Disclaimers, et al: The folks herein belong to Chris Carter and 1013.
This story was originally written for the Fifth X-Files Lyric Wheel; unthemed, this one. Thanks to Leonora for the lyrics and Pollyanna for the poem, both of which can be found at the end of the story.
Rated: G, because I think for once there's nothing much disturbing in this at all. *g* -- tarsh.
He slides in silent habit across the room, the book a numb weight in his hand. The desk is scarred wood and metal filigree, opening soundlessly beneath his touch, and he's flicked through most of the papers inside the hidden drawer before he remembers that this time he's not here to spy or to take, but to leave. A moment of chagrinned confusion, and then, shrugging, he pages deliberately through the last few papers. Bills, memos, forms--and a report he's damned sure should never have left the hallowed halls of the FBI. He wonders idly if it's accident or rebellion that finds it here, to be picked up and perused by the likes of him.
But that's not why he's here, either. He drops the book into the drawer, the bundle of papers tossed carelessly on top, and slides the compartment closed again, listening for the almost noiseless 'click' to tell him when it's locked. Running his hands over the desktop, he can't find the joins of the drawer at all; well-made, this desk. If you didn't know where to look you'd never suspect the drawer existed, never mind find it; and if you didn't know how to open it, you'd need a lot of time and at minimum a very sharp axe to get inside it. It's a pity, really, that so many things these days were mass-produced. And blueprints so easy to find. In the original, it'd probably been a damned good hiding place.
Done. Time to leave, in and gone like a ghost, one tidy little bombshell in place and vamoose. Except--
He does need a place to crash tonight. And empty as it is, this room is inviting.
Best of all, no one will think to look for him here.
He turns back from the window, surveys the room. Skinner's in, of all places, Iowa. Even if he hops the next plane out, it'll take him well over over seven hours to get home, and he's not actually due back for another three days. This place isn't on the old men's schedule of break-ins, not in the next two weeks, at least. He'd triple-checked that, and again right before coming here. The rebels had no imminent plans on it, either. That didn't count spot checks by either of the last two agencies, but--well, face it. Any place at all was liable to turn up on one of their spot checks. Here's no less safe than anywhere else, in that regard. The ex-wife hasn't been by in six months; no reason for her to show up now. Mulder and Scully in Atlanta, chasing fairies. And nobody else comes here at all.
He hovers on the edge of decision for a moment, and then, with a mental shrug, leaps. Why the hell not? He does need somewhere to sleep. There's a certain delicious... irony, somehow, to sleeping in Skinner's bed, now. Drinking his coffee. Eating his food. Reading his books.
And caution has never been his strong suit.
He's forgotten the dreams. Not until he wakes, hard and hurting in the night, does he remember. And there's a certain irony to this, too, that has his breath huffing in surprised laughter through the momentary pain, the phantom echoes of what isn't, and never can be. Fall on real life, he thinks, and hauls himself to his feet. No time like the present, and there never were any possibilities to wonder over, anyway.
He runs through a mental checklist as he smoothes the sheets behind him. Everything off that was off, on that was on, cleaned that was clean and very carefully dirty, what wasn't. Nothing missing bar a packet of soup he's willing to bet Skinner had never really known he had, and a few slices of bread. Two spoons of coffee--and surely nobody is anal enough to notice that. Except maybe those geek friends of Mulder's.
Nothing left, except what he's come here to leave. No trace, at all, of him. As ever.
Mission accomplished. Skinner will find the book, if he stays in pattern, about three weeks from now. In time to act on the information it contains, but too far hence for Alex's own erstwhile masters to know who left it there. It's a fine tightrope he walks, that of betrayal and counter-betrayal and the future existence of the human race. A fine tightrope, and a strange beat, but what the hell? He's always wanted to be in a circus. And if this isn't a circus, nursing this ghost of chance, then he doesn't know what is.
It hadn't started out this way. He hadn't started out this way. He'd started... in jeans and sneakers, he thought, easing the door shut behind him, a smile creeping stealthy over his face and taking his eyes by surprise. On a rope, tied between a tree and a chair, tumbling to lie breathless and laughing on the grass as the stability of the chair proved unequal to his weight before he ever had a chance to fall off the rope. Eight years old, and irrepressible.
Somewhere along the way, he'd been pressed.
But he'd learnt to walk the tightrope, too.
Black
& White People Matchbox Twenty |
|
| One
more day down Everybody has those days Where one soft sweet song's Just enough to clear my head Fall on real life Is anybody left there sane? If we slide on over and accept fate Then it's bound to be a powerful thing If it's just that you're weak Can we talk about it It's gettin' so damn creepy Just nursing this ghost of chance The fiction, the romance And the Technicolour dreams Of black and white people One boy headstrong Thinks that living here's just plain He's pushed down so hard You can hear him start to sink And it's one last round of petty conversation You hold on boy 'cause You won't go down like this? Just roll over Lay down 'til it's more than you can take |
If
it's just that you're weak Can we talk about it It's gettin' so damn creepy Just nursing this ghost of chance The fiction, the romance And the Technicolour dreams Of black and white people So one more day down And everybody's changin' One soft sweet sound Is just enough to clear my head If it's just that you're weak Can we talk about it It's gettin' so damn creepy Just nursing this ghost of chance The fiction, the romance And the Technicolour dreams Of black and white people Yeah if you're weak Can we talk about it It's gettin' so damn creepy Just nursing this ghost of chance The fiction, the romance And the Technicolour dreams Of black andwhite people We are black and white people We are black and white people We are black and white people... |
THE POEM:
( This is from a collection called 'Voices of War' by people
who were in the armed services during WWII)
The Meadow
Michael Armstrong (Army 1942-1947)
Reaching for a book I am reminded--
a spark illuminates a picture.
A meadow like a summer frock,
the sky a blue saucer,
the wind my mother's hand
and the sun
sketching lines of grass
on my outstretched arm.
An arm that gained full strength in Italy,
killed ruthlessly
beneath the shadow of an olive branch.
Now it reaches for a book
and I wonder about the meadow
and what went wrong.
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