Introspection is rarely a wise thing for an assassin.

Survival depends on the ability to act purely on instinct. Stopping to question your motives is a sure fire way to get yourself killed. All it takes is one split-second of indecision and you lose.

And this is a game where second-best means dead.

Not that I always win.

I've crawled away from enough situations that spiraled out of my control to be damned lucky to be alive at all. I've left my blood splattered on floors, my skin probably still adorns the several dozen walls it's been scraped off against and my arm....

Well, best not to even mention my late and VERY lamented arm.

But I'm still alive.

That means something, doesn't it. 

Doesn't it?

I mean there aren't that many fucking one-armed assassins still living and breathing, are there?

Mulder once said I had more lives than a cat.

He wasn't paying me a compliment.

But, still, it's true enough, I guess.

Skinner said...well, let's not go there.

Come to think of it, why the hell *am* I going there?

Shit.

Shit.

Maybe I'll stop the car for a while and give this one a little more thought.

~#~#~

Okay. Check myself in the driving mirror.

Looking good, Alex.

Nice smile.

Oops.  A little too much teeth. Don't want to scare the natives, do we?

That's better. Can't do much about the three-day growth but hell, it's not enough by itself to mark me as a killer (retired), is it?

Nah. I'm just a bit paranoid these days.

Shit.

There's a fucking patrol car parked outside the diner. 

Breathe. Breathe, Alex.

Okay. Think this through. You've got immunity, you stupid motherfucker. Just be cool, smile, walk in the door like you belong. Make sure the jacket covers the Glock.

Hey, I've gone straight, not fucking insane.

Nod to the waitress.

Nod to the cop, fucking nosy bastard.

Wink at the waitress.

Ah, you've still got it Alex. She's putty in your hands.

Coffee.

Black, strong, bitter, a bit fucking burnt to be brutally honest, but I've been driving for hours and it's hot and wet and not *everything* improves with age like.... nope. I'm not going there. Not now. Not yet.

~#~#~#~

I read this book once.

Can't remember the author. Just one of those discount novels I grabbed from a bargain bin in an airport shop. I remember the title though. It stuck in my mind. 'The Door To Summer'.

It was about this guy who really fucked up his life, got screwed by the people he trusted, got kicked in the balls by some girl. Anything sounding familiar? So, anyway, he went into some cold-sleep thing and woke up thirty years later. Only he'd fucked up *there* too. So he went back in time (hey, it was just a fucking novel, okay?) and changed things. Then he went back to the future again and this time everything was okay.

Useful things, time machines.

Shame I don't have one to clear up a few of my own fuck-ups....

Shit.

Okay, forget that. There was a point I was trying to make. Kind of.

Oh yeah. 'The Door Into Summer'.

This guy, the one in the book, had a cat. Getting the recurring theme yet? Anyway, this cat hated snow.

Look, I'm *trying* to make a point here. Give me a chance!

Whenever the cat tried to go outside and there was snow on the ground, it used to make the guy open all the different doors of the house -Yeah, as if there are *that* many doors in a house, but I guess he used poetic license or something - 'cos it was sure that *one* of the doors would lead out into Summer. Which, I guess, was an analogy for the whole story. If the guy could have enough chances to change the past, eventually he'd get the future right.

Get it yet?

Only I never had a time machine, or cold sleep, or a fucking author writing my story so he could nudge the facts to fit the happy ending.  All I had was a series of fucked-up decisions and every time I tried a new solution to put things right I just dug myself into a deeper hole.

The only thing I got right in the end was the decision to trust Skinner.

Kind of.

~#~#~

I fucking hate driving these days.

It's not just the fact that I have to twist like a gymnast to turn the key in the lock with my right hand. It's hard to judge pressure with the fingers of my left. Believe me, after you've stranded yourself once by accidentally snapping a key in half, you don't risk it again.

It's that I feel exposed.

I know. It's crazy. You'd think I'd feel safe cocooned inside a cage of steel. Instead I feel trapped, isolated and more than a little claustrophobic. Especially at night, when the darkness seems to smother me.

'Course, as much as I want to kid myself that I'm flashing back to the silo, the truth is I can't quite manage to stop glancing at the clock in the dash. Funny thing, but once you've experienced the realization that you're sitting inside a ticking bomb, you never quite shake the memory.

Told you I was paranoid.

But, I'm alive. Which is more than you can say for most of the foot-soldiers of our private war. So a little paranoia goes a long way, I guess.

So why am I not stopping at a motel instead of trying to beat the land-speed record?

Because I hate motel rooms even more.

Or, to be completely honest, I hate staying stationary in *any* place.

It was okay when I had enough cash to bullshit my way past the registration desks, but now I'm down to plastic I can't bring myself to take the risk. It's legit plastic. Well, as legit as I'm capable of, in that the funds *are* mine. Only the name on the card is the one I *acquired* in exchange for opening that *last* door and, believe me, it didn't lead me to any fucking summer that I could recognize.

Yeah, sure, the Consortium's gone, the aliens have pissed off and even Mulder was left gnashing his teeth in impotent fury at his inability to touch me once I'd done the deal that saved the world - and incidentally my own hide. I'm Alex Romanov now. I have all the fuck-you paperwork to prove it. Except references. The Government draws the line at *that* kind of lie. Fuckers. They're quite happy to bury the odd murder or two, they give you a new name, a history, even a fucking fake birth certificate, but they won't back up your c.v.

So there you are, out of a job - since you just helped the bastards wipe out your old employers - and you've got a new name, and a fake death, and clear, absolute instructions that if you so much as tell a fucking lie, let alone go back to your old profession, you're going to end up sizzling on a fucking electric chair like an overdone steak. And no one cares that a one-armed 35-year old man can't even get a job as a fucking waiter without references.

So you lie. Just a little bit. Pretend your last employer did a midnight flit, hence no reference, but 'I'll work hard, yes Sir, for minimum wage, absolutely, oh can I kiss your fucking ass any more, you bastard? And have I pointed out you get brownie points for employing a cripple?"

Yeah, well pride's a luxury I can't afford anymore, isn't it?

So I get myself some menial crappy computer job. Not programming, not even hacking, just demonstrating the fucking things to snot-nosed kids and batting my eyelashes (and empty sleeve) at their parents in a pathetic attempt to earn enough commission to pay the fucking rent on some one-roomed rat hole.

For all of five days before 'someone' felt the need to ring up my new boss and point out I lied on my application form.

Thanks, Mulder.

Bastard.

So I figure I need to move. Move further I mean. Like out of the fucking country. Only, guess what? No passport.  All this fucking fancy new ID, but no passport.

Sorry, Mr. Romanov. Not until we know you're being a good boy.

Good boy? Don't they realize all I need to do is a single hit and I could get the cash for a new id and vamoose out of this country so fast they wouldn't see me for dust?

Yeah, I should do that.

Only...well, I gave my word.

Shut the fuck up. My word *is* good. What the hell do you know about it, anyway? You only ever saw things from *his* point  of view.  Sure I lied. I lied a lot. But it was just the way the game was played. I never broke my *word*. There's a difference, you know.

Well, there is.

I mean, when I told those lies I *knew* I was lying. I intended to lie. It was my *job* to lie. 

This is different.

I gave him my word and he trusted me, believed me.

He must have, otherwise he would have used a different gun, wouldn't he?

Wanna know a little secret?

I didn't really think he'd keep *his* word. When he pulled his weapon out and waved it in my face I really thought I was going to die. I nearly pissed my fucking pants when the first shot went off. Only, to tell the truth, I was so damned tired of running by then that I didn't really care. I knew no matter what deal I'd made with the bigwigs, Mulder would never stop hounding me unless he thought I was dead.

'Course, it got fucked up.

Mulder tried to do Skinner a favor by pulling the security tape and he played it before he iced it. Guess he wanted to jerk off to the sight of my head exploding. So it was all for nothing. He saw me get up, wipe off the fake blood, stroll out of the basement. Not exactly corpse-like behavior.

I was fucked.

Story of my life.

Another door slamming shut in my face.

So I figure he owes me.

Skinner, I mean.

If I've got to keep my word, just 'cos he kept his, the least he can do is try and make the deal worth my while.

Okay. That's a bullshit justification, but it's the best I've got.

Like I said, pride's a luxury I can't afford anymore.

~#~#~#~

I've run out of road.

I'm here.

And suddenly, I don't know what the fuck I think I'm doing.

I mean, let's face it, if he wanted my to turn up on his doorstep he'd have sent me a fucking postcard. One of those 'retirements fine, wish you were here to suck my dick' kind of things.

Only I guess I knew I'd used up my last 'get out of jail free' blow job the night he chained me on his balcony instead of his bedpost.

Fuck, that was cold.

And I don't mean the weather.

Speaking of which, I'm freezing my nuts off in this damned car.

Oh shit.

I'm getting slow. 

How the fuck did he get out of the house without me seeing him, let alone in front of the hood? 

Why the fuck did I turn the engine off? 

Oh yeah.

'Cos I was choking on the exhaust fumes. But how the hell can I twist and start the motor without getting both blasts of that double-barreled shotgun in the head?

Wonder if there's any point hoping he's loaded *this* gun with paint pellets?

Okay. Stupid thought. I'm babbling. 

Damn it always turned me on when he pointed his huge weapon at my face. Shame it's a rifle this time.

Well, the rifle's kind of horny too.

He looks pissed. Better raise my hands. Slowly, Alex. Don't want him to spook and splatter whatever poor excuse you're using for brains all over this hire car. Current state of my bank account, there wouldn't be enough left to pay for the windscreen, let alone a valet-service. 

Push the door open. Just a crack. Throw out the Glock. Move slowly.

Oops.

He's not impressed.

Okay, throw out the Beretta. And the knife.

Come on you bastard, that's all I've got!

Fuck.

Throw out the *other* knife.

Oh come on. I'm retired, you fuck. That's all. I swear. You want my fucking arm too?

Shit I feel naked now.

Not as naked as I'd *like* to be, but I kind of lost that privilege about the same time as he found out I wasn't *quite* what he thought I was.

Ow.

That was unnecessary, don't you think? I haven't slept for three days, I can't remember the last decent meal I ate without throwing up, I'm not even fucking armed. 

Maybe he just gets off on punching me in the gut.

Yeah.

Walter's gone kinky in his old age.

Not kinky enough though, from the look on his face.

He's pissed.

It's a good look for him.

There's something decidedly decadent about the extreme depth of color that manages to infuse his face when he's *really* mad.

I wonder if his cock's the same color.

Hey, I'm an optimist.

Have to be in my line of work (retired).

~#~#~#~

Nice place.

Done okay for yourself, Walter.  Guess you got a golden handshake. Bet you even got fucking references.

Okay, so I'm bitter.

Who wouldn't be?

I'm not the *only* one who fucked up, am I? I'm not the only one who found the Consortium just a *little* too hard to say no to.

Give me a fucking break here.

I might have lost my way a bit (a lot) but I did the right thing in the end, didn't I? I gave them to you on a silver platter, Walter. Gave them to YOU. Only you. I did it for you. Doesn't that count at all?

I saved the world and all I got was a bullet in my fucking brain.

I didn't even get a tee-shirt.

What do I want?

Well, gee, Walter. What the fuck do you think I want?

I want a time machine.

I want to turn back the clock.

I want to make different choices.

I want to stop running.

I want the fucking Door to Summer.

I want you to love me again.

I know.

It's too late. It was too fucking late five years ago. I know. I know.

Why don't you just pull the fucking trigger then?

Stop the world, I wanna get off.

I guess it's why I came.

You see, I can't break my promise to you but I can't live like this any more, either. So, you owe me.

Chinese obligation.

You should have killed me, Walter.

That was the plan.

You were supposed to put real bullets in the gun. I owed you that much. Closure. Revenge. Whatever the fuck it was you needed to finally put me behind you and move on.

You weren't supposed to run away.

You weren't supposed to retire.

If you'd done the job properly you'd still be sitting in your office and I'd be lying in the ground, and we'd both be happy.

Well, okay, I'd be dead, but *you'd* be happy, and I wouldn't be stumbling through life like a fucking useless, unemployable cripple who stupidly agreed he'd never kill anyone again because he didn't think he'd live long enough to have to keep the promise.

Yeah, that's right. I've kept my promise.

What?

The guns?

Self-defense. That's all. Ever heard of shooting someone in the leg?

Anyway, I feel kind of naked without them. Been a part of my life for so long I miss them like I miss my fucking arm.

No. I don't expect you to feel sorry for me. All I *expect* is for you to be a man and pull that fucking trigger.

What? You don't want to make a mess of your kitchen?

Well fucking excuse me.

Wanna step outside? Tell you what, I'll go kneel at the edge of the ditch, shall I? That way you won't even have to dig a hole.

Too dark? You'd rather wait until the morning?

Let me tell you something, Walter. Your sense of humor hasn't improved.

You're not joking?

Oh.

Okay. You want to chain me on the porch? Seeing as you don't have a balcony to freeze my balls off anymore?

Oh.

Yeah, I guess I *would* rather sleep inside.

Okay. Thanks.

Hey, hang on a minute. Is this *your* bed?

Um....Walter?

Do you really need to strip-search me? I mean I *am* cuffed to your headboard.

Oh.

Um...Walter. Not that I'm complaining, you understand, but don't you think this is going to make you feel bad when you shoot me tomorrow?

Sure I know it's Sunday tomorrow (if you say so). What the hell's that got to do with anything?

Oh. I see. Day of rest. No assassinations on Sundays. You gone religious on me or something?

Oh. It's just a weekend thing, huh? No shooting out of working hours. I see.

(I don't)

Okay.

Um...Walter? You're retired, aren't you? 

Yeah that's what I thought.

So...um...what exactly *are* your working hours?

Huh?

You're laughing, Walter.

Stop it. It's kind of scary. It's...um...kind of confusing actually.

Walter?

Stop smiling at me like that.

Like what? Like a cat with a fucking bowl of cream, that's what!

Walter?

Are you planning to keep me handcuffed to your bed forever?

Oh.

No.

No I don't have a problem with that idea, Walter. I don't have a problem at all.

Shit.

Goddamn it.

Who would have fucking believed it?

I think I just finally opened the Door to Summer.

The End

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