Ever After
by Te
11/98

Disclaimers: Anyone you recognize is most assuredly not
my own.

Spoilers: Not a one, really. 

Ratings Note: Strong R for language, disturbing content, 
and implied m/m relationships. Oh, and call this one an 
AU. 

Summary: Life after colonization.

Author's Note: I had this odd little scene in my head that 
I couldn't fit into any of my series or unfinished stories. 
Kass encouraged me to try to write it anyway, and this is 
what 
happened.

Acknowledgments: To my Sister Blue, because she makes all
possible endings happy. To Dawn Pares and Rye for 
splendiferous beta. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ever After
by Te
Daddy793@aol.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was nothing on this plain of simple autumn.

Sere wind and brown grass. Could have been just another 
fall were it not for the particular shade of the grass. It 
all suggested char, and there were no promises of rebirth 
here.

A wider view, after all, let a person take in a forest of 
dead trees. No comfort, little shelter. But Walter had made 
it enough.

New England, New World Order. 

He paused, looked up into a smoked sky. Felt out of place 
for a moment before he realized no birds would cry welcome 
or warning. Not anymore. Those species that had lived on 
the growing things were long gone. The carrion lovers 
would find better pickings in the cities for years to come.

//We all find the best way to survive.//

It was silent, and that wasn't right, but at the moment, 
there wasn't much he could do about that.

He continued on, avoiding the twigs more out of habit than 
anything else. They might have failed, but no one had ever 
found the base. Not this one, at least.

Just another dead tree reaching for the sky, but it wasn't. 
Not all of the Others had been enemies, and their allies 
had been free with certain technology before being 
annihilated in the Purge. A bootheel to one gnarled root -- 
sharp and quick -- and Walter was dropping down and down...
 
The chute was an alloy of titanium and some multi-syllabic 
compound whose name had never stuck in his mind.  Pendrell 
had been so excited about it, he remembered. Going on and 
on about products for the home, eyes bright with new 
information and fantasies.

Walter tried not to let himself remember the changes in 
that face when he'd told the man not to waste his time 
thinking about anything other than weapons.

Regret, ashes in old water and Walter kept sliding down and
down... The weapons hadn't made a difference, and Walter 
would give anything just to be able to go back in time and 
let the little man ramble for a while longer about ovens 
and lawnmower blades.
 
Hitting the pad at the end of the chute was a shock. In the 
beginning the slide had been a long dark slice of hell, a 
funhouse ride with no cotton candy in the air. The chute 
was small, and Walter had always been a large man. He 
looked at himself in the gentle ambient light of the foyer 
-- not an ounce of fat. The war had worn him down. Eaten 
away at the muscle he'd carefully added since coming home 
from that other war.

Perhaps if he found home again he'd

//You eat *all* those potatoes, son. We want you to be 
strong.//

go back to normal. The inevitable laughter at that thought 
had grown hoary enough to ignore.

He ran a hand over his head -- not even a fringe anymore, 
skin was easier to camouflage than hair ---

And he remembered Dana. Never Scully once it all started 
to go wrong, whippet thin and so angry. At herself, at 
Mulder, at the Others for being too real. She'd dyed her 
hair black but They got her anyway. Walter had heard an 
innocuous little "phut" and Dana had spun some thirty 
degrees. He remembered the brief snarl, the creep of black 
from under her suit that contrasted so neatly with pale, 
pale skin. Her hair had fanned slightly as she fell. 
Another damned processing plant in Utah and there had been 
nothing to do but blow the place.

No guilt for that -- Walter knew the "merchandise" would've
welcomed any sort of death at all -- but he didn't like to 
think of Dana as being just more of the mingled ash on 
the wind.

Walter stepped into the cramped pantry. Corned beef hash 
for him, broth for his new guest. He hoped the little 
greenhouse garden would survive this year. The supplements 
helped, but sometimes Walter was morbidly beset by images 
of ancient sailors...

It would've been better outside, but the risk was too 
great.

Into the kitchen and he cocked an ear at the sleeping area. 
Krycek was still asleep by the sound of it. Not that he had 
anything in particular to fear from the other man at this 
point, doped up and restrained to one of the jerry-rigged 
"hospital beds" they'd added after the first raid, but old 
habits died hard.

Krycek had been a mess when Walter had -- nearly 
literally -- stumbled across him on last night's scouting

//Come off it. You just needed the sky.//

mission. A shadow among an army of them, wasted, thin, 
and pounding on the hard pack of the ground.

"I know you're down there, goddamnit! Let me in please 
Christ let me--"

And he'd burst into tears, then, utterly oblivious to the 
man above him.

Walter had just stood there for long minutes, intrigued by 
the break in the silence. Unable to speak despite the 
questions welling up in the back of his throat. It had been 
a long time.

Finally, the implications of the other man's words had sunk 
in, and Walter had slung him over one shoulder in a 
fireman's carry. Bad enough the other man had known where 
to find this place; his screams -- however fascinating in 
their unfamiliarity -- were too much to risk.

The other man was out of it, still sobbing, occasionally 
punching weakly at Walter's spine. He'd hoped his body 
would muffle the sounds.

After he'd tossed him down the chute and twisted an ankle 
not landing on him, he'd dragged Krycek to the makeshift 
infirmary and taken a good look at walking death. It wasn't 
so much that the other man was in such bad shape -- all 
that impromptu field medic training from days long and not
so long ago only revealed exhaustion and some measure of
malnutrition -- but the eyes...

Wild and darker than he'd ever seen them. They'd had a 
history, and he knew all sorts of things about Krycek's 
eyes. Rage and fear, dark joy and lust. Just a few nights 
stretched over a few months but Walter had taken all he 
could from the other man. Shameless greed, because Walter 
had long since learned not to let chances go unexploited. 
But wherever Krycek was, it wasn't here. 

The harsh white light effected his pupils not at all, and 
Alex never stopped speaking. Shock, then. A sedative, and a 
little hope the man would be something like coherent when 
he woke again. 

So Walter could learn a few things before he killed him.

Back to the stove with the sharp scent of burning. He'd put 
the little saucepan on without actually adding the soup. 
Walter shook his head and wondered how much longer he'd 
actually make himself do this. A sick parody of a life, 
waking and sleeping in silence, walking through air thick 
and cool with ghosts...

Spender had to lose an eye before figuring out that he 
didn't want this new leadership. No fascist truly enjoys 
life under another, after all. Despite Walter's innate and 
unshakable desire to crush the little bastard under his 
heel, he'd made a good operative. Lots of good information 
before he'd gone silent, though the last message had only 
been "father, running."

And there was nowhere he could have run to, not from that 
deep inside the puppet administration. Walter prayed for 
him too, now, and hoped his words were just as worthless 
as any whispered over tombstones. 

He tossed the pan into the wash water, idly wondered if the 
thing could be melted down into anything useful. He decided 
not to bother with Krycek's soup until he'd stopped 
snoring.  The hash was just as greasy as it always was, but 
the walk had left him empty enough to appreciate the way it 
settled in his gut, warm and solid, and nutritional value 
be damned.

He thought of the last beer. Fifteenth raid and no 
casualties, for once. Spender had come through with the 
goods. Havson had taken point, as always. Deadly silent and 
quite mad. She would sing old Floyd songs to an odd little 
key ring, and never answer why. She would -- and had, this 
time -- occasionally snap guards' necks instead of just 
using the silenced 9 mm. Or the plam. Said it reminded her 
of who she was, though she never elaborated on that, 
either.

There had been a cheap bottle opener on the key ring, and,
after taking out a few middle-management types -- and 
enough researchers in pristine white to make Brian spend 
the whole night trying to beat the punching bag to death -- 
they'd used it on a case of Saranac Black & Tan Mulder had 
liberated from God only knew where...

//Only because they didn't have the Beast. Philistines, all 
of 'em.//

... and laughed and drank. Even in the darkness, it had 
almost been too bright to sleep.

Havson had died stupidly. Tried to snap a throat when she 
should've used the plam. They'd had to abort -- mission 
twenty-eight it was -- and another body was left behind. He 
thought of comrades long dead and prayed for forgiveness.
This wasn't their world anymore. 

Walter had hated to admit it to himself, but in those days 
it had been easier, somehow. The ones he knew had died 
with so-called first contact, whether or not they still 
fought at his side. The ones he didn't were just makeshift 
soldiers, and it had somehow fallen to him to lead them.

//You're the soldier here, Skinner. I know you'll listen to 
me when I tell you something, and that's all I need to 
know.//

At first, without even the dubious bond of testosterone and 
pain Parris island had provided... The casualties had been 
an issue of mathematics, and, in those days, it was easy to 
find new recruits. Each raid, each whisper found someone 
the Others hadn't. Yet. But that had dried up, too, and 
Walter's worst nightmares were silent.

Over time, they became a corps of sorts. They got better at 
what they did, even as the odds got worse. Living, 
sleeping, fighting together... And sometimes Walter would 
hear sounds in the darkness he could pretend were more hope 
than comfort. 

And when they died -- one by one until the last raid -- and 
there was neither time nor space to grieve, they had all 
started to understand Havson a little more. Sometimes 
Walter still wondered who the key chain had belonged to, 
and if he'd been kind. 

He looked down at his plate and tried to force the pattern 
of chilled potatoes and beef into some sort of sense. 
Walter understood the impulse to grasp order wherever it 
could be found, and at times like these he called the 
collaborators brothers. 

He didn't feel the tears until the collar of the brown on 
brown day uniform was damp, and by then he couldn't care.

******

Hand on his shoulder and Walter snapped awake, wincing 
at the neck cramps, knowing they wouldn't fade as quickly 
as they used to. Stupid to believe the restraints would 
hold Krycek once he woke. This place had never been meant 
for prisoners.  

"You're losing it, Skinner."

"You're stating the obvious, Krycek."

"Too fucking early for philosophy."

"It's..." a chanced movement to check his watch, "past two 
in the afternoon."

"There is no safety in daylight, old man."

"I'd imagine not, for you."

"Or you, Skinner. You're quite a famous man, these days."

"Why the fuck did you come here?"

The hand was gone and Krycek moved to one of the other 
chairs. Tapped the prosthesis lightly on the table. It 
ended in what looked like a socket to attach things to.

"If you're looking for your hook, I think you left it in 
Manhattan."

Krycek eyed him closely from across the table, but made no 
reaction to the dig about his former alliances, otherwise. 
Walter used the silence to examine the other man. Thinner, 
older. Patch of white in the back, streak of same over his 
right temple. Hair less cut than butchered into wild 
spikes.  The circles under his eyes were deep bruises, but 
the gaze itself was clear. 

"Why are you here?"

"You're repeating yourself. Where is everyone?"

"Not here."

Krycek snorted, flicked a look over the surroundings before 
slowing down for a more detailed examination. Walter knew 
it wouldn't take long to see the dust on all the coffee 
mugs, to test the quiet's heft. When he looked to Walter 
again, Krycek was serious.

"All of them?"

Walter nodded once, and for a moment it was as though a 
child had tossed a pebble into some stagnant pond. Just a 
ripple, and Walter felt something he couldn't quite name at
the sight. The return of placid was fast and complete, 
though.

"Well, that fucks everything up."

"You could say that, yes."

"Why are *you* still here?"

//Why am I still alive? What war am I fighting with no 
army, do you mean?//

Walter stood, retrieved another pan from the cabinet and 
put on the broth. "I ask myself that every day, Krycek. 
Something like an affirmation."

"I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darnit, if 
there *were* any people I'm sure they'd like me."

Twist of something inside and Walter was momentarily too 
stunned to strike out. The brief bark of laughter was 
filthy in its comfort and when he turned to look at Krycek 
he saw a mixture of release and self-hate that felt 
familiar enough to make him want to smile. He nodded toward 
the pot and spoke.

"There isn't any bread -- Garfield was the only real cook 
around here -- crackers OK?

"Ritz?"

"Saltines."

Brief flash of teeth. "I'll cope."

"How noble of you."

"His name was *Garfield*?"

"Yes, so of course we all called him Sparky."

A real laugh this time and Walter decided that when he 
killed this man he'd do himself the same favor. 

"I would've gone for Honeybear."

"Yes, well, you weren't there, now were you?"

Silence, and Walter wasn't sure whether he'd meant the jab 
or not. He left Krycek alone to get the crackers.

*****

A week or so of a richer silence. Walter would surprise 
himself by waking alive, do his tour of the grounds. Wonder 
idly if it was December yet. One day he'd seen a deer, but 
she'd been scrawny, fur patched with whatever sickness 
would eventually let her die. They'd watched each other 
over a sluggish stream before going their separate ways. 

He'd come in to see Krycek scowling over a bowl of powdered
eggs --

"Any dill?"

"No."

"Cumin?"

"No."

"Paprika?"

"Not for... months maybe? Not important. No paprika."

"Garfield was a suicide, wasn't he?"

-- or exercising in the makeshift gym, or touching Mulder's 
books. Not reading them, just stroking the spines and 
studiously ignoring Walter's presence behind him. In the 
old days they would carefully rip the dead ones' belongings 
to shreds in some brief time of calm, and burn what was 
flammable in the stove. Bairstow had told him it vented 
some fifteen miles to the north, deep in a cave. She'd 
invited him to see it --

//It's beautiful, sir...//

-- but there were always raids to be planned. Bairstow had 
died of apparent appendicitis a month after Dana was lost. 
She'd gone to bed laughing about clam sauce. After the last 
raid, Walter had tried to re-enact the ritual alone, but 
there had been too many things to cry over. 

Walter would eat his own breakfast and find a quiet corner 
to do his best to think of memories old enough to be 
toothless, or nothing at all.

******

Another month, perhaps two, and Walter had begun to dust 
and order things. Packed all the mugs away save for the one 
Krycek had taken to using -- Greer's. The other man had 
found a book about vegetable gardens among Mulder's 
possessions -- never opened -- and now saved his best 
curses for the little greenhouse, though food still 
received quite a few. 

One night they had tomatoes and pickles with their canned 
ham and potato flakes, and Walter realized he hadn't 
thought about Sharon in more than a year. The fresh fruit 
was too good for him to fall into the old rhythm of trying 
to decide whether he wished her dead or thriving, though, 
so he settled for a silent prayer. 

After dinner, Krycek washed the dishes without a word. Too 
slow and careful to give the appearance of awkwardness, 
truncated prosthesis holding dishes against the wall of the 
sink to avoid slips. Every other night, as it had been...

"Why did you come here, Krycek?"

"I was working with some people. Frohike was there... you 
knew him, right?" Krycek didn't turn from the sink. 

"Yes."

"It all... it all went to shit, Skinner. I was out doing 
some surveillance with him, and when we came back there was 
nothing but bodies. We were in the city, and we'd stayed in 
the same place too long. We got complacent."

Walter caught himself nodding at the other man's back, but
couldn't think of anything to say. He settled for a small 
grunt.

"I knew... I knew of this place. When it was all just 
starting up I could still keep in contact with Mulder every 
once in a while, and he told me. I ordered him not to, but 
he did any damned way."

"How long had you been his informant?"

"Before the Antarctica thing. We... we were--" Alex cut 
himself off with a shake and returned to the table, but 
didn't look at anything but his own hand. "Frohike and I 
ran, and this was the only place I could think to go. 
Frohike went to use the restroom at a gas station just 
outside Chatham, and when he wasn't out without five... 
When he wasn't out within five I waited five more. And then 
I couldn't anymore."

"So you came to tell us that D.C. has gone dark."

"Yeah. At least... yeah."

They sat there for a few minutes, and Walter waited.

"He didn't tell you about... about me being his informant?"

"I suppose he considered it worthless knowledge once the 
two of you lost contact."

"And useless knowledge to the strategist can kill the 
team."

Walter nodded once.

"So why am I still here?"

Walter laughed darkly. "I was just assuming you were 
waiting for me to like you so you could have your own 
affirmation."

Alex looked up with bright eyes, smiling wanly. "Do you 
remember every stupid joke?"

"I take what I can get, Krycek."

"Could we lose the last names, soldier-boy? No troops 
around to impress with our good example."

"Not if it means I get stuck with soldier-boy."

"Walter's all that much better?"

"I could just call you Betty from now on."

Alex fluttered his lashes, smoldered at him from under 
their curtain. "I didn't know you liked those games, big 
boy."

The falsetto was really too much and Walter let himself 
laugh, calming only when he saw the honest hunger in the 
other man's eyes. Easily mistakable as lust, but though he 
knew the man had to have been celibate for quite a while, 
he also knew it had probably been far longer since he'd 
made someone laugh without an edge. Krycek reached out to 
touch, his face and Walter caught his wrist, careful yet 
firm. The flesh under his palm was warm, sparse hair 
tickling. 

"What are you doing?"

"Christ, I just want to touch you. It's been... Fuck, let 
me go."

Walter complied and Alex wrenched his hand away. There was
no way for the other man to rub his wrist, and Walter felt 
regret for more than one reason. Krycek looked at his arm, 
shook his head, and then stared directly into Walter's 
eyes.

"So tell me how you did it, Walter. How you taught yourself
perfect, zen-like abstinence."

"I didn't."

"So my charms are simply powerless to move you?"

"We both know that's not true."

"So what is it?"

"Kry-- Alex. Alex, look, neither of us have probably... 
probably done anything like this in too damned long. When's 
the last time you actually touched someone you weren't 
searching or killing?"

"Exactly my point." The words were tight, bitten off.

"No, it's mine. I don't want to have sex with someone who 
doesn't want to have sex with me."

Krycek started to speak, but Walter caught his wrist again. 

"I know whose clothes you're wearing, I know who you came 
for, and I know who you think about when you jerk off in 
the shower. What's the gain for either of us for you to get 
fucked by a dead man wearing the wrong body?"

Krycek's mouth tightened, but he didn't bother to deny it. 
Walter pulled his hand away before the touch could burn 
anymore than it already had. 

"Alex, even if we just try to hold each other--"

He waved Walter off. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Shit. So we sleep 
alone."

A long pause, and Walter caught himself trying to pick out 
the rhythm Alex tapped on the table. He wondered when 
he'd grown so desperate as to seek order from this man.

"Walter."

And he was snapped out of himself again. "Yeah."

"How... how did he die?"

Walter scrubbed his face roughly with his hands, took a 
deep breath.

"It was the last raid. All of our contact networks had gone 
down, and it had been quiet. For weeks. Suddenly, Mulder 
got word that a weapons facility was going defunct. We 
always needed new weapons, and even the old ones... "

The thought was unnecessary and he let himself trail off. 
Walter knew the other man would let him take all the time
he needed.

"So Mulder got word. He told me the night before we moved 
out that he'd sat on it for a few days. It had been so 
quiet, and this contact hadn't sent a word in nearly two 
years. But this contact was Langly."

"Fuck, fuck, *fuck* --"

"You knew about him?"

"Frohike... Frohike wore turtlenecks all the time. I saw 
him coming out of the shower once..." Alex ran a hand 
around his own throat. "He told me Langly had garroted him, 
left him to die. No one knows where Byers is."

"Why didn't -- Oh."

"Right. And by the time Frohike figured out things were bad 
enough that protecting Mulder's feelings was worthless we'd 
lost contact. You know, he didn't tell me what had happened 
for weeks, ligature marks or no. It took him a while to 
trust me for some reason." Dark smile too brittle to last. 
"Christ, I should've--"

Krycek cut himself off with a humorless snort and Walter 
abruptly felt about ten years older. 

"Lambs to the slaughter."

Walter nodded.

"How did you get out?"

"I was pulling up the rear with Mulder and Bryson. We saw 
the shit go down and scattered. The first rendezvous point 
was too close to the zone to check, the second was 
deserted, I got back here--"

"And started to wait."

"What are you talking about?"

"You. You stage your little patrols, you eat, you work out, 
and you wait."

Walter felt himself growing angry. "I'm not waiting for 
anything."

"Close. You're waiting for nothing. Waiting to die. 
Everybody else is gone, why not you. Isn't that it?"

"And if it is?"

"Didn't you know, Walter? Death only comes 'round when you 
*don't* want it to. Like a damned relative looking for 
money."

"You have relatives?"

"No, asshole. I was the first documented case of 
spontaneous generation."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"Well, sex is clearly not happening and suicide pacts just 
aren't your style --" 

It was a ghost of the fast and glib little husk he 
remembered from other nights, and Walter couldn't allow it 
to continue. "People change."

"Come off it, Walter. You're only holding on to the self-
pity because you've gotten used to it."

"Then I'll ask you again. What, precisely, are you 
suggesting?"

Walter caught the other man's eye again and felt something 
start to burn. Krycek seemed to be holding back a widely 
predatory grin by sheer force of will, and his eyes were 
moonlight on black water. 

"One last ride, Walter. Kill until we're stopped. Sleep 
with a full moon blanket. Cordite and blood. I know you 
know what I'm talking about."

"Suicide."

"As suicides go, can you suggest a better way?"

Walter thought of years past, remembered listening to the 
music of his country change from thousands of miles away. 
Remembered not being able to blame the drugs when the 
belief took hold that the new, darker music was both 
blessing and sign.

"Have you changed so much that you'd honestly sit in your 
little mausoleum and wait until you got tired enough to 
die?"

He looked at Krycek, and when he smiled it was as good as a
dead Charlie.

"When do we leave?"

~~~~
End.
~~~~

Note: Definitely inspired by "Fatherland" and "In the Bleak
Midwinter." Sorry.