TITLE: BLUE BOYS, 2/5
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.
A spiky-haired cherub was sleeping on the couch; Kimmy was nowhere to be found.
They moved through the offices like quick, silent burglars, ascertaining
that Jimmy was the only body in the place. Frohike had cautioned them
before going in not to talk. Everything looked untouched, but they
lacked the time for a thorough sweep. He wanted them in and out in
minutes.
Jimmy retrieval went smoothly. Mulder grabbed one end, Doggett the
other, and between them carried him up the stairs into the alley.
“Come on.” Frohike saw Yves stare at the van as Byers and Langly walked
away from it, carrying Smarm in the same fashion. “We don’t have time to
make sure it’s completely clean.” He hurried to keep up with Mulder and
Doggett. “You made sure your cars ... ?”
“Skinner made me go over them three times,” Doggett complained. “I
suspect he’s grooming himself for Kirsch’s job. He’s a natural supervisor.”
“Been there. Done that,” The mask of Fletcher’s face once again beamed
at Frohike. “Have you noticed -- Doggett is uncannily observant for a
field agent.”
“I’ve noticed. Where’s Fletcher?”
“He’s in Skinner’s trunk.” Mulder waved the keys in the air. “I’m driving.”
“How far do we have to carry this stiff?” Langly yelled. “Mulder?”
“Another block.”
The cars were waiting, parked next to each other on a dark stretch of
street. While Skinner helped Byers cram Smarm into Doggett’s back seat,
Frohike and Mulder slid Jimmy into Skinner’s car.
“Langly -- front seat. Yves, in the back. I’m riding with Mulder,”
Frohike shouted to Byers. “After you,” he said, motioning Yves into the
center, next to Jimmy. He wasn’t going to risk having her try a crazy
bail on them once they got on the road. She’d been thinking furiously,
Frohike could see the signs; it scared him a little. Women who thought
that hard were apt to produce work-intensive, uncomfortable “to do”
lists, and he had enough on his own list without additions from Yves.
“When you talk to us, it’s going to be the truth, and nothing but the
truth,” Frohike said as he sat down next to her. “It’s going to take a
combined effort to wrap this mother up clean and tidy, no sword of
Damocles left in our lives. If you aren’t up for that ... too freaking
bad. Get up for it.”
She didn’t answer, but he heard her take a deep breath, and from the
corner of his eye Frohike saw her touch Jimmy’s knee.
Frohike relaxed against the seat as Mulder fiddled with the radio and
fought with Langly over choice of a station. It had been obvious for
some time that Jimmy had a crush on Yves. This was the first indication
Frohike had seen that the feeling might be reciprocated. The idea was,
on first inspection, ludicrous. On second inspection, taking into
account that most of what Yves had shown them of herself was an invented
character, the idea was still ludicrous. But ... men and women, birds
and bees, yin and yang ... Jimmy and Yves ... Frohike tried the pair out
in his imagination, and found he could make a case either way. Mother
Nature was a stand-up comedian, after all, and those two would provide
rich material for years of routines.
“Are we there yet?” Langly was sulking because Mulder had won the battle
of the radio.
“Not long now,” Mulder said, grinning at Frohike in the rear view
mirror. “He doesn’t like Phil Collins? Go figure ...” He turned up the
volume, and sang along.
If singing is what you’d call Mulder’s kind of Rex Harrison style,
Frohike thought with reluctant affection.
“The face that launched a thousand ships, is sinking fast ... that
happens you know ...”
His own face was itching fiercely. Frohike rubbed at the stiffened
paint. It was time for them all to come clean.
The FBI safehouse that Skinner had selected seemed to be just that. It
had an exterior alarm system that would be adequate for the short time
they needed to be there. At least, Frohike hoped that was the way it
would go down. He wanted to be back in his own bed before morning.
Mulder and Doggett stood guard as Skinner fished Fletcher out of the
trunk, threw him over his shoulder and led the parade into the house.
Yves helped Frohike get Jimmy out of the car and up the walk. It was a
struggle, the kid was heavier than he looked. Byers and Langly brought
up the rear with Smarm.
Once inside, Skinner made a beeline for stairway. “Check and secure the
perimeter, civilian,” Skinner yelled over his shoulder at Mulder. “And
don’t let any of them mutilate the screens.”
Frohike saw Doggett nod and disappear toward the interior; Mulder
thumbed his nose and went in the opposite direction. He and Yves let
Jimmy ease to the floor and rest against the staircase.
“I really need a shower,” Langly whined, two steps behind them. He had
his hands under Smarm’s shoulders, and began inching up the stairs with
his back against the wall. “How come we get stuck with Mr. Deadweight?”
“Will you quit complaining?” Byers sounded irritated. He had hold of
Smarm under the knees. “I’ve been kneed in the chest twice.”
“Why don’t you both take an arm and Pooh Bear him up the stairs?”
Frohike asked, laughing at them. “He won’t feel anything.”
“I think you need to put them down for the night,” Yves broke the
silence she’d maintained in the car. “They’re cranky.”
“I’m glad you’re getting your spunk back,” Frohike said as they rounded
the landing. “You’re going to need it. My, my. Doesn’t he look ...
natural. Good work, sir. Can you go get Jimmy? You did such a nice job
with Fletcher.”
Skinner snorted, and headed back downstairs.
Morris Fletcher glared at them from the bed. He had been stripped down
to his boxers, and was double cuffed to the headboard. His mouth was
covered with duct tape.
“That’s really gonna hurt when they pull it off, man.” Langly finally
found something cheerful to say. He let go of Smarm and stepped away
from the body.
“Don’t leave him in the doorway.” Byers struggled to pull the man
further into the room.
Yves was right, Frohike thought. They were tired and irritable, and the
night wasn’t close to over.
“Don’t leave bodies in the middle of the floor.” Skinner returned with
Jimmy over his shoulder. He followed his own advice and placed Jimmy
close to the wall by the door. Yves sat on the floor next to him.
Fletcher struggled as Skinner dragged Smarm to the floor near the right
side of the bed. His throat was working, making muffled noises. His eyes
looked crazy with anger.
Frohike bent over him, grabbed a corner of the duct tape and gave it a
deliberate tug, smiling at the sound of ripping adhesive and skin.
“OOOWWW! You sons of bitches!” Fletcher’s eyes squeezed shut, and a tear
dribbled down from one eye.
“You’d think his skin would be thicker,” Byers said, sitting on a nearby
footstool.
“You’re dead. All of you.” Fletcher pulled against the cuffs and tried
to kick Frohike.
“Naughty, naughty.” Frohike stepped back out of range. “You have to
remember not to telegraph your moves, Morris. Something else you need to
commit to memory: Your enemy’s greatest weakness is your greatest strength.”
“Who said that?” Byers asked. “Machiavelli?”
“I did,” Frohike said, raising an eyebrow at Fletcher.
“Well if you’re done with the tour of the candy factory, why don’t you
take Violet Beauregarde and the other Oompa Loompa and grab a shower,”
Skinner said, hacking up the voice modifier and pulling away the latex
mask. “God, that feels better. There’s a shower in there,” he pointed to
a nearby door, “and one downstairs.”
“Dibs!” Frohike made it to the door of the upstairs bathroom first. He
ignored Langly’s shrill complaints and the thumping on the stairs that
sounded very much like Christopher Robin had just exited. He locked the
door and began to strip.
The blue paint came off quickly, running in rivulets down his legs and
into the drain with cartoonish swirls. Frohike let the hot water beat
against his face and soaped until the water ran clear. He’d had all the
time he needed to think. He was ready for a conversation with Yves, and
more than anything he wanted to get it over with. Some of her answers
might make a difference in what they’d have to do with Smarm and
Fletcher.
He dried off and dressed quickly. The vanity mirror showed he needed a
shave, and his skin might have the slightest hint of blue ... but that
could be his imagination. Frohike made a face at himself, took a deep
breath, and opened the bathroom door.
Skinner had removed Fletcher’s overcoat and suit jacket, replaced
contacts with his usual wire rims, and was lounging in a recliner,
keeping watch over the bedroom. Mulder sat on the bed next to Fletcher,
and seemed to be absorbed in what Fletcher was babbling. From her spot
near Jimmy, Yves stared into space, her expression one of patient
resignation. A few feet away from her, Doggett leaned against the wall,
watching everyone. Langly and Byers were still absent.
“What’s this disc Jimmy was supposed to give me?” Mulder asked. “Some
detailed file about people who’ve been brainwashed into thinking they
were alien abductees?”
Yves came to life, and reached into Jimmy’s pocket. “This is what I
meant to give you, Mr. Mulder. Mr. Fletcher’s job description seems to
be varied, but one of his most important tasks is disinformation. He’s
really quite good at it.”
“My disc.” Fletcher sounded outraged. “It’s the only damn copy. I
file-thirteened the backups. How was I supposed to know some little
bimbo ...”
“Watch your mouth,” Frohike knew it would be too easy to pop Fletcher in
his present situation, but it was still a temptation. “That’s the pot
calling the kettle.” He could hear Langly and Byers now, coming up the
stairs, fighting like sisters.
“You need a special solvent,” Byers was saying. “I know something that
will do it.”
“Yeah. Probably take my skin off in the process.” Langly slumped into
the room. His face had improved, but he still looked like a blue raccoon.
“Glad you could make it,” Frohike said, pointing at an unoccupied
portion of floor. “Sit down. The troops are getting restless.”
“Let’s hear it,” Skinner said, crossing his legs and sitting back. “I
want to know what there is about these three that warrants Bureau
involvement. I’ve got permanent tattoo marks from Kirsch’s teeth in my
ass now, but I’ve still got a job.”
“Ouch.” Mulder scrunched up his face. “At least now my own lips are clean.”
“Like you ever kissed up ...” Skinner leaned forward, grabbing the arms
of the chair with a force that made the frame underneath squeak in protest.
“I have no cookies and milk to offer.” Yves dished out an impartial
glare around the room. “Begin the bedtime story, Frohike, before they
start wrestling.”