D.C. Dead

TITLE: CHICAGO STORIES: D.C. DEAD
AUTHOR: WPAdmirer@aol.com 
ARCHIVE: Yes, but please write and let me know where.
CATEGORY: Slash Crossover (XF-ER) Skinner/John Carter
SPOILERS: SR 819 (X-Files), None (ER)
RATING: R
SUMMARY: Will John Carter be left alone?
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I got tired of waiting for some good John Carter slash, and there's never enough Skinner fic to suit me.
DISCLAIMER: It's not the author's intention to infringe upon or profit from the characters created and owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions or the Fox Network, nor Warner Brothers and NBC. Skinner and Carter were borrowed temporarily and returned almost immediately.

Special thanks to ewade and KiMeriKal for beta reading and friendship.

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D.C. DEAD

by WPAdmirer



When Walter Skinner walked into the gym that evening after work, he was feeling like the cock of the walk. John Carter had appeared on his doorstep twenty-four hours before and spent all day Sunday working his way through some of the starred items on his list. That damned list, Walter thought smiling. It was going to be the death of him, yet. All the more reason to get in here and do some real work. Keep his ass in shape.

The South Street Gym was dimly lit, and full of the smells of sweat, ancient leather, and mildew. Several rings were set up for sparring, and the steady thump of someone working a heavy bag could be heard in the background. Grunting was accompanied by sharp voices urging fists up, faces tucked behind shoulders, and feet to keep moving.

It was the kind of place that Walter loved. Where he could drop the veneer of civilization his career required and become the muscled jock who could take a punch as well as give one out. He'd changed into a t-shirt and sweat pants. The trainer smiled as he walked up to the ring.

"Slugger, how ya doing tonight? Got Dre all gloved up for you." The man pointed to the younger black man standing in the ring.

"Thanks, Al." Al helped him with the gloves, then strapped the protective gear around his head. "Go easy on him, Slugger. I need him to lock up for me tonight."

The younger man was quick and Walter had to pay attention. He got off a couple of quick rights. His vision seemed a little blurred, but he shook it off and focused on the man in front of him, watched his hands, his body.  Walter landed a couple of punches, then everything blurred again, he felt a little dizzy. He didn't realized he'd dropped his hands until the left caught him flush on the chin.

He felt the air rush out of his lungs as he hit the canvas. Everything seemed to spin, even sounds distorted, distant. He saw Al's face above him, felt the headgear pulled off, but the sounds made no sense. What was he saying? Walter closed his eyes and let go.

He came to in the examination room at the hospital. His head pounded, but he sucked it up and raised himself into a sitting position. It was possible he had let his testosterone get the better of him for once.  He must have gotten his bell rung but good. His ribs hurt more than his head, and his head hurt.

The doctor came in and after a couple of insults regarding his lack of youth, and a lame Mike Tyson joke, said he was all right and let him leave.

As he was getting up his cell phone rang. For a moment he thought it was nothing, then he heard a mechanical voice. "Walter Skinner. Have you heard the news? It's in you. You have 24 hours to go. You are already dead." A cold knot of fear started deep inside him.

He didn't want to admit it, but that, as much as his blurry vision and pounding head sent him back to his office instead of driving home. He felt safer the minute he stepped into the building. He felt insulated here. He headed straight for his office. There was a nice couch there, and if worse came to worse, he had a clean shirt he kept in the office for emergencies.

What he hadn't counted on was Mulder. Jesus fucking Christ, didn't the man ever go home? Just as Walter had settled onto the couch in his assistant's office, Mulder had walked in the door.

"What is it, Agent Mulder?"

"I just, ... I thought I'd poke my head in and say hey."

"Hey."

Mulder looked sincerely puzzled, not quite concerned, yet. Walter closed his eyes, but the tall, dark haired man didn't leave.

"What, are you sleeping one off?"

"No, I was having trouble seeing. It's nothing. I just didn't think I should drive."

Good Christ, why hadn't he kept his mouth shut? The minute Mulder heard that something physical was wrong he began insisting that Scully be allowed to check him out. It was a strangely perverse situation. It was usually Mulder who needed checking out by Scully, putting to use her training as a pathologist in a decidedly unnatural way. When the pair had worked as agents under his supervision he'd spent as much time signing insurance vouchers on Mulder as he had signing off on the man's reports.

"I really think you should let Scully take a look at you."

"I'm not dead, Mulder."

"Sir, you look like shit. You obviously feel like shit. Shit is, by nature, not actually alive. Therefore it does fall under Agent Scully's purview as a forensic pathologist."

"Fine. Call her." There was no getting out of it, and if it would shut Mulder up, it would be worth while. Scully would say he was fine, he just got his bell rung a little too well, and then maybe one of them would offer to drive him home.

While they waited for Scully to arrive, Walter made the mistake of telling Mulder about the phone call. Why the fuck did he do that? He wasn't sure. Maybe because of the timing of the call, and the fact that he was feeling progressively worse, and that the knot of fear in his belly was getting bigger and colder with each passing minute.

Scully didn't say he was fine. The petite redhead had come in and immediately taken his pulse, checked him for fever and inspected the large purpling bruise on his ribs. Instead of accepting that he needed a good night's sleep she started talking about poisons. Something about the symptoms being indicative of different types of poisons, and since there was no fever, no concussion, there had to be another cause. Walter felt his heart start to pound. Then Mulder started playing twenty questions.

"This morning you woke up?"

"Yes, I woke up."

"Alone?"

John Carter had left at three. He'd gone to bed and slept for a couple of hours. "Yes, alone."

They continued their twin assault. Had anyone touched him? Had he eaten anything odd? Had anything unusual happened?

Behind his mask of calm he felt a panic rising. If he was poisoned when had it happened? If it could be transmitted by touch, had he poisoned John Carter? Christ! Would he have heard if John was sick? Would anyone let him know?

Suddenly he felt more isolated and more afraid than he had in years.  There was nothing that connected him to John. He was a phone number and name on a business card in John's wallet. John was less than that.  The few notes they'd exchanged, the napkin with John's phone numbers, were all locked in a file box in his apartment.

Approach this systematically, Walter. Identify the man who touched you in the hall. If you've been poisoned, maybe that was when it happened.  Hope to hell that's when it happened, because then it's after John Carter was safely at home. They reviewed the surveillance video. There was the man.  Scully knew his name. Dr. Orgel, a physicist. Why the fuck would a physicist poison him?

Mulder checked the sign in log. "He signed in here as a visitor to the office of Assistant Director Walter Skinner."

An adrenalin surge hit Walter, shooting up his spine, making his hands numb.

"Why would he be coming to see you?" Scully asked.

"I'd like to ask him that myself." Walter felt the rage building inside. If this man had poisoned him....

"Sir, if this man poisoned you, you should be off your feet and under a doctor's care."

"If this man poisoned me, I'm going to put a gun to his head, find out why and ask him how he's going to make me well."

He turned and walked out of the security office, heading for the elevators. He barely noticed that Mulder was following.

****

Walter opened his eyes and saw Scully. He was back in the hospital. How did he get here? Then he remembered, the fiasco at Orgel's, the Tunisian diplomat. At least two men had grabbed Orgel. Mulder had managed to catch one of them before he could join Orgel and the other in the car.  Walter had made Mulder let the man go after they'd seen the his diplomatic passport. Yeah, and I'm the fucking Easter bunny.

From there Walter had headed back to the Hoover building, going to his office to make some calls. But he'd never gotten out of the parking garage. The diplomat had been waiting for him, tried to shoot him. Someone had saved his life by running the man down with a car. At least temporarily saved his life. He'd collapsed, the world twisting and spinning around him.

"Scully...."

"Sir, we've found out something about the toxin. Carbon is forming in your blood. It's blocking flow. We've been able to laser your arteries and keep them open."

He realized that his hands and feet were numb. He couldn't feel anything much besides in his chest and head. His lungs burned and every breath seemed to take enormous energy. Perhaps that was why his head pounded. He closed his eyes, wanting it all to go away, be a bad dream. He would wake up and John Carter would be wrapped around him, his beard soft against Walter's arm. Everything would be all right.

"Sir?"

Mulder. Walter tried to keep his eyes open.

"Sir, I'm going to keep trying. I'm going to find a way to stop this."

Scully was standing next to Mulder. He could see her eyes. Mulder was going to fail. He would not be saved. There was no hope in her eyes.  Mulder looked frantic. The man never gave up. "Mulder, I need to talk to you. Alone."

One of Scully's eyebrows shot up. Walter almost smiled. It was a patented Scully look, but she nodded and motioned for the nurse to leave with her.

"Sir?"

"Dr. John Carter. Chicago. Cook County General Hospital. Let him know when I die."

"You're not going to die."

"Promise."

"Yes, sir. I promise. John Carter. Cook County General Hospital, Chicago."

Walter nodded. "Thanks." Then he closed his eyes again. Mulder would call him and he would know. A deep sadness settled into his burning chest.  John Carter had been right. They had killed him first. This time he
would not be the one left behind.

****

He had died. He didn't need the fucking doctors to tell him that. Didn't need to be told he'd flatlined, his heart had stopped, no respiration. They hadn't even tried to resuscitate him. He'd died. Again. And again he'd come back.

He lay in the too bright room, the smell of bleached sheets and disinfectants overpowering him. He'd made them keep Scully and Mulder out. He'd refused to see anyone. For the second time in his life he'd defied medical science and continued to survive. He didn't need Scully's questions and tests, and he didn't want to hear Mulder's theories about why.

Walter had asked for and gotten his cell phone. He held it in his hand. His fingers were still numb, still clumsy, but he had John Carter's numbers on speed dial. His one luxury. His one tiny danger.

He would be home by now. They had a date for phone sex. It had been set the night John Carter had left. A date to talk each other through their fantasies, to remember what it was like to touch.

Walter wondered if he'd be able to have an erection after what had happened. He had so much vascular damage in his extremities. The doctor had carefully avoided discussing sexual function and he had found himself unable to ask. It was too intimate. Too...important.

He sighed and lifted the phone, hit the speed dial and pressed it to his ear. A moment later he heard John Carter answer.

"What are you wearing?" was the first thing he said.

Walter smiled. "Nothing sexy. I'm sick."

"What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing serious. I've got the flu, I think. I feel like shit."

"Are you running a fever? Are you drinking plenty of fluids?"

"No fever now. I was feeling worse yesterday. I'm actually getting better."

"But you're not up, so to speak, for what we had planned."

"That doesn't mean you can't play." Walter spoke softly. He heard the little gasp from John Carter. "You're already hard, aren't you?"

"God, yes."

"Just thinking about me, about my voice, about what I'm going to ask you to do. You're already hard."

"Uh...Walter, unless we're really going to do this, don't, okay?"

The little crack in John's voice gave him away. He was more than ready. Walter closed his eyes and pictured him on the bed. "Oh, we're going to do this. There's nothing wrong with my mind," he said.

"Okay"

Walter talked him through it. Telling him how to touch himself. Demanding that he describe every sensation. Refusing to allow him to come until John was pleading with him, almost incoherently, over the phone. Through it all he could see John Carter, feel his every reaction even across the phone lines. His own body lay beneath the sheets unresponsive and still. He pushed thoughts of it away, back behind his images of John Carter. He could not think about it now. He could not let the fear take over now. Instead he listened to John Carter's panting breaths, the sounds of flesh on flesh as he touched himself at Walter's command.

"Now, John Carter. Come for me now."

He heard the shout, the sound of the bed creaking beneath John's heaving body, the gasps and groans, and then the raspy breathing. John must have moved the phone next to his chest, because distantly Walter could hear the rapid beat of John Carter's heart.

He waited for him to recover. After several minutes John's voice returned. "Oh, my God, that was incredible."

"Maybe I should be incapacitated more often."

"You didn't get off at all?"

"It's all right. I really have been sick. Next time you can do me."

"Okay."

If there was a next time. Walter had not made up his mind. He didn't know what he was going to do about John Carter. John Carter had no idea that someone had tried to kill him. He didn't want him to know.

For the moment, though, Walter found himself unable to let go. He needed John Carter's voice on the other end of that line.

They talked a little more and he heard John yawning. They said goodbyes and he turned the phone off. He held it against his chest, cradling it in his still almost useless hands. Feeling its weight against him, like a tiny piece of John Carter. Like John's hand pressing against him reminding him that he had many reasons to live.


The End