Inspired by a discussion with Xanthe about why it always seems to be
*Skinner* that falls in love and turns full-time nursemaid. I have read
and enjoyed those stories as well, so just consider this a gentle
evening of the score - no specific fanfic authors were referenced in the
writing of this fic!

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Screen Justice

It was a dark and stormy night. Thunder flashed and lightning roared, or
something. Inside, the lights were on, and Krycek was deeply engrossed
in a rerun of America's Funniest Home Videos. Stretching his prosthetic
arm along the top edge of the plush leather sofa, he took another sip of
beer and laughed heartily as a dog chased a duck headlong into a
wire-mesh fence. It was classic moments of comedy such as those that
made the program one of his favourites. Everyone needed to relax
sometimes, and after the incredible stresses of his job, he figured he
was as entitled to it as anyone.

Predictably, the doorbell rang. Krycek frowned. On screen, the pretty
brunette announcer was just about to announce the winner of the night's
show. Krycek was almost certain it was going to be the one where the
construction worker had accidentally fallen into the foundation pit of a
building site. The split-second look of panic on the man's face had been
hilarious. Reluctantly, he headed to the door, pausing in the doorway of
the room in hopes of catching the last of the nominees. The doorbell
rang again, and he quickened his steps.

"All right, already," he called, putting his eye to the peephole. He
felt confident his caller would be no-one he knew, but it would never do
to be careless. Losing an arm gave you a certain increased caution
towards life.

The visitor stood bedraggled on the front porch, looking pale and drawn
in the fierce glow of the porch light. A short fringe of silky, yet
greying hair was matted to his head, while his bald skull glistened with
rain, and his elegant glasses had misted over. He was steadying himself
with one hand against the doorframe, and appeared to be struggling to
breathe. Despite his desperate condition, it was apparent that in better
circumstances he would have been a magnificent specimen of a man. Krycek
sighed and threw open the door.

"Do you mind?" he said. "I was in the middle of something." Skinner
mumbled something too low to hear and fell through the open door,
landing half in and half out of the house. Outside, rain pooled around
his ankles. Krycek clucked his tongue in exasperation and bent down to
drag him the rest of the way in, trying to remember whether his carpet
was Scotchguarded. Then he shut the door and ran back to the living
room, but it was too late. Credits scrolled up the screen. "Damn," he
said. Vaguely, he wondered if there were anyone he could ring to find
out who had won, before reluctantly turning his attention back to his
unwelcome guest.

He ventured a few sharp jibes at the prostrate form, to which Skinner
was characteristically silent. Too late, he discovered the bullet wound
only when enough blood had seeped out through the black overcoat to pool
on his ivory carpet. He knew from experience that the stain would never
come out completely, not even with steam cleaning. Still, he put aside
his irritation long enough to open up the trenchcoat, undo the
once-white shirt, find the wound in Skinner's side and apply the
pressure of his good hand. Skinner was trembling and feverish, and the
pulse beat of his blood against Krycek's palm was unnaturally fast. "Why
are you here?" Krycek asked, speaking more to his hallway than to
Skinner. "Of all the people you know, all the places you could be, why
do you have to come *here* and bleed on my carpet?"

Skinner's eyelids flickered, and Krycek thought he might be trying to
speak. He bent his head towards Skinner's, keeping pressure on the wound
all the while, and strained to make out what Skinner was saying. All he
could make out was a single, strained word, which sounded something
like, "pretext".

***

Two hours later, Krycek slumped in front of the TV again, exhausted. He
reached for another beer on the side table, but then changed his mind
and went into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. It was going to be a
long night.

First, he'd had to wait for the bleeding to stop. That had taken a
while, since of course it was a fairly serious, though not immediately
life-threatening wound, and Skinner had obviously been too weak and
exhausted to apply the pressure required to stem the flow of blood. Then
he'd debated whether to drag Skinner up the stairs fully clothed - damn
the location of the guest bedroom! - or to strip him in the hallway and
get him into some dry clothes first. Finally, his natural desire to look
at Skinner's body, despite its weakened state, prevailed, and he ran
upstairs to find some of the clothes from his 'fat' period, which he
thought would do nicely.

Even with the mechanical aid of his prosthetic arm, it was no easy task
to strip an unconscious man. And he had to be careful of reopening the
wound. Slowly, and with much gentle pushing and tugging, Krycek managed
to dress Skinner in dry clothes. He was mildly surprised to find that
Skinner wore nothing beneath his well-cut woollen pants, but was in no
way disappointed with the view. He pondered for a brief moment before
deciding on boxers. When it was finally done he stood back and surveyed
his handiwork. His old clothes hung on Skinner's frame, making Skinner
look remarkably small and fragile, his bones delicate as twigs. Krycek
drew his breath in sharply at the realisation, and once again thanked
God for Weight Watchers.

Then it was time to carry him upstairs. Again, Skinner would be of no
assistance in the matter, which meant that he had to somehow manoeuvre
Skinner either into his arms or across his shoulders, and to hell with
any pre-existing back injury he might have which the man's weight would
exacerbate. He began to wonder why on earth he was instinctively looking
after the man at all, much less practically inviting him to stay a
spell. It wasn't as if they were friends or anything. Friends don't beat
up friends, friends don't have friends shot, and friends *especially*
don't infect friends with deadly nanocytes which can kill at the press
of a button. And that was just from Skinner's perspective. But
privately, he didn't think friends punched each other in the gut or
chained each other to the balcony overnight either. So there had to be
another reason.

Just as he was pondering the question, Skinner's eyelids fluttered open
for a moment. The deep brown eyes were immensely sad, and filled with
pain that went deeper than any injury. Their gaze pierced him to the
soul, and in that instant Krycek finally realised his true feelings for
Skinner. Knew from that single glance that despite his surface show of
irritation he would do anything, suffer any inconvenience for this
beautiful man. He should have realised it so much earlier. All those
harsh words and blows and counter-blows had merely been a veiled
courtship through which he could finally recognise the shape of his
love. Only now, when Skinner had been injured through a situation *not*
of his personal making did he realise how much it had meant to him to
have his finger on the trigger. Truly, Fate had brought this opportunity
into his life.

Which was all very well, but as Krycek gritted his teeth to haul
Skinner's limp body upstairs, he couldn't help wishing that Fate would
have a little more concern for his back.

It wasn't just all the carrying that had worn Krycek out. Before Skinner
could be put to bed, the wound had to be dressed, which required several
trips to the medicine cabinet for tweezers, ointment, antibiotics,
scissors, sterile pads and bandages. Thankfully, Krycek was well
experienced in the art of impromptu bullet removal with one hand. And
after that, when it was all done, and he had drawn back the top sheet of
the bed and attempted to muscle Skinner under it, the man had summarily
thrown up. All over the bed. Although this only increased Skinner's
weakened state and hence made him even more endearing, changing the
sheets was a slow and messy process. Krycek sincerely hoped he hadn't
flicked any of the vomit onto the walls. Then there was cleaning up
Skinner, changing his T-shirt again (thank goodness he had kept so many
of his old clothes) and repeating the process of putting him to bed.
Finally, when Krycek had tucked in the top sheet and adjusted the
pillows under Skinner's head, he had allowed himself to stand there just
a little longer before switching off the light.

It was a sight to melt the coldest killer's heart. Skinner's features,
normally so stern and composed, looked lost and uncertain in sleep.
Krycek had removed his glasses, putting them carefully on the side
table, and without them Skinner's face looked infinitely vulnerable.
Dark shadows pooled under his eyes, giving him a haggard cast, and
despite the covering sheet Krycek was sure that he hadn't been eating
properly, either. Luckily, Krycek was an excellent cook and was
accustomed to whipping up three gourmet meals a day in addition to his
professional duties. He would have Skinner back on his feet in no time.

***

The coffee was finally done. Krycek poured himself a large mug, teamed
it with milk and sugar, and sat back down in front of the TV. Idly, he
flicked channels, settling eventually on Letterman. Even though at this
hour he would ordinarily be in bed, the thought of the helpless man
upstairs kept him determinedly awake. Who knew what nameless enemies
might be after Skinner? Despite his increasing fatigue, he knew he had
to stay alert, to protect Skinner from danger.

He sat and watched Letterman bounce around the screen, throwing out
witticisms, but was unable to find any humor in it, not even the Top Ten
Lessons Learned From the Presidential Election. After all, he hadn't
voted. All he could think about was Skinner, alone and injured in his
guest room. Maybe he should check on him. Next commercial break, he would.

Then the scream came, bloodcurdling in its intensity. Before his brain
could fully process the sound, his body was already taking the stairs
two at a time, hurling itself into Skinner's room, switching on the light.

Skinner was sitting up in bed, shaking. Even in his distressed state
Krycek couldn't help but notice how deep and beautiful his eyes were,
and how strong and masculine his hands looked as they clutched the
bedsheets. Quickly, he moved to sit on the bed and enfold Skinner's
trembling body in his arms, prosthetic and real.

"It's all right Walter... I'm here... everything's OK," he said
soothingly. Strangely, Walter was not instantly comforted by his
presence but at first seemed to shrink from him. He realised that
Skinner had not yet realised fully how he, Krycek, really felt about
him. "I know... I know we've had our differences," he murmured, rocking
Skinner back and forth, "...but that's all in the past now. You've
killed me, I've killed you, but what does it matter? What matters is
getting you all better. You can rest now, Walter. I'll look after you."

Gradually his gentle words got through to the big man, and he felt
Skinner's body relax into his arms. Then, to his horror, he felt
dampness trickling onto his cheek where it rested against Skinner's. For
no readily apparent reason, Skinner was crying! "What is it, love?"
Krycek asked, marvelling that Skinner's blunt features could look so
strong and noble even as he was weeping.

"It's... it's nothing," Skinner whispered. "Only... my dog... Bella..."

"What about her, Walter?"

"She was... she was run over when I was eight years old, and I've never
been able to cry about it. Not until now."

"Oh, my poor baby," Krycek crooned, almost moved to tears himself at
Skinner's plight. "It's OK. You can move in with me, and we'll buy
another dog. A big labrador. How about that?"

Skinner nodded shyly, his eyelashes glistening with tears, and Krycek
knew in that moment that he would be prepared to sacrifice all his
principles for this man. He would get a proper job, discard his leather
jacket and jeans for a three-piece suit, and never again kill another
soul unless they really deserved it.

"I love you, Walter," he blurted suddenly. Skinner looked startled, and
began to stammer something, but Krycek held up a hand before he could
begin. "No, it's all right. I know you can't possibly love me, after all
the evil things I've done. But maybe you could give me a second chance.
I'll prove myself to you. Will you let me do that?"

Again Skinner nodded, and leaned his head gently against Krycek's
shoulder. Skinner smelled like sweet musk and cinnamon, and to his
embarrassment Krycek found himself getting hard. He shifted
uncomfortably, and looked away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I think I'll go downstairs now. Letterman," he
said stupidly.

But Skinner was smiling, and the sight made Krycek's heart pound and the
blood rush from his head made him a little dizzy.

"I'm sorry - what?" he asked.

"I said it's all right, Alex. I... I could use a little help sleeping
anyway." Skinner reached out his arms, but Krycek pushed them away.

"No - you'll just open your wound and get blood on everything and then
I'll have to change the sheets again," Krycek said. "You just lie back
and let me do all the work." Skinner protested, but Krycek was adamant.

As he lowered his mouth to Skinner's cock, he thought again how lucky he
was that someone as steadfast, loyal and honorable as Skinner was
letting someone as deeply flawed as Alex Krycek into his life. As
Skinner groaned beneath his ministrations, he wished that he could tell
Skinner how incredibly beautiful he was, lost in the uninhibited
movements of his own pleasure. And as Skinner came, noisily, Krycek
swallowed, once, and vowed to devote the rest of his life to him.

***

He put his career on hold immediately, of course. For the next few weeks
there would be no more thefts, no assassinations, no skulking around
dark alleyways - the Consortium cronies huffed and sworre, but as Krycek
pointed out, he'd had no holidays for years, and some leave was
certainly due.

That settled, he was free to spend his days looking after his beloved
Walter. First, there was the endless housework. Everything had to be
clean and neat for Walter to live in, so he spent time every day
scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom. Then there was the dressing on
Walter's wound, which needed to be changed at least three times a day to
prevent infection. Then Walter himself, who although reasonably mobile,
still needed assistance in getting dressed, showering and moving around.
Add to that shopping, cooking and washing up of three substantial meals
a day (to build up Walter's depleted strength) and his nightly efforts
to soothe Walter's disturbed sleep (and the associated additional
laundry requirements), and Krycek was tireder than he had ever been in
his life. Not that he was complaining though. He took pleasure in his
exhaustion, knowing that every fetched glass of water, every inch of
floor mopped, was helping Walter on the road to recovery.

As he had hoped, they got to know each other much better during Walter's
convalescence. Or at least, he got to know Walter. He listened,
fascinated, to Walter's tales of life in the Marine Corps, of his short
stint as a practising lawyer, his marriage, and his early days in the
FBI. Sometimes, late at night, Walter would share stories of his
childhood, even of his old dog Bella, whom he still missed so deeply.
Occasionally Krycek felt tempted to tell a story or two of his own. He
thought he had had quite an interesting life, what with the growing up
in Russia, the death of his parents, joining the Consortium, losing an
arm, that kind of thing. But he loved to hear Walter talk, and when
Walter told his wonderful stories Krycek realised that anything to do
with his own past was irrelevant, after all. Walter was all that mattered.

Now that Walter was in his life, all the other questions just went away.
For example, the ones about why he was living in this luxurious
two-storey house, or how exactly Walter had managed to find it in the
pouring rain despite being seriously injured and never having been given
the address. Or indeed, how an operative with such poor security
measures had managed to stay alive so long. Not to mention who had shot
Walter in the first place and why. All the answers he might ever have
needed were entirely contained in Walter's firm, sensuous lips and his
broad furry chest.

After a few weeks, Walter was quite well again, and almost able to
return to work. Krycek still hovered over every step he took, every
mouthful he ate, as though a moment's inattention would destroy all his
good work. Walter had never quite been able to find the words to thank
him, or expressed how much he appreciated Krycek taking him in on that
dark night, but every morning Krycek looked into his broad, beautiful
face and was content. And one night, when he finally allowed Walter to
return his affections, it was one of the most memorable moments in his
entire life, even though Walter was relatively inexperienced. Just to
feel that incredible body yielding to his gentle touch was purest bliss.

There was only one small flaw in his otherwise complete happiness.
Walter hated television. Hated the reality shows, the soap operas, the
documentaries. At first it expressed itself as a mild dislike, then as a
loathing that bordered almost on phobia. Soon, for the sake of Walter's
mental health, Krycek was no longer even able to have the television on
while Walter was in the room. It was Walter or his beloved programs. And
what choice, really, was there?

As Krycek spent more and more nights talking with Walter, entertaining
him, distracting his attention from the pain of his wound and his
long-buried dog, the shows he was able to watch at night dwindled
alarmingly. Then as Walter began to feel better there were the
excursions to the park, the romantic strolls along the beach, taking up
much of the day as well. Not that he begrudged Walter an instant of his
time, but it was a little unsettling, as though his innermost self were
being slowly eaten away by some mysterious force. Very soon, the only
show Krycek could squeeze into his day was Oprah. But Walter even
disapproved of Oprah. This last flummoxed Krycek. What sensitive person
could truly hate Oprah Winfrey? Even at the height of his Consortium
duties, he had always found time for Oprah.

"I'm sorry, Alex," Walter finally said one day, while Oprah was
extolling the virtues of a new moisturising cream Never Before Available
to the Public. Krycek was stricken by Walter's unexpected appearance in
the doorway, his gaze flickering uncertainly between the screen and
Walter's strong, yet sensitive features. Walter went on: "You know how
much television upsets me. Poor Bella always used to bark constantly
when the set was on. I love you, but I just can't live with the constant
reminder..."

For the first time in those wonderful weeks, Krycek panicked. Blood
pounded in his ears, and he could barely register the testimonials of
the woman who Had Tried Everything, Yet for whom Nothing had Worked.

"But it's all I have left," Krycek wailed. "I mean, I know I have you,
and that's the only thing that matters, but it's the last fragment of my
identity I have left now!"

Instantly Walter's beautiful brown eyes filled with tears and Krycek
immediately felt like the selfish bastard he was.

"All right," he said, reaching out and taking Walter's hand in his. "No
more TV." Slowly, he reached out with his prosthetic, bravely ignoring
the amazing Before and After photos, and hit the 'off' switch, perhaps
for the last time. Then Walter flashed him one of the brilliant smiles
he had grown to love, and he knew he had made the right decision.
Without television there would be nothing to do but work and look after
Walter for ever and ever and ever. Krycek smiled.

"So, sweetheart, what would you like for dinner?" he said.

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12th Jan 2002

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