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! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 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. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 12th Jan 2002 Feedback