TITLE: BLUE BOYS, 1/5
AUTHOR: kateswan
EMAIL: kateswan@triton.net
RATING: PG-13, minor language
DISCLAIMER: Carter, Gilligan, Shiban, Spotnitz ... did you love them as
much as we do? So long, and thanks for all the characters.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: I don’t believe in delayed gratification. I want it, I
want it now ... Dedicated to all the Gunfen, you know who you are; and
to the programming poohbahs at Fox Broadcasting, this is for you and the
horses you rode in on. My take on what happens after the TO BE CONTINUED
whopper flashed across the screen following the final minutes of The
Lone Gunmen: All About Yves.
BLUE BOYS
Blue (boys) come in every size
Some are wise and some otherwise ...
For an hour a man may change
For an hour (his) face looks strange
RIPPLES: with apologies to Genesis for the gender modifications
“No matter how paranoid you are ... “
They’d had good teachers, they’d had good object lessons, they’d put in
the lab time. It would be logical to assume, Frohike thought, flexing
his wrists against the metal restraints that were holding his hands
behind his back, that when it came time for the midterm, they’d ace the bitch.
“They don’t seem to have the disc, sir.”
One of the soldier boys gave Yves’ a last, lingering grope, then backed
off. They’d all been examined as thoroughly as possible, short of a
strip search and unnatural consummation of the cavity-probe kind.
Frohike hoped they’d move the party before anything this intimate was
suggested.
He caught Byers’ eyes as one of Fletcher’s government goons gave him a
push. Byers made a slight gesture toward their bags.
“Hey, man. At least take our equipment with. You don’t need it, and
Langly’d like to be buried next to that laptop.” Frohike heard Langly’s
noisy gulp across the feet that separated them.
Morris Fletcher’s enormous, shit-eating smile stretched a centimeter
larger. He waved a hand at one of the soldiers. “Bring that junk along,
boys. I may not need to shoot you all now, but I’ll get a kick out of
watching them drive your rustbucket van over Langly’s precious laptop.
Let’s get ‘em out of here.”
They crowded into the elevator, propelled by professionally rough hands.
“Face first, against the wall.”
The suggestion was accompanied by another push. In his peripheral view
Frohike could see Byers, Langly and Yves beyond in similar positions,
their noses resting against the back of the elevator.
“I’m sorry, boys.” Yves’ voice sounded naked, vulnerable. “I never
wanted ...”
“You never wanted?” Morris interrupted with a laugh. “Nobody ever told
you that it wasn’t nice for little girls to steal things?”
“She’s been told.”
The nameless man who’d accompanied Fletcher into the vault was standing
behind Langly, and Frohike could just see the gloating look in his eyes
as he stared at Yves’ back. Frohike was sure that the man wasn’t a
government goon, but something else altogether. He carried himself with
an arrogance that seemed to indicate he might be in another branch of
the security profession. Probably a European branch. Mr. Smarm, Frohike
decided, would be a good working moniker.
“She’s seen firsthand what kind of retribution can be visited on a
thief,” Mr. Smarm said.
“You’re all murdering bastards. Bastards.” Yves said the words as if
passing sentence, revealing rage, hatred and hopelessness with the
epithet’s repetition.
“Who is he, Yves?” Frohike saw her spin stiffen, her shoulders square
up.
“He’s nothing.” The emotion was gone from her voice. She leaned her
cheek against the metal wall and closed her eyes.
Smarm laughed, a shallow, well-bred social ha-ha that made Frohike want
to grind the man’s face into the elevator floor.
“We’ll see who’s nothing, my dear.” The elevator opened. “You’ll want to
search them properly. I assume you have a location suitable for
interrogations?” Smarm followed Fletcher into the hallway.
“Sure.” Fletcher glanced back and winked. “I’ll bet you and the boys
enjoy those full body cavity searches, eh Melvin?”
“And I can take possession of the woman ...?”
“Patience, my lad.” Fletcher nodded at one of the soldiers. “Outside.
Move it.”
The trip out went much faster than the trip in. The fancy set up for
facial recognition was standing wide open, like the window dressing it was.
“They don’t have the disc,” Yves said. “It’s long gone. There’s nothing
you can do to get it back.”
“Nothing?” Fletcher started to laugh. “You mean I can just blow Melvin’s
brains all over the pavement, and that won’t get my disc back?”
“Think before you answer, Yves,” Frohike said. A soldier held the outer
entry door open, and they left the building for the night air.
“It’s been disposed of.” Yves shrugged. “Killing them isn’t going to get
it back for you.”
“We aren’t 100 percent sure of that yet,” Fletcher smiled, “and at the
very least, it would make me so freaking happy. It beats the heck out of
me why you even care what happens to these science fair rejects. Soldier
... turn them so I can see their faces.”
They were still inside the fence. Frohike could see the van down the
street, empty and dark. This was the hard part; he didn’t know if he had
feared more to see Jimmy waiting there, or to find him missing. Once
again some gorilla was pushing him around, holding him by the shoulders
to face Fletcher.
“Use stronger deodorant, buddy.” Frohike managed a credible sneer. “It’s
like the lady says, we don’t have your disc.”
“You’re not going to do this out in the open, surely?” Smarm looked
beyond at the street.
“Who’s going to care if these three disappear?” Fletcher paced in front
of them. He stopped when he got to Langly, and tapped his finger in the
middle of his lenses. “Doesn’t that just drive you nuts when someone
touches your glasses?”
“Stop. Stop,” Langly rolled his eyes, “I’ll tell you whatever you want
to know. Just please don’t throw me in that briar patch ...”
“Very funny.” Fletcher waved at the gate. “Open it. I’m taking them
somewhere more conducive to muffled screams and gunshots.”
“Your bedroom?” Frohike got in one last barb before he was wrenched into
the street with military aid.
“Good one, Melvin. Hey ... you,” Fletcher pulled a gun from under his
arm, and waved at one of the soldiers. “I’ve got this covered. You can
take off.”
“But our orders were to ...”
“Take your orders from me? Right?” Fletcher shook his head in an
exaggerated sign of affirmation. “Right, soldier?”
“Right. Sir. But there’s four of them, and two of you ... and you’re the
only one armed, sir.”
“Not to worry. Your relief is on its way ... and here it is!”
The smile was back in full glory, Frohike thought, watching the two
cat-suited figures materialize out of the darkness behind the van.
“Fletcher. Who are they?”
Smarm didn’t sound like a happy camper. But then, Frohike was willing to
bet the guy was more the safari type. He pushed against the handcuffs
again, contemplatively, wondering how anyone might find this kind of
restraint arousing. It was making him nuts; his nose itched. Maybe one
of those two MIB figures wearing the ski masks would be more
accommodating than the soldiers.
“Special forces. As you can see, they’re armed. I’ll be in touch when
I’ve got the disc back. Just give me the laptop.” Fletcher took the
machine and tucked it under one arm, then waved his fingers at them.
“Go, go. None of you are going to want to witness what we have to do now.”
“Yes, sir!” The soldier saluted sharply, turned on the ball of his foot
and left. The rest of the troops followed silently.
After a moment Frohike could hear, from farther down the street, the
noise of two engines turning over.
“If we cuddle, I think we can all fit in the van,” Fletcher said. “If I
remember correctly, the Guinness Book of World Records has them getting
over twice this many people into a Beetle ...” He nodded at the black
figures. One of them turned and walked down the alley. The other got
into the driver’s seat.
It was a tight, warm fit. Byers and Langly were pushed up against the
back wall, and he and Yves were the filling in the sandwich. A nasty
idea, Frohike thought with a small smile, watching as Smarm got in next
to the driver, and Fletcher sat down just behind them.
“Cozy.” Fletcher tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Go.”
“I’d like to get her somewhere safe tonight,” Smarm said. “I trust your
men are efficient interrogators.”
“I’ll let you make up your own mind about that,” Fletcher grinned,
leaned back and surveyed the interior of the van. “I can’t tell you how
happy I am right now.”
“Glad you are, you dick. My hands are gonna fall off, and I can’t breathe.”
“Don’t enjoy it too much,” Frohike warned, ignoring Langly’s muffled
complaint.
“Whatever you say, little guy.” Fletcher groped in his overcoat, and
brought out a small cylinder attached to a trigger. “Ever seen anything
like this, Smarm? They took it off Catwoman.”
“Of course.” Smarm sniffed. “Standard issue, compressed air, probably
contains what the lab boys call knockout juice.”
“Nifty.” Fletcher raised his eyebrows. “I wish we had more toys like
this. How long does it last?”
“An hour, maybe two ... depending on body weight. It’s a short-term
solution.” Smarm frowned. “It’s part of her stolen equipment. I’ll
return it.”
Fletcher turned the cylinder over and over, squinting at it. “Well, okay
then,” he said finally. “I guess if you want it ... “ He offered it,
casually, in his outstretched hand.
“Yes.” Smarm took the cylinder. His eyes went huge with surprise as it
hissed against his wrist. “Fletcher? What the ...”
“Nifty.”
Frohike watched the cylinder vanish back into Fletcher’s overcoat. “You
ought to be an actor, Walt.”
The replica of Morris Fletcher frowned and leaned toward him. “You’re
still wearing cuffs, Frohike, and you’re still exhibiting dangerous
behavior. I’ve told you not to call me Walt.”
“What’s going on?” Yves asked. “Frohike?”
For the first time Frohike heard fear in her voice, and it was the fear
of sudden hope.
“It’s okay, Yves. That isn’t Morris Fletcher ... it’s Walter Freaking
Skinner, of the FBI. And the guy in the driver’s seat ...” The ski mask
was coming off as he spoke. Frohike nodded, wishing he could give them
both a big thumb’s up. “Agent Doggett. Buds extraordinaire. Thanks,
guys! Mulder is driving the car behind us.”
“I don’t think being one of your buds is in my best interest,” Doggett grumbled.
“It might grow on you,” Skinner said. “I don’t know anything about your
taste in videos, but I’ve heard that Melvin here has a collection that
would bring tears to the eyes of ...”
“I watch sports, sir.” Doggett shook his head.
“So do I.” Skinner laughed. “Mulder tells me that when you’ve been
working a little longer on the X-Files, nothing gets you over an
encounter with a slimy egg-laying alien parasite like a couple of hours
watching the nude women’s basketball league.”
“Cut the bull and get these cuffs off me,” Langly yelled. “My right hand
has gone numb.”
“I don’t understand,” Yves said. “I thought you needed me ...”
“Needed you to walk in and offer your butt on a platter?” Frohike shook
his head. “I’m really sorry, Yves; this has been a two-way failure to
communicate. You’ve known me long enough to know you can trust me. I may
have misjudged you occasionally, but I would have listened to an explanation.”
“Knowing would have placed you in danger.”
He could hardly hear her voice. Frohike turned toward her; he held his
hands up and looked back over his shoulder. “Now would be a good time to
take these off, Mister Assistant Director.” He could feel Skinner
releasing the cuffs as he watched Yves’ face. “Sugar, we laugh at danger.”
“Speak for yourself,” Langly pushed past. “The cuffs ... now!”
“Yeah. He pisses himself at danger,” Doggett contributed, deadpan.
“Oh bite me,” Langly said, “and give me the laptop. We aren’t out of
this yet.”
“No. We’re not.” Frohike pushed up beside Skinner, reached over the seat
and began going through Smarm’s pockets. “I’d say we’ve made a good
start, though.” From the corner of his eye he saw Skinner itching at his
neck. “Don’t mess up the latex, Walt. We may still need Fletcher. We
don’t have Jimmy with us yet.”
“He should be back at your office. Safe.” Yves’ hands were free, and she
was rubbing her wrists. “I hit him with the knockout atomizer and told
Kimmy to take him home.”
“Clever woman.” Frohike was surprised by the relief he felt. Jimmy had,
somehow, grown on him in the last few weeks. He’d felt like shit
misleading and ignoring the kid, but all things considered it would
probably end up being a valuable lesson for Jimmy. It had been for them.
Always go with your gut feeling, Frohike thought. “Let’s hope Kimmy did
what you told him.”
“If he didn’t -- I’ll find him,” Yves said. “When are you going to
explain all this?”
“Soon.” Frohike leafed through Smarm’s wallet, finding nothing, thinking
hard. “A few precautions, a different locale, and we’ll have a chat.”