he slid down until he was sitting on the floor. Scully moved with him, pressing his head between his knees and telling him to take deep breaths.

"Dammit, Mulder. I thought this relationship would be good for you. I thought Skinner would be a stabilizing influence. Instead you seem to both be driving each other to nervous breakdowns. "

/He's alive. Skinner's alive. He's alive. Krycek didn't kill him. He's alive./

Oblivious to the mantra of confused relief running through Mulder's head, Scully continued to scold him.

"It's bad enough you took the roses away. Why the hell you thought it would be funny to leave blood splattered all over his sheets in the process is beyond me. You should have known the hospital would report the blood to the police."

"The thorns," Mulder mumbled. 

He'd seen the blood-stained roses on the foot of his bed and had assumed the blood was Skinner's. Now he pictured a new scenario. Krycek grabbing the flowers in temper. His hand squeezing the stems until his palms had been ripped open.

And above the joy that was surging through him, a new emotion began to grow. It hooked onto the tail of the waves of relief and swamped them, its bitter darkness swiftly overwhelming the lighter emotion. It was born of the realization that he had come so close to splattering his own brains across those taunting roses. Fear and rage, so interwoven that it was impossible to see where one finished and the other began, drove the numbness away from his limbs.

Krycek had played him, just as Krycek *always* played him, and yet again the focus of the deceit had been Skinner. Yet again, Krycek had used a threat to Skinner's life to try to control him, only to back away at the last minute. Krycek *had* come to the hospital. He'd obviously brought the flowers back to Mulder's apartment just to prove that he *could* have killed Skinner.

But he hadn't.

So, the question was whether Krycek had simply been unable to go through with Skinner's murder after all or whether Krycek had decided it would be a mistake to lose the only leverage he had over Mulder.

Unless...unless Skinner was somehow a player in this game too.

Mulder surged to his feet, his earlier weakness swept away and replaced by a wrathful strength. He pushed past Scully, completely deaf to her squeal of surprised protest, strode down the corridor and barged into Skinner's room.

"Get out," he barked at the two forensic guys who were trying to look useful as they pottered around Skinner's hospital bed.

"Agent Mulder?" Skinner growled.

"We've got to talk. NOW. Tell them to get out," Mulder replied, folding his arms in front of his chest and glaring at the older man.

Some unfathomable emotion flared in the depths of Skinner's eyes and his face darkened with a strange mix of anger and fear.. He looked as though he'd rather be left alone with a rabid dog.

"Unless you *want* them to hear what I have to say?" Mulder threatened.

He saw Skinner swallow nervously, but when his voice emerged it was smooth and in control.

"If you gentlemen would excuse us?" 

The two cops exchanged a curious look but shrugged and vacated the room.

"You too," Mulder said to Scully, who had raced after him and was now hovering uncertainly in the doorway..

To his surprise, she simply gave a small smirk, nodded and closed the door behind her when she left.

"I thought you were dead, damn you," Mulder choked.

Skinner just raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"He brought them to me. The roses. He told me I should use them for your wreath."

Mulder saw the shock in Skinner's eyes. Then the older man shrank a little, deflating like a pricked balloon, as though Mulder's words had wounded him far more effectively than any blow could have done.

"Oh shit," Mulder breathed, as his mind leapt to the obvious conclusion. "He's a psycho, Skinner. A fucking nut case. How the fuck can you be in love with him?"

For a moment, Skinner's expression was so shamed that Mulder felt himself cringing on his behalf. Then Skinner shook himself, straightened his shoulders and looked Mulder straight in the face. 

"I'm not prepared to discuss it with you, Mulder, and since we're on the subject of psychos let me just mention a name to you. Juan Baker."

Mulder went white at the threat that dripped unmistakably from Skinner's words and the older man smirked with satisfaction.

"You know?"

"Of course I fucking know. After all, if you hadn't been so willing to play bitch for that maniac, Alex would never have started sniffing in your direction. It's not Alex's fault that you turned out to be a slut."

Mulder recoiled in horror from Skinner's accusation.

"I never *asked* your 'boyfriend' to come after me, Skinner. He raped me. Then he said if I didn't agree to fuck him, he'd kill you. Hardly the act of a tender lover, is it?"

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know," Skinner replied coldly. "So, a word of advice, 'Fox', start worrying about your own ass, and leave me to look after mine." 

"He came here to kill you!"

"He didn't," Skinner pointed out. 

"So that's okay?"

"You don't understand him, Mulder. Perhaps he came here intending to kill me, but he didn't go through with it, did he? It's not the first time and it won't be the last."

"He's crazy."

"No, Mulder. *You're* making him crazy. He was fine before you starting wriggling your ass in his direction. He was happy with me. We were both happy in our own way. Alex has a problem with emotions, that's all. He's not used to the idea of being in love. In the consortium, the only way to prove absolute allegiance to a new superior is to eliminate the old one. So his instincts tell him that the only way you'll accept him is if he has proven himself by killing me. Of course, his mind tells him that you wouldn't accept my murderer as a lover, so he has a dilemma. I'd like to imagine that his hesitation in harming me is because he secretly feels some manner of affection towards me, but that's probably just wishful thinking on my part." 

Mulder just gaped at him in disbelief. Where was the tough AD who ate Agents for breakfast? Where was the over-bearing dom that he had been fantasizing about for years? It certainly wasn't this guy in the hospital bed who was defending an abusive and possibly insane lover to a guy that same lover had raped.

"What the fuck's wrong with you, Skinner? You telling me you *want* Krycek, that you don't care whether he beats the crap out of you or comes sniffing after me?"

"Oh, I definitely care that he's sniffing after you, boy, but it won't last. Alex just wants a taste of forbidden fruit. He's just looking for greener grass, but he'll come back to me. He always does."

"And you let him," Mulder said. It was less a question than a statement of disgust. "I thought...I thought you were...were..."

"A top?" Skinner drawled. An amused grin played around his mouth. "Alex told me you were interested, but I put it down to his usual paranoia. Sorry to disappoint you, Mulder, but what Alex gives me...well, let's just say you don't have it in you. Just like you haven't got what Alex wants. Why don't you take some vacation time? Get out of town, let Alex and me work it out, just get the fuck out of our lives before someone really gets hurt."

"You threatening me?" Mulder asked quietly.

Skinner shrugged.

"I'm just warning you that the stakes are too high for you, Mulder. You try and play our game and you're going to get burnt."

Mulder opened his mouth to tell Skinner exactly what he thought of the *game*, that as far as he was concerned Skinner and Krycek obviously deserved each other, then his mouth closed again with the words unspoken.

"I don't think *Alex* would be happy if I left town," he suggested, and was rewarded by a hastily masked flash of fear over Skinner's features. "In fact, I don't think he'd be happy to hear that you'd even suggested it. I wonder what he'd do if I repeated this conversation?"

The color drained from Skinner's already pale face, causing the dark bruising on his cheek and jaw to appear even more prominent. Mulder gently traced his fingers over the swollen skin, finding a strange shameful thrill in the way that Skinner trembled under his touch. Even wounded like he was, Skinner had the physical strength to throw him across the room, yet he simply shivered under Mulder's touch, his dark eyes as wide and helpless as a trapped deer's.

Perhaps *that* was the thrill for Alex too, Mulder considered. To have such a physical mountain of a man subdued under his touch. It was like stroking a wild beast, knowing that you were walking a thin dangerous line between being mauled or making the creature submit. Without conscious thought, his left hand trailed down the bed sheets until he found it. The proof.

He grinned and saw Skinner's eyes flare with embarrassment.

"Get your fucking..." Skinner began.

"Alex," Mulder purred warningly. 

 Skinner's protest was cut off with a choking sob, and the bulge under Mulder's left hand hardened still further.

So Skinner's turn on was fear. How unbelievable. How strange. How....interesting.

Mulder thought about it. It made sense he supposed. A guy like Skinner who was such a control freak, so powerful, so naturally commanding, it would be hard for a man like that to let go of his inhibitions and simply embrace the idea of unfettered emotion.  So Krycek had played his little games with him, had fucked with his head and terrorized him until he was out of control, and presumably Krycek had inadvertently introduced Skinner to the first *real* sexual experience of his life.

He wouldn't have been equipped to deal with it. For Skinner, fear had been such an unfamiliar emotion that he would have floundered helplessly in its grip, and exposed so savagely by that alien emotion he would have been helpless to control his physical response to Krycek's touch.

"He's trained you, hasn't he?" Mulder asked gently. "How did he do it, Walter? How did he manage to keep you in a state of constant terror long enough for you to start enjoying it, needing it maybe?"

"I don't know what you mean," Skinner said, but the lie was clearly shown not only in his eyes but in the small jerk of his hips as he ground himself unconsciously against Mulder's questing hand.

Mulder smiled at him with surprising compassion and stroked Skinner's face soothingly with his right hand, even as he moved his left and slipped it under the bedcovers until his fingers met and gripped the hard weeping flesh. 

"Oh, I think you do, Walter," Mulder said, as he began a tugging rhythm that dragged a choking sob from Skinner's throat. "I think you're going to tell me everything. I think you're going to explain every little detail about your relationship with Alex, because if you don't, I'm going to tell him that you lay here and let me jerk you off."

Skinner's eyes flared with horror.

"He'll kill me," he sobbed.

"Slowly, probably," Mulder agreed.

Skinner's face crumpled with terror as he imagined Alex's reaction to this inadvertent betrayal, and it was that image that defeated him. His balls tightened and he erupted into Mulder's hand with a raw scream of fear-tinged passion. 

Mulder resisted the urge to thrust his face under the bedcovers and lick Skinner clean. He simply pulled back his hand, straightened the bedcovers and wiped himself with one of the tissues from the bedside cabinet.

"Now, Walter. I think it's time we *really* talked, don't you?"

The End